Bcsdipper dares you to...

I was staying in a Hotel in one of those suburbs of Paris just outside the peripherique. It was early evening and as I had nothing to do I was leafing through NOVA magazine looking for an exciting way to spend the evening. NOVA is a sort of listings come happenings publication and it had been carelessly or thoughtfully or left there by some previous guest.

I noticed a section headed Photos - Modeles which seemed to consist mainly of photographers looking for lady models willing to pose for photographs - “artistique et nu” was how they were described. Well “artistique” means not surprisingly “artistic” and “nu” means “nude” – so they were looking for girls willing to take all there clothes off for the amusement of gentleman photographers. Nice work, as they say, if you can get it. Then one advert which caught my eye. I can’t remember the exact words but it was something like:

Recherche Hommes - JF photographe vous reçoit dans son studio pour les photos de toutes sortes. (I knew photographe meant photographer and JF was jeune fille? - Juliette)

And it gave a telephone number. That looked quite exciting enough. What was “de toutes sortes”? Was it the same as “artistiques et nu?” Should I ring up and offer to do it? Now you must appreciate that in real life (as opposed to my alter ego on this forum) is really very shy and timid and it took a lot of courage for me to pick up the phone and dial the number. Also remember that this is in France and although my French is decent my schooling in the works of Moliere and Racine was unlikely to stand me in much good stead for this type of conversation. So I rang up and stuttered out that I had read the advert and what was she looking for. She said (as far as I could gather – she spoke no English) that she was looking for ordinary men to pose for her as models. And then she was saying to come round now and giving me an address, and the next thing I knew I’d made an arrangement to go. And I hadn’t really established what was meant by “de toutes sortes”.

I mean I presumed she wanted photos that were artistiques et nu but I didn’t really know what to expect but despite all my nerves I set off partly because the idea appealed to my vanity, partly because it seemed rather exciting and daring, but mainly because having phoned up I didn’t quite know how to say no. Anyway – I thought – I could always just not turn up. But she’d told me to come to her studio, which by a strange chance (and I’m not making this up) was at 4, Avenue Amiral Jauriac in Montrouge, not twenty minutes walk from the hotel.

I thought I could just walk along there and see what it looked like. I could always turn back if I got cold feet. So I set off straight away and walked there thinking it over as I went along. Really I didn’t know what she was after – I could have been the ugliest looking thing in Paris for all she knew. She had said she just wanted “ordinary” people.

Too late now to find out as I had found 4, Av Amiral Jauriac without difficulty. It looked like an ordinary terraced suburban dwelling. I walked past the door several times, nervously deciding whether to press the doorbell. Then I thought “What the heck!” I rang the bell and announced myself in the speakerphone “J’arrive” came the reply. The door was opened by a striking tall, dark haired girl, or rather woman, I should think in her late twenties. She was wearing black slacks and a rather tight white blouse over an ample bosom and she was a “jolie fille sexy” if ever I saw one!

I was a bit non-plussed as I had been expecting a studio and I muttered that I was looking for the Juliette.

“That’s me - Juliette” she said

She invited me in, and there I was. I had imagined this would be a photographer’s studio but it was nothing of the sort. Although it was set up with some photographer’s lights and some other paraphernalia this was somebody’s front room and not a professional photo studio.

She looked at me up and down for a few seconds and said (and I can remember the exact words):

“Ah bon! Déhabillez-vous”. Déhabillez! Did she mean deshabillez - Take your clothes off! (You’re supposed to pronounce the‘s’ habiller is not an aspirate ‘h’).

“What do you want me to take off?” I asked, I don’t know why, but it was the only thing I could think of to say

“Your clothes of course” (I’m translating her French all the way through)

“All of them?”

“Tout à fait” she replied (of course)

Then, as if it was obvious, and perhaps sensing my reticence she smiled and said “Nous sommes à Paris monsieur”. The “monsieur” sounded strangely formal considering the circumstances.

Oh well I was going to have to do it.

And not quite knowing what to do next I looked around. Where was I to get undressed? Surely there must be some sort of changing room, or a screen even. She could hardly just expect me to strip naked in the middle of her front room could she? Oh yes she could.

“Where do I get undressed” I asked

“Just take your clothes off here”, she repeated “and to put them on the chair”

I was just to stand there and take all my clothes off in the middle of her front living room.
.
I sat on the settee and took my shoes off and I waited. Then perhaps sensing my embarrassment she turned her back while I undressed.

I sat down and took off my shoes. That was it I’d committed myself. Once I’d started to strip I’d have to continue.

And that’s what I did. One by one my clothes all came off and when she turned round there I was standing in my birthday suit blushing crimson.

I was, to put it crudely, displaying my penis to her (I hoped) admiring gaze.

I looked around. This wasn’t a photographer’s studio. This was her front room. I looked back at her. She was holding a digital camera to take the photos and I suddenly got a feeling that this was strange for a photographer (digital cameras were quite unusual at that time). And then it struck me. She wasn’t a real photographer, I was displaying my penis for a housewife amusing herself

She suddenly announced “Are you cold?”

Lest you think from this that she was complaining that on surveying my penis she had found it shrunk, this was not the case. In fact she was asking the question because she’d noticed I had gone from blushing to shivering

Not surprising with nothing on you might think, but the fact is I was not shivering with cold, I was shivering with embarrassment. But this is what happens when you find yourself stripped naked in front of a stranger. I suppose embarrassment about our own nudity is something so built in that we can’t help it. And here I was in a strange house with a “jolie fille sexy” I’d only just met, and somehow was ending up standing there in front of her in the all together.

And I freely admit it - I’d never felt so embarrassed in all my life and there was nothing I could do about it.

Anyway now I was going to find out exactly how “artistic” the pictures were to be.

She pointed to the settee

“Kneel there please”

And there I knelt in a respectable pose

I might have been nude, but at least it looked as though the pictures were indeed to be artistically discreet

Then she asked me to stand beside the statue, and I stood back to the camera.

“Now face the camera”, she said

Now for the full frontal. Well we were in Paris.

I waited for her to say something. Perhaps to arrange things so as to cover my penis, but she just looked and said “Good. But can you smile and be more sexy” (I don’t know if the “bon” was just a turn of phrase or an expression of approval of my dimensional attributes. With luck it was the latter – although my penis is not enormous, it is, even if I say so myself, well proportioned – oh well of average length - when it’s up!). Anyway it was now clear she wanted my penis in the pictures.

“Turn to the side and look at the camera”

I turned

“No - smile. Nice smile and can you be sexy”

These weren’t artistic – she wanted sexy photos of me in the nude. I couldn’t smile though. I was honestly too embarrassed!

Anyway, if she wasn’t happy with state of my smile she didn’t seem. I must say she seemed to be enjoying herself, and I suppose if we can bring a little happiness into the world (even if it’s only by letting a girl have a good look at the size of your penis) it is a small achievement to have accomplished.

“Bon. Ok - Sit down on the sofa” she said and she pointed to the couch.

And she took a picture of me sitting on the couch with one foot tucked into the inside of the opposite thigh.

“Bon. C’est chouette ça. Now we take a short break”

“Should I get dressed?”

“Pourquoi?” and she went out to fetch some coffee leaving me still in the nude

She came back in to sit on the settee to drink .

“Sit down for the coffee”

And she pointed to the wooden seat in front of the projection screen. It was like a tall bar stool and I perched on it. I could only maintain my balance by opening my legs wide displaying everything to her view.

It was quite bizarre sitting there with nothing on, and drinking coffee and chatting as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I admitted that I had not posed like that before, and she said that she had realised that because I had seemed “un peu reticent”.

“You should not be shy. I like see you in the nude In France we like to see the nude”

Then she wanted me back on the couch. Little did I know it but the embarrassment was about to begin in earnest

“Lie down with the face down she said”

“Can you move just like this - here”

And she started patting my bare bottom to get me to move it”!

This is where it started to get really embarrassing because her hand patting my bottom made my penis, well to put it politely, go erect.

Damn , damn damn ! It went absolutely rigid. And there was no hiding it.

“Bon. Oui. Kneel on the couch please”

And there I had to kneel in the nude while she got my now rigid penis in profile.

She smiled slightly

“Bon. Very sexy. Keep nice and sexy”

So that was what she meant by sexy – with my penis erect!

“OK à quatre pattes” - exactly like that – “go down on your hands and knees”. And she made me kneel nude on the sofa with my bottom in the air and my penis erect

And she photographed me from the front. Me trying to smile, but too self conscious about the size of my penis!

She insisted I was too “rigide” (she was right there – though I think she was referring to my not being relaxed rather than to the state of my penis!). She kept trying to get me more “décontracté” (smile and look sexy!).

I was beginning to be convinced that what she had really wanted from me all the time had been nude pics with an erect penis.

And that was it. I got dressed. She downloaded copies of the pictures onto a disc for me, and I left. (Yes a disc – it was the days before memory sticks!)

When I got back and looked at the photos I’m afraid that most of them were both technically and artistically poor.

Anyway digital pictures featuring my – well everything I suppose - are now on file somewhere, probably circulating in e-mails with a funny caption. At least I’m known by my face, so if my penis comes up (no pun intended) in one of those funny e-mails that women like to circulate among themselves no-one will be any the wiser!

I suppose it filled in the evening if nothing else and in the end I got dressed and left. No this is not a modern romantic novel. This did not lead to a “rencontre hot”. I still have copies of the pictures and I've attached the one showing me kneeling on the settee so you can judge for yourself the artistic merit !!

It’s hard to figure out how to answer this one. To be a “dare,” it needs to be daring, but most of the times I’ve been naked in front of non-lovers, it hasn’t really been daring: Nude beaches, for example, or sweat lodges, or saunas, or showers at the gym, or the occasional “clothing optional” new-age workshop.

I have had, however, one set of experiences that I do think fit very nicely into this dare. It involved taking my clothes off in front of someone who was not my lover, and it was absolutely terrifying. It was also fantastic.

I had just moved to a new big city, and my only contact in the area was an acquaintance I had made years before, not only in a different town but on a different continent. She is one of the smartest people I have ever met, and we became good friends and continued to hang out after I had established a social life of my own. I’ll call her Isabelle. She was in a relationship, is several years older than me, and there wasn’t really a lot of sexual tension between us. But Isabelle could and did speak very frankly about sexuality, and as you can guess, that’s a quality I appreciate in any friend.

I don’t remember exactly what lead to the conversation--perhaps I had described my own few experiences with a male friend, watching one another masturbate. She told me about a neighbor she had once had, whose window had been across a narrow alley. He would masturbate in front of that window, obviously putting himself on display. She would stand openly in her own window and watch. I liked the story of course, and expressed some envy for both the watcher and the watched. However, I pointed out that “flashing” is ethically different than “showing,” and that exposing one’s self to people who may not wish to see is a kind of sexual assault. Isabelle laughed at me and said that I was an uptight, new-age Anglo-Saxon, obsessed with permission and communication.

Still, I couldn’t help wondering why she told me that story, when she knew quite well that masturbation--showing, and watching--were major kinks for me. Was it a hint? It took me hours to get the nerve up, but at some point I said--with the butterflies in my belly having a riot-- that you know, I, um, like the idea of, you know, doing that, and um, well, if you ever were thinking... I mean, if that was a hint that maybe...

I forget exactly what she said. I suspect that the conversation continued in such a way that was definitely not a “yes.” But it must not have been an absolute “no” either. Because several weeks later, she was complaining that her boyfriend of many years had never masturbated in front of her, and refused to do so. Again, after spending a few hours finding the courage and practically dying of nerves, I suggested that, well, err... since he wouldn’t and, um, you know... if, um, if...
This time the answer was more clearly negative.

I don’t remember exactly how she said it, but no doubt there was some hint that the “no” was not to *watching,* but to my Anglo-Saxon approach to the subject. At the time, all I heard was that my offer was not accepted.

One of our recurring themes of discussion was how differently we felt about communication and permission when it came to sex. Not long after the evenings I’ve described, she brought up the example of my offer (request?) to masturbate for her. Again, I don’t recall her exact words, but the condensed gist was something like, “You’re this beautiful athletic man whose company I enjoy, and I like watching men masturbate.* Obviously* I’d love to watch you masturbate. But nothing in the world is less sexy that being asked permission before sex.” At the time, listening to all this, nothing could have been clearer: I was being invited to, on some future occasion, masturbate in front of her, with the condition that I just do it, without asking permission. And it also seemed quite clear that I would do so. I probably got a hard-on right there imagining it.

On the next occasion, hanging out at her place one evening, I did nothing of the sort. I mean, it sounded possible when the event was distant and hypothetical. But then, sitting there on a sofa with an fragrant herb-tea, listening to folk music, and talking about movies or her psycho boss or my psycho boss, or whatever, the idea of just whipping in out and stroking it felt pretty much impossible. Not because I felt the invitation was withdrawn, but just because I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

It’s embarrassing to admit how long it took me to find the courage, how many times I swore to myself I’d go through with it. It was a few months at least. Eventually, hoping to give myself a nudge, my strategy was to drive myself a little crazy. I’d go days or a week, masturbating half an hour every day without coming (something I do sometimes anyway) just in case I might find myself at my Isabelle’s place. I thought that having my lust-levels high would help my bravery. Also, I figured it would help me get aroused, since I was sure I’d be nervous.

I wish I could remember what we were talking about that night. Or how we were arranged in the room. I am guessing we must have been talking about sex, and that there was a pause in the conversation.

One thing I do recall that helped me find the courage was this: On the previous occasions, after denying myself orgasms for a week, and then being too shy to masturbate in front of Isabelle, I would get home in the middle of the night and, surprise surprise, masturbate. I would have a very hard, lovely erection, and as I stroked it I would hate myself for having missed the opportunity to share it. It felt really lonely, in a way that masturbation doesn’t usually. I was ashamed of my cowardice, and even my selfishness.

I recall that despite my anxieties that evening, I didn’t want to have that shame and regret again. And I got up and moved to where Isabelle was sitting. I stood there and began to undo my belt.

I was so terrified I was shaking; I remember my hands were cold and bloodless, pale and blotchy. The room felt really chilly all of a sudden. I had probably had a bit of stirring in the loins before standing up, but as I actually slid my pants down, my penis withdrew into its nervous, shriveled, it’s-cold-out-here, extra-shy mode. The pants-around-the-ankles look is, if you’re asking me, not sexy, so I stepped out of them and got completely naked.

Isabelle, bless her, was frozen, fully dressed of course, motionless, and staring right at my sex. I couldn’t really stroke my penis... I could only kind of pull at it in that pre-erection, encouraging way. Isabelle’s gaze was very... how can I say this? It was exactly how I would have fantasized: It was a hungry, obsessive gaze, intrusive and impolite. She was staring.

The experience of getting an erection in front of someone--a voyeur and not a lover--is a wonderful, vulnerable, revealing, sexy, scary, and liberating experience. I am really glad I started from such a shriveled beginning. As soon as I felt the slightest change down there, the fact that she was seeing it grow, get harder, every step of the way, was very exciting.

At first, as you all know, it doesn’t get hard, but just hangs there and grows, like a water balloon under a slow faucet. Then, while still expanding, it begins to stand outward from the body. I had Isabelle’s attentive face a few tens of centimeters from me; I could feel her breath on my growing erection. You can see each heart beat at that point, expanding, pressing outward. It rises with each beat, lowers its head a little, and then rises again, a bit further. And then I was stroking this very hard cock in my hand. And I was so grateful and turned-on, to have Isabelle’s eyes glued to me through the whole process.

I broke the silence and asked if she had any lubricant or, if nothing else, hand lotion. I almost always use lube (silicone-based for wank-oil; water-based is better for penetrative sex) but on this occasion it was about aesthetics. I think male masturbation looks better when a hand is sliding on a glistening, hard, oily, nicely-veined shaft. I didn’t ask if she shared this preference, but I certainly felt sexier that way. I can be a bit vain, and enjoy being seen. I like my body and my cock. I have, if I may say so, a shapely torso and a beautiful erection--not huge but an honest 17cm--and at that moment it was a great hard-on, having truly risen to the occasion: The rim of the glans stood out crisply, every sculpted vein shone under my strokes.

Well, obviously the story goes on a bit more, but I guess that’s the “getting naked in front of a non-lover” part, and it’s already, like 1500 words. So I’ll stop here.

I once modeled nude for a sculptor with a friend. I was tiny and she was really buxom and breasty. One of us is gloriously red haired and the other dark. First we had to put talcum powder all over each other. Her skin was so smooth! It felt good under my hands! Then, as a prelude to making a marble sculpture of us, the artist made body casts! He poured cold wet plaster all over us and we stood there together waiting for it to dry gazing at one another. When he put the cast of my naked body outside a crowd gathered. I walked through them as they all cried - so beautiful, how beautiful!!! To clean up I had a long hot bath with my friend...

I got naked infront of my cousin Chantelle as part of a dare whilst playing truth or dare. The dare was for me to get naked infront of her, masturbate as fast as possible for 2 minutes, then let her give me a handjob, then head and then blow my load on her face whilst her female friends watched. We only did it because it was a double dare by one of her friends.