Flesh Dance? No Thanks!

Flesh Dance.

I’ve just turned down an invitation to this Friday’s naked party at Starkers nightclub.

I’ll say that again. I can’t believe it either.

I, a confirmed nudist who will normally lose my clothes quicker than a stripper on speed, have just turned down a night out at London’s only nude disco. My hosts were paying for everything too, dammit.

Am I getting that old?

Actually I don’t think it’s to do with age.

For me it’s about ambience.

Dancing in the buff on a warm summers’ evening on an exotic beach is just perfect. Having a Big Night Out in a city centre disco where everyone else is naked doesn’t hold the same attraction.

It’s true that that my disco-dancing nights are long gone now, but I don’t think the idea would have appealed to me even back when I was a 18 year old disco diva.

I suppose it would have stopped my mum complaining-as she always did, bless her-that my skirt was WAY too short

But wherever would I have kept my lipstick and make-up?