Clothed Female Naked Male

Photo by Molly Algernon
Photo by Molly Algernon

Note: This is a guest blog I wrote on the Clothed Female Naked Male fetish (or CFNM) for

A few years ago I was at a munch and I was complaining that since my first Dom had moved out of state, I was having no luck recreating my ideal situation: providing service to a dominant woman while nude. It seemed like a no-brainer: someone else does your dishes, your laundry, your vacuuming or cleans your bathroom floor, and as a bonus, if you’re so inclined, you get to ogle him while he’s naked. Sounds like a win-win, to me. So why was it so difficult to manifest? “I just want a woman to strip me naked and tell me what to do. Is that too much to ask?”

The Dom I was complaining to looked at me like I was not too swift and said, “Dude, just go online and look for a Dom that’s into CFNM.”

“SEE-EFFIN-What?” I asked.

“C.F.N.M.…” she searched my eyes for any recognition. She found none. “Clothed Female Naked Male.”

Well I’ll be damned, I thought. My whole adult life I knew that I was into being naked in the presence of clothed women, but I had no idea there was a name for it, let alone an acronym. It was just this thing I liked to do. Who knew it was “a thing?”

When I first got involved with BDSM, it was the mid-90s. The internet existed, but not like we know it today. There was no such term as “social media.” There was no Fetlife, no CollarMe, no Adult Friend Finder. I found my first lifestyle dominatrix by answering a classified ad in a newspaper. A lifestyle Dom was looking for a service submissive and, after a brief interview, she accepted me.

It was great at first. I got the same nervous rush the first few times I entered the home of a relative stranger to be bossed around and pressed into servitude. It usually involved me performing some simple household chores, then getting on my knees and giving her a foot massage.   But after the first few times, the novelty wore off and it just felt like helping out a friend around the house. Something was missing. It just didn’t feel submissive enough.

I was somewhat shy back then, so it took some effort on my part to work up the nerve to request what I really wanted, but I asked if I could serve her in the nude. To which she responded, words to the effect of, “Hell yeah!” The enthusiastic yes was important. Of course, if she had just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sure… I guess… if you want to…” I still would have done it, but the fact that she seemed excited about receiving my naked service made it all the more exciting for me.

From that point on, whenever I arrived at her home, the first thing she did was order me to take my clothes off, then she gave me my chores for the day. The simple act of disrobing became a meaningful ritual. Every moment that I was naked in her presence was charged with erotic energy. I felt like I was truly submitting to her. Some people get this from being beaten, some from being collared, some from being tied up, and yes, all those things work for me too, but the moment I took my clothes off for her was like instantly going into subspace.

I can’t say for sure what my Dom got out of the arrangement. Perhaps she just enjoyed the sight of my naked body. Perhaps she got turned on by the visual representation of her power over me. (After all, it would be years before I ever saw my Dom out of her clothes. Sometimes, in those early days, she would wear short skirts with no panties, sit with her legs open and order me not to look.) Or maybe she just enjoyed having access to any part of my body whenever she wanted. I’d like to think it was all of the above. Being naked at all times meant that in between formal scenes, if she just wanted to dig her fingernails in to my back and claw me from shoulder to waist while I was dusting, she could. If she wanted to slap my bare ass while I was vacuuming her rug, she could. If she wanted to sneak up behind me while I was doing the dishes and flog my balls – while also ordering me to keep scrubbing the plate that I had clutched in both hands for fear of dropping and breaking it – she could. And she did.

Then there was the humiliation and objectification aspect of it. Once I had become comfortable being naked when my Dom and I were alone, she started inviting other people over while I was serving her. She would entertain guests and have me serve them tea in the nude.  There were times when my Dom and I were alone and she would send me to another part of the house to perform a chore, and by the time I finished and came back for another assignment, unbeknownst to me, friends of hers would have  arrived and I would walk in the room naked and meet a total stranger. When my Dom began mentoring other young doms, she enjoyed showing me off to them. They’d see me in passing as I worked and say things like, “Hey, nice ass!” the kinds of cat-calls that women dealt on a regular basis, but men almost never did until they found themselves in a situation like mine. Once, my Dom ordered me to masturbate in her living room and wouldn’t let me clean myself off until her young trainee had been called in to admire me, naked on the floor with cum sprayed across my belly.

As a nudist, the most interesting thing to me about the CFNM dynamic is that it feels absolutely nothing like being naked around clothed people in a non-dominance/submission environment. Taking off my clothes as an act of submission completely changes the experience for me, psychologically. I’ve been very fortunate to find dominant women for whom being served by a naked man tripped their triggers the same way that offering naked service trips mine. 


R.I.P. Bob Reuter

Photo by Sara A. Finke

I didn’t know Bob Reuter, but like so many other people, I was inspired by him.

I first became aware of him through his work as a photographer. His photographs of some of South City’s favorite denizens in South City’s favorite haunts were at once contemporary (especially if you knew his subjects) and yet seemed to come from a different time. In the era of digital cameras, Photoshop and its ubiquitous Unsharp Mask, Reuter’s grainy, high speed, low light, after hours portraits were decidedly analog, all the way down to the sprocket holes of the negatives showing in the prints. His work harkened back to the street reportage of Roy DeCarava and Gordon Parks Sr. 

From Bob Reuter – St. Louis Photographer and Performing Songwriter on Facebook

One day, channel surfing on the radio, I heard what sounded like a lunatic screaming over a gospel record.  He was going on about what a glorious day it was and how he had been blessed by the healing powers of music! Halleluiah!  He sounded like Dr. Johnny Fever from “WKRP in Cincinnati.” At first I thought he was just doing an intro over an instrumental at the top of the song, but he kept going. It started to get annoying. I wanted to hear the song. As a student of communications, it was offending my delicate sensibilities; the DJ doesn’t talk over the record! Then I was charmed by his sheer audacity; he seemed determined to testify over the entire song. Then I realized that the things he was saying were beautiful, poetic and sometimes hilarious.  The song ended and in a voice both gruff and melodic, he said, “This is Bob Reuter… and you’re listening to Bob’s Scratchy Records.”  Hmm… so the photographer was a DJ too.

I started listening every week, both to hear what he would say and what he would play. At the time his show was aired back-to-back on Fridays with Sherri Danger’s “Dangerous Curves” on KDHX 88.1, the best hours of local radio ever produced in my humble opinion.

My Fridays went like this: Howard Stern on the drive to work, NPR until the end of “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross, and then I turned to 88.1 to get a musical education. I’d listen with a pad and paper beside me to jot down songs and artists I wanted to look up later. I signed up for Reuter’s weekly playlist newsletter. Most of the songs he played sounded familiar and yet I was unfamiliar with most of the songs and many of the artists. It sounded like rock & roll and soul hits from the 50s, 60s and 70s, but these songs were not hits. These almost classics had somehow fallen into the dust bin of music history for Bob Reuter, with this encyclopedic knowledge and impeccable taste, to unearth for a new generation of listeners.  I once commented on his Facebook page that I was a much cooler person for having discovered his show, to which he responded, “Hey man, you can’t blame that shit on me!”[Which, oddly enough, seemed to mirror a scene between John Cusack and The Swanky Modes in the 1988 film, “The Tape Heads.”]

One year, I was celebrating my birthday on the patio at Atomic Cowboy. There was great 70s funk and R&B playing. It reminded me of a tiny little hipster club I’d been to in San Francisco that played lots of Stevie Wonder and James Brown, but nothing popular, nothing that had been released as a single. I looked at the DJ booth and saw an old gray-haired white man and thought, as soon as he starts his set and whatever awesome Sirius Satellite radio channel this is gets turned off, I’ll go back inside the bar. Well, the music stayed good and with each new song I checked the DJ booth to see what was taking the old white guy so long to get started, until finally my ageism and racial prejudice gave way to the fact that it was the old white guy who was spinning all this good shit. Who was this dude? I took a good look and realized it was Bob Reuter. I had never seen him in person before. 

I met Bob Reuter only once, when my documentary “The Roof is on Fire” screened with a documentary about him called “Broken and Wonderful.” Mine was a feature and his was a short, which put me in the very unenviable position of having to follow Bob Reuter. After the screening, we shook hands in the lobby of The Tivoli and I congratulated him on the film. The film had been the first time I had heard his original music. Luckily, sometime after, a friend invited me for a drink at Mangia Italiano, neither of us knowing that Bob Reuter and Thee Dirty South had a gig there that night. Their set was everything I expected from Bob based on what I knew of him. It was broken and wonderful. But mostly wonderful. 

Alas, Howard Stern moved from terrestrial to satellite radio, KDHX moved Sherri Danger from Friday to Monday, KWMU (in the most bone-headed programming decision in the history of public radio) moved Terry Gross from noon to 9 p.m. and now with the untimely death of Bob Reuter, the Golden Age of my Friday morning/afternoon radio listening has officially come to an end.

I became familiar with Bob Reuter at a time in my life when my friends were starting to get married, have kids, buy houses and move out of the city; all the things I wasn’t doing. Perhaps it was a midlife crisis, but looking at Bob Reuter, more than 20 years my senior, still kicking ass as a photographer, musician, radio personality and club DJ, gave me hope. It meant that getting older didn’t have to mean becoming normal.  I once said that Bob Reuter was the best argument for living past 50.

His was a life well lived that ended too soon. Just in the few years I knew of him, he shared so much beauty with the world. He was a true inspiration. He will be missed. 

From Bob Reuter – St. Louis Photographer and Performing Songwriter on Facebook

The Rape Dialogues

A sign from SlutWalk St. Louis 2012

What do you do when the guy you believe raped your friend, calls you out of the blue?

Some of you remember this post. A friend of mine accused a guy I know of raping her. I believed her. I confronted him. He denied it. I sought no further contact with him. Fast forward six months or so, he calls me on the phone “to catch up,” and says that we never talk anymore and “that’s a shame.”

I say, “Well, that’s one way to look at it. Another way would be that in our last conversation, I accused you of raping someone. Rape accusations have a way of ending relationships.” Amazingly enough, a civil conversation took place after this. He asked me to do him a favor, and while my knee jerk reaction was to tell him to go fuck himself, the favor only required a small amount of my time and a couple dollars of my money, so I complied. I used the opportunity to encourage him to seek counseling and also to invite him to and anti-violence against women event that I am co-hosting.

I also sent him a link to this awesome post on the Captain Awkward blog about “creepers and proto-rapists” and asked him to read it. That article inspired the conversation below.

To his credit, the man in question did not oppose me posting our correspondence publically. I have removed his name and other identifying characteristics. For the sake of her privacy, I will refer to the woman who made the initial rape allegation as “Jane,” which is not her real name. The order of some comments has been changed to preserve the continuity of a conversation that took place via instant message. Without further editorial comment, here is the conversation in almost its entirety.


Him: I have read your article about the creepers.

My first thought is that you spend a lot more time thinking about my dick and what I do with it than I ever have yours, which is a little hard to do sense yours is almost a public forum.

Second was to evaluate why you want me to read it. This is coming from Jane asking to crash at my place? Or more?

Me: Yes and more. Other women coming to me (unsolicited) with stories about you. Women have told me that they don’t want to come to my events because they saw you on my Facebook friends list and question how I could associate with someone like you. Please believe, I don’t go around asking women what they think of you. They bring this stuff to me. Women I didn’t even know you knew. 

So, yes, it’s more than Jane, but when one of my good friends says you fucked her in her sleep, that’s kind of significant in and of itself. 

And, I can honestly say, I have never thought about your dick in anything but the abstract until just now. Thanks for that. But, come on, “you spend a lot more time thinking about my dick and what I do with it than I ever have yours” is a pretty lame response under the circumstances. Even from you.

Him: I get that a number of years ago I exhibited some of the characteristics of some of these guys. Particularly after [my long-term girlfriend] dumped me. I felt as if my entire world had imploded with the help of my instantly vanished social network. I felt that way because that is what happened.

I eventually made new friends and moved on, slowly. Ever so slowly. I worked on bettering myself but not without making cardinal mistakes to learn from.

When freshly single, I hit on everything that I had interest in. I stopped after getting negative responses and was tired of the rejection. I made my focus when going out to drink limited to just that- to get drunk and enjoy drinking.

When you asked me to talk to Jane and clear things up, and I did, and she tried to assault me, I was out on a date with a girlfriend of 3 months.

Since you have known me I have had many relationships, some good, some bad, some long term, some shorter. I have had many friendships with women that have nothing to do with sex. My motives in dating are for a long-term romance, not just sex. I find just sex, hollow and meaningless, unfulfilling. If I was the bad guy as you have painted me, would that be so? If I was a raping creeper would that be the case?

Me: In a word, yes. Having a girlfriend doesn’t render you incapable of being a creeper. Even if you didn’t fuck Jane in her sleep (as I believe you did), two other women have come to me with stories about you in just the past year (I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to disclose who they are). And you and I don’t even hang out in the same crowd anymore. Should I discount them as well? What are the mathematical odds that this is all a series of misunderstandings and you are totally blameless? 

I think you have a problem with women. End of story. I think you need help. If you disagree with me, fine. Maybe I’m wrong. However, I haven’t tried to have any contact with you since we discussed the Jane incident. You called me. If I honestly believe you raped someone and you continue to try to have a relationship with me, what am I supposed to do? Pretend it never happened?

Him: I am not saying I am totally blameless. I did point out that I have made many mistakes prior to now. I am not asking who has said what. I do wonder why they never addressed their problem with me to me. I have been the subject of unmitigated, unwarranted attack in the past. If I am acting creepy, I do expect to be called out on it so I may correct my action.

Me: You did read the article I sent you, right? There are a myriad of reasons why a woman would not feel comfortable calling out a guy who goes over the line with her. It’s really not her responsibility to police your behavior. You are a grown man. Secondly, I have no idea if these women called you out at the time or not, but if they did, I have a hard time imagining you being very receptive to what they said. 

Him: If, however, someone asks to sleep in my bed I do take that as a sign that they want to sleep with me. If we have had relations in the past, doubly so.

I understand that there is “buyer’s remorse”, but I don’t think that is justification to attack someone.

Me:If someone asks to sleep in my bed I do take that as a sign that they want to sleep with me. If we have had relations in the past, doubly so”? Dude, that makes you sound a tiny bit rapey. 

As far as “buyer’s remorse,” people don’t shop in their sleep.

Him: If you are predisposed to see me as you do, then I have no chance of you seeing me as anything else.

Me: You’re probably right. But my predisposition comes from an overwhelming amount of anecdotal evidence and personal observation. It’s not like I have a genetic disorder that makes me see rapists everywhere. And while it’s true that I don’t like you, there’s lots of people who I don’t like that I have no reason to believe have raped anyone.

Him: And this evidence is anecdotal being told to someone who doesn’t like me. And the observance is seen by someone who doesn’t like me. Someone who has prejudged me long ago because they don’t like me. Yes. I have made mistakes in the past. I have tried to learn from those mistakes and make amends. I think I am a better person for learning from my mistakes. I believe I have grown greatly sense I was that person that you decided to not like. Not that I am asking you to like me now.

Me: Fair enough. It is what it is.

This has been interesting to say the least. I hope you don’t mind, but I plan to reprint our correspondence on my blog. I think people can learn from it. I will, of course, remove your name and any identifying characteristics. 

If you do decide to come to the teach-in on Saturday (and I hope you do), I will be totally professional and leave our personal history at the door.

Him: I will look at it again. I haven’t ruled it out.

Me: I appreciate that.

10 Naked Days

Photo of me and Kendra Holliday by Ariana Bauer

WARNING: If you are a blood relative or know me from church, you may not want to read this blog or follow the links herein. 

I’ve decided to keep my website and my Facebook feed, relatively work safe. On my tumblr, however, anything goes. So, for those of you who are not easily offended, you may want to follow my tumblr, where from May 18th to May 28th, I’ll be keeping a “10 Naked Days” blog.

The idea is that for ten days, I will only wear as much clothing as legally necessary and blog about the logistics, observations and reactions as a result. So far, it’s already been pretty interesting, checking my schedule in advance for possible conflicts and sending emails like, “We have an appointment to go over my portfolio on Thursday. Would it distract you if I were naked?” and awaiting the response.
The blog is not meant to be profound or particularly insightful, so if the thought and or sight of me without clothes on holds no interest to you, don’t think you’ll be missing out on any brilliant writing on my part. It’s all in good fun and a personal challenge to myself. 

I’m An Achievement Slut

Mollena Williams falls victim to my starfuckery.

I’m a normal heterosexual guy in a lot of ways. I like boobs and asses, and legs. I’m a sucker for a pretty face, pretty eyes and a nice smile.  I’m also a bit of a star fucker, but I don’t care fuck all about money or status. I’m a star fucker, but only because I’m attracted to whatever talent made said star a star in the first place.

I’ve discovered that I’m an achievement slut.

Are you a woman with a Masters or a PhD in a subject I’m interested in? Tell me about that. Are you a writer? Have you written something that I’ve read or want to read? That’s hot. Are you a performer? Have you spent hours, days, weeks, months or years of your life honing a skill like singing, acting or playing music? Are you an artist? Can you create something beautiful that did not exist before? Have your muscles developed in unique ways due to dance, yoga or sports?  

Are you an activist?  Have you fought for your rights or the rights of others? Have you fought against injustice? Do you know firsthand the benefits of helping other people?

Have you raised children? Have you nursed ailing parents or friends? Have you survived an ordeal that might have broken someone else?

If you answered yes to any of the previous questions, please read on:

Do others consider you or do you consider yourself overweight or underweight? Are  you too tall or too short to be a runway model? If so, you may be my type.

Do you buck the system? Are you more comfortable in jeans and boots than a dress? Cause that’s hot. Are you just as comfortable in a dress as you are in jeans and boots, cause that’s even hotter. Do you ever wear ridiculous costumes? Do you make them yourself? Have you ever shaved your head bald? Are you comfortable leaving the house without make-up?  How about without shaving your legs or under your arms?

Have you accomplished all this awesomeness in spite of, or because of, being born with a birth affect, using crutches or a wheelchair for mobility, being visually or hearing impaired, or being part of any other marginalized group? 

If so, then congratulations.  Not only do I respect your gangsta’, but I probably think you’re hella sexy and doubt I’m the only one who feels that way. 

Ass Forensics

Photo by Kholood Eid, for the Riverfront TimesThis picture was taken at the “No Pants Subway Ride St. Louis.” I had the following conversation with the woman in the picture and just had to share. 

Me: I thought I recognized that ass.

Her: David, did you recognize the legs next to me? I never realized he had such big feet.

Me: I blame wide angle lens distortion. I don’t think his calves are that developed either.

Her: Yeah, I thought the same thing about his legs. They look much manlier in this picture than in real life. Which only means my ass doesn’t look as good either.

Me: Actually, you’re further away from the edge of the frame which means your ass is less distorted than his legs. Of course, I’d have to see your ass in person again to determine the extent of the distortion. 
This is what all my college photography classes have come to: Ass Forensics.

Her: Ass Forensics ♥

2011: The Year of the Hater

It seems like my haters are coming out of the woodwork lately. But here’s the funny thing: they’re not coming out of the woodwork to hate on me. They’re coming to wish me a happy birthday, ask about attending parties that I’m hosting and even to give me free t-shirts. I’m discovering that maybe I don’t have as many haters as I thought. I just hate a lot of people. So I guess that makes the biggest hater of all… me.

We have seen the haters and they are… us.

I’m not naïve. There’s a reason why many of the people I was formerly at odds with are going out of their way to be nice to me lately. My profile has risen in the past year (mostly due to my work with SEX+STL) and they want to be part of my life again. That doesn’t even bother me. It’s this revisionist history of acting like it’s all good between us when it isn’t. I would respect them more if they acknowledged the issues between us and tried to move beyond them, rather than pretend they didn’t exist. Why act like the elephant in the room isn’t an elephant in the room?

2011 has taught me how to deal with difficult people without sacrificing my dignity or decorum. I’ve learned that the best way to handle a hater is to be honest, direct and consistent; to know my facts and stick to them and to refrain from name-calling, editorializing and exaggerations. I wish my haters all the best, I honestly do and I give them credit when credit is due. Just because I don’t like someone doesn’t mean they’re always wrong. Even a busted clock is right twice a day.

I’ve also learned that, while I have my haters, a lot more people love me and even more respect me. And while it’s natural for the squeaky wheel to get the grease, I invest entirely too much time and energy on the small percentage of people that I’m at odds with. Like Kat Williams says, if you have 700 lovers, you’re bound to have 70 haters. That’s just your tithe.

So I have declared 2011, “The Year of the Hater.” And guess what, haters? Your 365 days of fame are almost up. May you and I find better things to do with our time in 2012.

“I’m so gifted at finding what I don’t like the most. So I think it’s time for us to have a toast.”

Big ups to all my haters!

Here’s a toast to all the men who’ve raped women I care about, those who will never see the outside of a prison wall (Hi Brandon!) and those still walking around free (you know who you are). May you learn the error of your ways and begin the long road to recovery in 2012. And mad respect to all the women who have survived your abuse and kept on moving.

Here’s a toast to the unfaithful wives in ostensibly monogamous marriages who seek to use me to cheat on their husbands, and then kick dirt on my name when I don’t take the bait. May you and your husbands find good counseling or at least good lawyers in the new year.

Here’s a toast to those who question my integrity and have very little of their own. May you realize that you’re bringing a knife to a gunfight.

And finally, a toast to all those who talk shit about me behind my back. You really should Google me. Not only am I the easiest man to find in St. Louis, but I’m also my mother and my father’s son. I will run all up in your spot if I have to.

I’ve given my haters a lot of shit today. Seems like the least I can do is play them a song… 


Conversations with Rexy: I Want To Peel Your Skin Off

My friend Rexy is so funny, I had to give her a blog category of her own. She has graduated from “Shit Women Say To Me.”

The following conversation took place in bed:

Rexy: I want to take a box-cutter, peel your skin off and take it home with me.

Me: Um… why?

Rexy: Because I love the way your skin feels.

Me: Wow, most girls would have just said, “I love the way your skin feels.” But you led with the whole “box-cutter thing,” because you’re unique.

Twelve hours later, via text message:

Me: Have you seen the movie May? It made me think of you. I think you’ll love it. We have to watch this movie together!

Rexy: Never seen it. What’s it about?

Me: It’s about a mentally disturbed woman whose best friend is a doll. It’s the creepiest God-damned shit I’ve ever seen.

Rexy:  I think I may be insulted now.

Me: Just trust me.

Rexy: Just watched the trailer for May. Two things: I’m bringing a scalpel when we watch it and you’d better bring a good explanination and/or bribe.