61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Hooksexup's videogame blog: Test Icicles take it to the Streets of Rage and Cole goes Sega ga-ga for Segagaga.
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Today on Hooksexup's TV blog: Is Ashley Alexandra Dupré developing her own reality show? Our sources say... maybe!
At 5 a.m. on a gray Sunday morning in late August and aren't all Sunday mornings that begin at five gray? we took a cab from Manhattan to a remote stretch of Brooklyn. Our mission: to get buck naked on the banks of Williamsburg with two hundred strangers. Spencer Tunick was shooting one of his (in)famous group nudes. He had scattered flyers around our office calling for volunteers: all welcome. It was nothing we had ever thought of doing. It was nothing we thought we'd necessarily enjoy doing. These seemed like perfectly good reasons to go.
We set off neither breezily nor bravely. Fighting off the urge to run back to our beds for sleep, warmth, comfort and especially cover, we shaved the basics (legs and pits), tucked in our tampon strings, put on sweats, grabbed a pack of smokes and half-heartedly made our way across the East River. In the cab, we worried, Would it be cold? Would pranksters steal our clothes? Would there be press? Police? Would our fellow adventurers be dirty old men looking to get an eyeful? Or worse: supermodel wannabes?
The cab dropped us off in front of a rather frazzled looking Spencer, who waved his clipboard and urged us to "hurry, hurry." We weren't sure if it was the impending arrival of morning light or cops that he feared. We soon found ourselves on a deserted stretch of shore beyond abandoned warehouses and overgrown grass. The sand was black and damp. A three-piece band played pipe-y pixie music. Gathered before us were the two hundred New Yorkers with whom we were about to get naked. Quiet, chain-smoking and bewildered, they talked in hushed tones in groups of two or three, signing release forms and stealing furtive looks at each other. Could we actually do this? Until now we'd only ever stripped for boyfriends and gynecologists, and in both cases it was with some trepidation.
"Okay, gather 'round people, come closer and listen up," barked Spencer. "We've got a small window of opportunity here. I want you down on your backs, heads uptown, feet downtown, faces away from the camera, arms to the side, knees down. No glasses, no jewelry, no watches, no clothes. Leave 'em out of my shot." And then he was off, setting up his camera atop a ten-foot ladder facing the Manhattan skyline. We watched, dumbfounded. Waiting for . . . something. A pep talk, perhaps? The artist's vision for this shoot? Then the order came from above: "Let's go, let's go, let's go! Clothes off!"
Suddenly our main concern was not that we were about to be naked, but rather that we would be the last ones clothed and out of position. We stripped the way you remove a Band-Aid to minimize the pain: eyes closed, breath held, one quick rip. When we looked up, there was pink everywhere, a sea of skin. The overwhelming diversity of shapes and shades made our own variations, well, okay. For the first time all morning, everyone was smiling and laughing and moving quickly, going with the flow.
We scooted over the growing blanket of bodies to secure our own space in the quilt. Our backs to the ground, our stomachs sucked in and our eyes on the sky, we lay still and felt breezes in new places. A peace settled on the crowd. That is, until Spencer yelled, "Hey, you in the third row: Knees down!" All of a sudden it felt like summer camp. An anonymous voice from behind shouted, "Hey, you in the front: Penis down!" Followed by another: "Um, this isn't my good side." Spencer joined in, teasing one man for his spread-eagle pose: "This isn't for a nudie mag." You could feel the earth rumble with our giggles. Then Spencer started snapping, and in a matter of minutes it was over. We brushed off, got dressed and headed home.
It would be hours before we noticed the rash on our asses.
On the subway ride back we spotted the tell-tale black-sand stains on a few hands and faces, and we smiled in silent recognition of our mutual accomplishment, of being part of something new and unique, even a little naughty. And it occurred to us that this was exactly the kind of experience we are hoping to create with HooksexupCenter, Hooksexup's community of thoughtful hedonists (launching in just a few weeks!). As the hosts of HooksexupCenter, we're hoping to bring together a group of strangers to participate in a project related to sex that's not exactly sexual. We want everyone to have fun, experience something new, maybe reveal something a little personal (though perhaps not as literally as we did). And we'd be delighted if people learned something about human nature (or themselves) along the way.
We hope you'll join us in HooksexupCenter. We'll be talking about everything from the politics of polyamory to our sexual pet peeves in message boards, chat and on personal homepages. We'll be hosting special conversations with Hooksexup editors, writers and photographers, and we'll be playing Yenta in the Hooksexup personal ads. We'll even give you your own email address @hooksexup.com to help you feel like one of the gang. And we can almost guarantee that you won't leave with a rash.
