I put it in the introduction of my book, a promise that was tongue in cheek, that was meant in good fun, that would never, never, never actually have to be upheld: If I make $50,000,000 on this book, that's the last day I wear clothing. And to prove it to my fans, anyone who sends me the receipt for their purchase of this book has the right to host one party that I will attend in my new clothing-free life. I'll serve the drinks for the whole night.
When my editor looked over my introduction, he cocked his eyebrow, and simply said, "Bold."
"It's not like it's going to happen," I said. "Besides, with fifty mil in the bank, I could buy a house far enough from the public eye that I'd live my life in privacy. It wouldn't be too bad. Groceries would be delivered, and I guess it would be a good reason for me to never talk to my parents again."
"What about the book signings?" My editor asked, like this was a real conversation. "What about the promised parties."
"I don't know," I said shrugging. "It sounds kind of fun to me."
"A naked book signing sounds fun to you?" My editor said, sounding surprised."
"Once i earn that kind of money, I think my fans deserve whatever they want from me," I said, laughing. "But you've seen the sales on my last book. I barely made $10,000."
"You're writing is good though," my editor said. "It's a problem of marketing. And a naked book signing might just get the marketing up."
"No naked book signing until the fifty million," I said, surprised that my editor was even considering this.
"Okay, okay, no naked book signing... yet," My editor said. "But I think this promise of living forever naked and of becoming a free, naked bartender might be what we need to help your writing career really take off."
"I'm not a free, naked bartender," I said. "To get my services they have to buy the book."
"Fine, fine, whatever you say," my editor said. "But really, I think this is a stroke of marketing genius. We could make a website where people can buy your book, which would automatically submit the receipt, and then they'd be taken to your calendar where they could schedule your bartending services."
"It's never going to happen," I said.
"We could also get you on talk shows," my editor said. "No one is that excited to hear from any old writer. But the old cliche, sex sells, is really true."
"It won't sell $50,000,000 worth of books," I said.
"Of course, no one will believe you'd really go through with it," my editor said. "Unless... Would you be willing to sign a notarized contract agreeing to this deal? You'd sign for yourself, obviously, and we, the publishing company, would sign on behalf of your readers."
"I don't think that will be necessary," I said, laughing, even though my editor still looked more serious than I expected him to. "It's fifty million dollars."
"If it's never going to happen," my editor said, steepling his fingers and looking me up and down, "then why not sign a contract."
I went on talk shows before my book's publication, where late-night hosts made jokes about shrinkage, and workouts, and courage. One host even promised to have my contractual naked bartending party on his show. I laughed, and grinned, and leaned into the humor, enjoying what I assumed was my fifteen minutes of fame.
My friends all winked at me when they promised to buy my book, or they made me promise to not forget the little guys when I made my millions.
My parents were less understanding. My dad told me I was a shame to the family. Everyone at church kept telling he and my mom how they'd seen me on the TV, and how sorry they were that my parents had raised such a desperate, sinful, greedy child. My mom told me she'd never look at me again if I actually went through with becoming a nudist.
When the original sales numbers came in after my publication, I started to sweat. I made ten million. Every copy that had sold within a week, and my publishing company was preparing for a reprint.
"You better start looking at private jet," my editor said over the phone as he was sharing the numbers with me.
"You don't really think it'll happen do you?" I asked, my stomach performing somersaults. "It's just a temporary media hype, right?"
But it wasn't. As the initial reviews came in, my book was receiving praise, and there was buzz that I would be nominated for a few awards ("No matter what happens with this next print, you're contractually obligated to attend those award dinners, if you're nominated," my editor reminded me again over the phone).
The publishing company put me back on the media tour to talk about the writing. At each stop I was given time to plug what inspired the book, to talk about the process, and then the teasing started. Hosts asked if I was nervous. Hosts called me brave. The host who had promised to have me bartend on the air rolled out a drink cart that could be wheeled through his live studio audience.
My friends started asking for previews. "I'll see it all soon enough anyway," was said to me almost daily.
My dad called to tell me he'd written me out of the will, since I was already rich enough anyway. My mom stopped speaking to me.
At the second printing, my book sales landed at a crisp $42,000,000 in my bank account. Every copy sold. I had assumed that this printing would give me the answer on whether or not my life was going to change more drastically than it already had. I don't know if you've ever realized that everyone who meets you is actively picturing you naked, but I was now very aware that that was what was happening to me. All anyone wanted to talk to me about was my body. And my company was almost literally edging me, printing just enough books that I'd have to wait one more round before finding out whether I'd be allowed clothing again.
"You've got your private jet, right?" My editor asked. "If not, check your email, I've sent you a few listings for some small, cheaper jets. But you'll definitely need one."
Out of caution I bought myself a secluded cabin in the woods, far enough from civilization that I could still go outside and enjoy the sun, even if I had to go out sans all my clothing. I told no one where my cabin was.
I was back on the talk show circuit. This time we weren't talking about the writing, we talked about the printing details, we talked about the number of books that would need to sell before I had to honor my contract. My publishing company sent copies of the contract to each host, and I heard the stipulations read over and over again while audiences wolf-whistled and jeered. The website to buy my book and schedule my bartending services was posted at the bottom of the screen. Each talk show ended with the host promising that I would be back once my next printing had sold out.
Some fans started a website that had one of those thermometer charts that people often use for fundraising events. The visual of 42/50 hit home harder than anything else had. Under the chart were pages and pages of AI renditions of what I looked like under my clothes.
"Listen, it's over," my editor said over the phone one night. "The pre-sale numbers for your next printing put you at $75,000,000."
"I gotta say, I don't envy you," my editor continued. "The publishing company wants to have a recorded event where we break the news to you, and where you turn your clothing over to us."
"It's not in my contract that that would be recorded," I said. "I'd prefer to just ship everything, and then probably never come back into your office, thanks."
"Believe me, I get it," my editor said, and I could hear the grin on his face. "And you're right, it's not in your contract. But I think you should do it. We're drafting a new contract that I think you'll like."
"Will I get my clothes back if I do the recording?" I asked, allowing myself a second of hope that he immediately squashed.
"God no," he said, chuckling. "You're our gold mine, and we aren't just going to give that up. But, we'll censor you on the recording. The minute there's full frontal, blurring effects will go on. You'll also be given a guaranteed five more printings of this book, and a contract for five books of your choice, plus a memoir deal that you'll write after five years all about your first five years as the world's most public nudist."
"I don't think so," I said.
"I would reconsider," my editor said. "This allows you to ease into your exposure. Sure, the live studio audience won't have the blur, but the world at large will. Eventually, you'll end up somewhere online, and everyone will see everything, but this buys you a little more time. Plus, the company is throwing in a private jet, since I know you haven't bought one yet."
I hadn't bought the jet. But now, I knew I needed one, otherwise I'd be pushing my way through busy terminals, the only naked person getting pressed up on by the hundreds of people hauling their luggage.
"You're alternative is that we will send our enforcement team to collect what is ours," my editor said. "And you know how hard it is to schedule things as a company of this size. It's likely we'd forget to send you warning, so you could be out in the street, and our big, burly enforcers could show up and tear the clothes right off your body, in front of everyone, and those beautiful camera phones won't give you the same guarantee of a modesty blur."
"Fine," I said, understanding that my publishing company would be getting what they wanted.
The printing came and sold. My editor was right, my bank account now had over $75,000,000, and that was with the cost of my small, private cabin in the woods taken out. I signed the new contract the day of the recording in my editor's office before I was escorted to a filming studio. I had packed up every piece of clothing I owned, and had given the publishing company's enforcers keys to my home and my cabin so they could ensure that I was living up to my end of the contract. I hadn't withheld any clothing.
In the filming studio, my editor called me up on stage. Surrounding me on stage were at least fifteen mannequins, each dressed in something that had been mine. One was dressed in my talk-show suit. One was dressed in my favorite jockstrap that I used to wear on dates when I hoped to get lucky.
I wore my normal clothes: t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, baseball cap. I wanted today to feel as normal as possible, even though I had barely slept the night before, even though I knew today would not be a normal day.
The program wasn't long. I sat across from my editor, both of surrounded by mannequins, the jock-strap clad one framed by the two of us. He asked me about each outfit that was displayed. I told him the stories of where I got them, why I picked them, what I would miss about them.
"And which outfit will you miss the most?" my editor asked.
"The only answer to that question is the one that I have on right now," I said, and the audience chuckled appreciatively. Hungrily.
"I'd miss that one too, if I were you," he said to more laughs. "But the time has come to say goodbye."
The blood rushed to my face and to my crotch.
"I've been instructed to give you one last choice," my editor said. "Would you like to hand over your clothes or have them taken from you?"
Without giving me time to respond, two burly men appeared out of nowhere. Their hands groped and grabbed at my clothing, and my arms and legs moved at their command as I was shucked of everything.
In seconds, almost as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, and with them every stitch of clothing I had worn today. There was no ceremony, no gentleness, no gradual removal to acclimate to new levels of nudity. I was fully clothed one moment. Completely naked the next.
And I stood there, hands at my sides, processing that I didn't even say goodbye to my clothing, that I would never again feel denim on my legs, or cotton sleeves against my arms. It took me nearly a full minute standing in front of my editor and my live audience to realize that I hadn't reached down to cover my cock.
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