The Uninvited Nude Guest…

A Hilarious Real-Life Story Involving a Surprise Visit, Naked Yoga…and a Totally Unexpected Situation!

Kristin Williams

© 2025

Copyright © 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.

Disclaimer

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher.

While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein.

This book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone, and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands. The reader of this book is responsible for his or her own actions when it comes to reading the book.

Adherence to all applicable laws and regulations, including international, federal, state, and local governing professional licensing, business practices, advertising, and all other aspects of doing business in the US, Canada, or any other jurisdiction is the sole responsibility of the purchaser or reader.

Neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility or liability whatsoever on the behalf of the purchaser or reader of these materials. Any received slight of any individual or organization is purely unintentional.

Just Another Peaceful Nude Morning…and then the Doorbell Rang

There’s a specific kind of bliss that comes from doing downward dog in the nude while your coffee brews and Lizzo plays softly in the background. It’s like your chakras align with your nipples, and for one glorious second, you forget about all your unpaid parking tickets and the time your ex accidentally mailed you his new girlfriend’s thong (don’t ask).

This was supposed to be one of those mornings. Calm. Quiet. Peaceful. Nudely divine.

I had just rolled out my yoga mat—well, okay, technically it’s a beach towel that smells vaguely of tequila and regret—but I was feeling the vibe. Stretchy, limber, one with the air. The coffee was gurgling in the French press. I was basking in a sunbeam, fully in my element, when the doorbell rang.

At first, I thought I hallucinated it. Maybe I was reaching some higher vibrational frequency and I imagined a sound from another dimension. Or maybe Tanya had somehow butt-dialed my doorbell. She’s done weirder things, like that time she sent a voice memo of herself crying over a sandwich she dropped on the sidewalk and then made me listen to it seventeen times.

But then—ding-dong. Again.

Okay. Definitely real.

Now here’s the thing. Nobody visits me unannounced. Not unless they want to see an unsolicited areola. This is the unspoken agreement I have with the world. You show up uninvited, you’re risking eye contact with my bush. That’s just policy. So I do what any nudist woman with boundaries and a flamingo towel does: I panic internally, pretend it’s not happening, and army-crawl behind my kitchen counter. Unfortunately, my counter is exactly the height of my butt and nothing else, so I basically just presented my bare behind to the universe like some kind of suburban baboon.

Then I hear it. A voice.

“Hey, um… hi! I think I’m at the right place?”

I freeze. Not just regular freeze. I freeze so hard I drop my coffee cup and it shatters like my hopes of ever owning furniture that isn’t from IKEA.

There is a man’s voice. At my door. At 8:43 a.m. On a Wednesday. And it doesn’t sound like a delivery guy. Or the meter reader. Or one of those weird guys who tries to sell you solar panels but smells like meat and sadness. No. This voice has a vibe. It’s too casual. Too confident. Too… friendly.

I peek through the mail slot because I’m not emotionally stable enough to look through the peephole and also my peephole has a smudge that looks like a nipple and I keep forgetting to clean it.

And there he is.

Naked.

Fully. Completely. Balls-to-breeze naked.

Just standing on my porch like this is the most normal thing in the world. Hands on hips. Smiling. As if he’s waiting to be let in for a cup of coffee and maybe a colonoscopy. The man is tall, scruffy, and has the casual nudity of someone who’s been to Burning Man but still pays his taxes. He's got a tattoo of a dolphin on his hip and a look in his eye like he's either very enlightened or very concussed.

I blink. He waves.

“Hi! I’m Kyle. I think I’m your new roommate?”

At this point I’m trying to figure out whether I’m dreaming, hallucinating, or in a highly specific porn plot. I do not, to my knowledge, have a new roommate. I do not even have a spare room. I have an office that is mostly piles of laundry and a very dusty Pilates ball that I once tried to use and nearly herniated a kidney.

I wrap my flamingo towel tighter and open the door two inches.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“Kyle,” he says again, like that name is going to unlock some kind of memory. “From the ad?”

“What ad?”

“You posted on NudistConnect. Room for rent in clothing-optional home. I messaged you and everything. You said come by anytime!”

I squint at him. I have posted many things in my life—some of them by accident, like that time I tried to sell a bookshelf on Craigslist and ended up in an erotic furniture forum—but I have not posted a roommate ad. Especially not on NudistConnect, which I’m 99% sure is a website Susan told me about after two glasses of prosecco and an edible.

I take a deep breath and try to channel calm energy, which is very hard when someone’s penis is visible in your peripheral vision and you haven’t even had caffeine.

“I think… there’s been a mistake.”

He looks genuinely confused. Not fake confused like when guys pretend they don’t know what the clitoris is. Actual confusion.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “Is this 1184 Cypress Drive?”

“Nope.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s 1182.”

“Ohhhh,” he says, dragging the syllable out like a man realizing he’s very naked on the wrong porch. “That explains why your doormat says ‘No Pants, No Problem’ but your name isn’t Sharon.”

“It definitely isn’t Sharon.”

“I am… so sorry.”

He starts to back away but it’s too late. My neighbor, Mrs. Delacroix, who is 84 and walks her poodle Peaches in a rhinestone tracksuit every morning, rounds the corner just in time to see a nude man bowing apologetically on my porch while I hold a towel like I’m auditioning for a community theater production of Modestly Terrified Woman #3.

She gasps. Peaches barks.

Kyle waves again, mortified now. “Have a great day!”

He jogs off, bare ass bouncing in the morning light, and I slam the door shut so hard the flamingo towel falls off and I stub my toe on a succulent.

I stand there, naked, in the wreckage of my coffee and my calm morning, wondering how this has already become the most chaotic day of the week—and it’s not even 9 a.m.

And then my phone buzzes. A text from Tanya.

“WHY IS THERE A NAKED GUY LEAVING YOUR HOUSE AND WHY IS HE HOT???”

I text back: “Long story. And he’s not staying. Probably.”

But I have a feeling it’s not over.

I have a feeling this is just the beginning.

Who The Hell Are You…And Why Are You Now Naked In My Hallway???

I really, really thought that was it. The end of the incident. A rogue nudist named Kyle shows up at my door, realizes he’s at the wrong address, and jogs away into the suburban sunrise like a hot, slightly confused centaur. Case closed. Life resumes.

Ha. HAHAHA. Sweet, stupid, past Kristin.

Flash forward to that evening. I’m back to normal—well, my version of normal, which means exfoliating in the kitchen sink while watching reruns of Naked and Afraid and sipping a questionable wine spritzer made from boxed rosé and half a LaCroix. I’m in a great mood. My flamingo towel is in the laundry. My body is breezin’ free. Lizzo is back on. I have closure.

That’s when I hear it. The unmistakable sound of a doorknob turning.

Not knocking. Not ding-donging.

Turning.

MY front door. Which was locked. WAS.

I freeze mid-sip, and instinctively grab the closest weapon-like object, which happens to be a giant novelty wooden spoon that says “Stir Crazy” on it. I tiptoe toward the entryway, very much naked, very much confused, and very much wondering if I’m about to whack an intruder with a spoon that I once used to stir sangria.

The door opens.

It’s Kyle.

Same Kyle. Tall. Smiling. Still very naked.

He’s holding a yoga mat, a reusable grocery bag, and what appears to be a cactus in a small, decorative pot shaped like a butt. And he says, with full confidence:

“Hey again! Figured I’d come back after work hours. Less awkward.”

I blink. “You’re… back?”

“Yep!”

“And naked again.”

“Of course.”

“And… unlocking my door.”

“Yeah, I found the spare key under the gnome.”

I scream. Not a full horror movie scream, but more like a shocked goat who’s just seen its reflection. I point the spoon at his face. “What the actual hell is going on right now?!”

Kyle looks hurt. Hurt. Like I’ve just denied him entrance to a nude utopia where flamingo towels grow on trees and all problems are solved with kombucha.

“I figured it out,” he says calmly. “You’re not Sharon. But Sharon is your neighbor. And she’s out of town. But she said I could stay with her. For the month. Her phone died before she could give me the key, but her last text said, and I quote, ‘If I’m not there, Kristin next door has a key.’”

I am speechless.

He gestures around. “And look! You did have a key!”

I stare at him. Naked. In my hallway. Explaining why it’s reasonable that he has just let himself into my home like this is some nudist episode of House Hunters: Trespassing Edition.

“So you’re saying… Sharon texted you. From a dead phone.”

“Before it died.”

“And she told you to ask me for the key.”

“Yes!”

“And instead of asking, you just… went ahead and found it yourself?”

He shrugs. “I’m a solutions-oriented person.”

At this point, my brain is doing the mental version of buffering while my dignity is hanging by the flimsiest of threads, and this man—this extremely casual intruder—has now walked into my living room and is rolling out his yoga mat like we’re about to start partner stretching.

“Kyle. Babe. Sir. I don’t know how to say this delicately, so I’ll just say it: YOU CAN’T JUST ENTER PEOPLE’S HOMES NAKED.”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Right. Right. Good note.”

He sits cross-legged on the mat, butt cheeks spread like he’s auditioning for a brochure called Finding Your Zen and Possibly Your Hemorrhoids. I want to die.

Then—because life isn’t done kicking me in the metaphorical naked crotch—my phone dings.

It’s a text from Susan.

“Did you let a man named Kyle into your house??? He just DM’d me on NudistConnect saying he’s staying with you. WHY is he hot and WHY is he using your bathtub???”

I gasp. I turn. I realize… there’s steam coming from the hallway.

“KYLE,” I shriek, running toward the bathroom.

And there he is.

In my bathtub. Surrounded by my bath bombs. USING MY LOOFAH. The same loofah that once touched parts of me I don’t even name in daylight. He waves cheerfully, face blissed out like he’s in a Calgon ad from hell.

“I really love lavender,” he says. “It’s grounding.”

I can’t. I physically cannot.

I close the door. I stand there. Naked. In my own hallway. Staring into the abyss of my life choices.

There is a man in my bathtub. A naked man. That I did not invite. Who is now using my products. My towels. My key. Like we’re starring in some sort of bootleg nudist rom-com that I did not sign up for.

I open the group chat.

Kristin: “Kyle is back. He’s in my tub. I am in hell.”

Tanya: “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

Susan: “Told you to install a Ring cam.”

Georgina: “Nudist etiquette does not cover this. I’ll check with Jackson.”

I take a deep breath, clutch my spoon, and wonder: is this what people mean when they say “open your home and heart to new experiences”?

Because if so, I need a goddamn lock. And a new loofah.

And possibly a priest.

The Group Chat Explodes…and Susan Has Ideas (God Help Us All)

At exactly 6:42 p.m., I do what any emotionally stable, boundary-setting adult woman would do in this situation.

I panic-text the group chat.

Kristin: “There’s a naked man in my tub. His name is Kyle. He let himself in. Using Sharon’s instructions. He’s also using my loofah. I can’t stress that part enough.”

Tanya: “Wait. Hot Kyle is BACK? Naked tub Kyle???”

Susan: “OMGGGG. This is already better than last season of The Bachelor.”

Georgina: “Was Sharon expecting him? Or is this like a nudist squatting thing?”

Susan: “Maybe he’s a nudist missionary. Like a Jehovah’s Witness but with more pubes.”

Janessa: “What’s happening? Why are we talking about a naked man in a bathtub?”

Tanya: “Because Kristin’s house is basically a nude halfway home now.”

Susan: “Can I come over and live blog this?”

Kristin: “Absolutely not.”

I throw the phone down, stomp into my room, and wrap myself in the biggest towel I own—one of those oversized spa ones that makes you feel like you’ve just gotten divorced in a nice hotel. I march back toward the bathroom, prepared to demand Kyle leave, relocate, or at the very least stop scrubbing his armpits with the rose-scented exfoliating glove my mom gave me for Christmas.

But when I reach the bathroom door, it’s open.

And Kyle is no longer inside.

The tub is empty. My loofah is hanging sadly on the hook like it’s been through a traumatic event. And there’s a single wet footprint on the tile leading back into the hallway.

I follow it.

“Kyle?”

No answer.

I follow the trail. One damp footprint at a time. Past the hallway. Past the coat closet. Into the kitchen.

And there he is.

Cooking.

Still naked.

Still very naked.

Wearing nothing but an apron. My apron. The one that says “Lick the Spoon” in gold cursive. He is humming and sautéing onions like this is a totally normal scenario, like we’re in some kind of nudist-themed cooking show that’s about to get me banned from the Food Network.

“Oh, hey!” he says cheerfully. “I figured I’d make us dinner as a thank-you. You were kind of stressed, and I thought, hey, what’s better than tacos?”

“Tacos with pants on,” I say, blinking.

“I can grab the apron if it’s too much,” he offers, as if the apron is the problem here and not literally everything else.

“Kyle,” I say, voice shaking slightly, “this is not a commune. This is not a group living experiment. This is my home. My very small, towel-based sanctuary.”

“I hear you,” he says, flipping a tortilla. “And I respect that. But Sharon told me this would be a good environment. She said you were ‘very free-spirited.’”

“SHARON DOES TAI CHI IN A BATHING SUIT AND THINKS AVOCADOS ARE A CONSPIRACY.”

He nods solemnly. “Exactly. You’re the sane one.”

Then my phone buzzes again.

Susan: “I’m making a list of things Kyle should do while he’s there. Can you confirm he has access to a slip n’ slide, a tent, and your kitchen?”

Kristin: “Susan, no.”

Susan: “TOO LATE. I already made a bingo card. Kyle's Nudist House Challenge. Square one: ‘Cook dinner in apron only’—check. Next up: ‘Answer the door for delivery pizza totally nude.’”

Tanya: “I’ll bring the pizza. I want to see the butt up close.”

Janessa: “I feel like I’m not qualified to be part of this group yet.”

Georgina: “You’re learning. This is part of the path.”

Meanwhile, Kyle is now chopping cilantro and humming what might be Enya, or possibly something from a meditation app. I don’t even know anymore. He is so calm. So deeply relaxed. I am vibrating at the frequency of a cracked lightbulb.

I pour myself wine. No glass. Straight from the bottle. I sip it and stare at him like he’s a surrealist painting. He turns around holding a plate of what actually looks like very decent tacos and says:

“Dinner’s ready. I also made guac.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. There is a man. Naked. Cooking in my home. Making guacamole. Using my apron. With my loofah trauma still fresh.

My group chat dings.

Susan: “He stays.”

Tanya: “Agreed.”

Georgina: “Kristin, you need to embrace this energy. It’s the universe.”

Janessa: “This is how cults start.”

Kyle sits cross-legged on my barstool like a cheerful, extremely naked woodland creature, and smiles at me.

“This is gonna be fun,” he says.

My eye twitches.

The Naked Guest Makes Himself At Home (and So Does His Ferret)

I wake up the next morning to the distinct sound of squeaking. High-pitched, repetitive, and coming from somewhere far too close to my face. In the seconds between sleep and full consciousness, I convince myself it’s either a malfunctioning smoke alarm, a squirrel trapped in the walls, or the echo of the poor choices I made yesterday.

Then something wet brushes against my nose.

I jolt upright, boobs bouncing in panic, and come face to face with what I can only describe as a small, elongated rat in a hoodie.

A ferret.

In a hoodie.

The hoodie says “NAP QUEEN” in glitter letters.

I scream.

The ferret screams.

Somewhere in the house, a male voice yells, “Oh shoot! You met Muffin!”

I back up until I fall off the bed, ass to hardwood, full body splayed out like a crime scene outline.

Kyle, completely and predictably naked, appears in my doorway holding a smoothie.

He sips. He grins. “Morning! Muffin must’ve snuck into your room.”

The ferret, who I’m now realizing is named Muffin, leaps down from the bed and scampers over to him like a sleep-deprived, jittery mongoose.

“You brought a ferret,” I say, trying to reassemble my sanity like it’s IKEA furniture with no screws.

“I always travel with Muffin. She’s emotional support.”

“She just tried to tongue-punch my nostril.”

“She’s affectionate.”

“She was wearing clothes.”

“She gets cold.”

I stare at him, standing there without a stitch on, holding a mason jar full of kale sludge, while a ferret dressed like a Bratz doll climbs up his leg and nestles into the crook of his neck like this is her morning routine.

“Kristin,” he says, “you look tense.”

“I wonder why.”

“You need to center yourself. Open your spirit.”

“I need you to get your spirit out of my house.”

But it’s too late. Kyle’s already walking toward the kitchen. Muffin is on his shoulder like a weird fleshy pirate’s parrot, and I trail after him because I’ve apparently lost control of my life and also need coffee before I start throwing things.

My group chat is already awake and active.

Tanya: “Did you sleep with him yet?”

Susan: “I bet he makes weird eye contact the whole time.”

Janessa: “Wait, is he still there?”

Georgina: “I looked up ferret spiritual meanings. They represent mischief and resourcefulness.”

Kristin: “HE LET THE FERRET INTO MY BEDROOM AND IT WORE A HOODIE.”

Susan: “You’re welcome.”

I set my phone down, pour coffee, and turn to see Kyle in my living room.

He is doing tai chi.

Naked.

To whale sounds.

Muffin is perched on the windowsill licking something unspeakable off her paw.

I sip. I breathe. I consider whether a person can be charged with emotional arson.

Then it happens.

The fart.

It starts innocently enough. A slight tensing of his face. A shift in stance. One leg raises into a slow-motion crane pose and I think, Okay, not the worst thing I’ve seen today.

But then.

It escapes.

A long, high-pitched, unholy whistle that rises in volume like a teakettle possessed by the devil. It echoes off the hardwood. Muffin stops mid-lick. I drop my mug.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

Kyle exhales deeply, like he’s just released years of trauma through his colon.

“That,” he says, “was cleansing.”

I stand frozen. Time has stopped. Planets realign. Somewhere, a flower wilts.

And then he turns. Looks me straight in the eyes. Smiles. And says:

“You should smell that. It’s wild.”

He wafts it. WAFTS. With his hand. Toward me.

“Don’t waft it. Do not waft it.”

“It’s got layers. Like… spicy tofu and sadness.”

“I will call the police.”

“It’s the scent of healing.”

“It’s the scent of HELL.”

He does a little hop, like he’s trying to shake out the last of it. “Better out than in, right?”

I’m dry heaving.

Muffin is hiding under the couch.

The ghost of my dignity has left the building.

I stumble back into the kitchen, open the fridge, and try to press my face against the bag of frozen peas I keep in there for hangover emergencies.

He follows me.

Still naked.

Still fart-proud.

“You okay?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

“I have never been less okay.”

“You just gotta breathe through it. Embrace the funk. My guru says—”

“I swear to GOD if you mention a guru right now I will throw this blender through the window.”

He backs off, hands raised, smiling like a golden retriever who knows it just pooped on the rug but thinks we’re all better for the experience.

Later that afternoon, Susan shows up.

She has snacks, a GoPro, and a printed checklist titled “Kyle’s Nude Bucket List.”

Item one: “Crop-top gardening.”

Item two: “Teach Muffin yoga.”

Item three: “Silent naked group meditation in the living room.”

“Kyle!” she shouts. “Do you fart like that often?”

He nods. “It’s a daily ritual. Like a sunrise for the soul.”

Susan claps her hands. “Kristin, you need to stop fighting this. You’re living with an enlightened gas wizard. You’re being gifted an experience.”

“I want a refund.”

“You’re just not fart-open yet.”

“I want you both out of my house.”

They ignore me.

Kyle begins teaching Susan how to do nude planks while Muffin poops on my welcome mat.

I look at my phone. No new texts. No missed calls. No sign that the universe has heard my cries for help.

I sip the wine I’ve been hiding in my closet since 2020 and try to remember what it felt like to be alone, peaceful, and unaware of what Kyle’s farts tasted like in the air.

Muffin climbs into my laundry basket and falls asleep in my underwear.

I give up.

Tanya Shows Up With Wine and a Bad Attitude

There are exactly three people in my life who will show up at my house without texting first.

My landlord, who still calls me "Kristy" despite me correcting him every month since 2019.

Susan, who once broke in through the bathroom window to “drop off hummus.”

Tanya.

And Tanya never just shows up. She arrives. Like a storm front with opinions and a Merlot.

I hear the car door slam outside, followed by the sharp, aggressive clack of boots with zero arch support. Then the voice.

“Oh my God, Kristin. I can smell tofu from the driveway. Are you being held hostage by vegans again?”

The door bursts open like a dramatic scene from Real Housewives of Naked County. Tanya strides in wearing oversized sunglasses, a kimono with flamingos on it, and absolutely nothing underneath. She’s holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a half-eaten croissant in the other.

“I brought liquid sanity,” she says, waving the wine bottle like she’s about to christen a very judgmental ship. “And I need to pee. Badly. Who’s naked and in my way?”

She walks in, sees Kyle doing sun salutations in the middle of my living room, and freezes.

“Oh. Oh. This must be the famous Kyle.”

Kyle rises from his stretch and turns around, completely bare, unbothered, and smiling like someone who’s never paid interest on a credit card. “You must be Tanya.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing. “You’re a lot… taller than I expected.”

Kyle grins. “Thanks! I eat a lot of kelp.”

Tanya side-eyes him. Then side-eyes me. Then, with the air of someone about to cause emotional destruction for sport, she turns and says, “Kristin. Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a sec?”

I follow her, already regretting everything. She sets the wine on the counter and spins around.

“What the hell, woman?”

“I know.”

“You let a naked man live here now?”

“Not on purpose.”

“And he farts. You didn’t tell me he farts.”

“I did. It’s in the group chat. Scroll up.”

She dramatically removes her sunglasses, which leaves little indents on the bridge of her nose. “Is he sleeping here?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“He took the couch.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say. Until you wake up and someone’s holding a zucchini in your bed.”

Before I can respond to that deeply unsettling metaphor, Kyle enters the kitchen—still naked, still radiant, like a glowing patchouli-scented sun god.

“Hey, Tanya! Want a smoothie?”

“I want to know if your butt is better than mine.”

He blinks.

I blink.

The ferret, somehow, blinks.

“What?” Kyle says, chuckling.

Tanya plants a hand on her hip and juts it out. “You heard me. Let’s settle this. Booty to booty.”

“I’m… not sure what the criteria is.”

“Oh, I am,” she says, and before I can stop her, she turns around, drops the kimono, and strikes a pose.

Full cheek exposure.

Tanya’s ass, as always, looks like it was carved out of sheer spite and Pilates.

“I do squats, Kyle. Like, real squats. Not that noodle-legged hip-dippy crap you do. I deadlift my groceries. I plank during Netflix. I once cracked a walnut with this thing just to prove a point.”

Kyle raises his eyebrows in genuine admiration, then shrugs and turns around, presenting his own rear like a goddamn yoga catalogue cover.

“Oh. Oh wow,” Tanya mutters.

And I hate myself for noticing it too—but Kyle’s butt is… majestic. Like a pair of peaches cradled in moonlight.

“It’s very… symmetrical,” I admit.

“It’s aggressively toned,” Tanya grumbles.

Muffin scurries by and sniffs both butts like she’s judging a livestock competition at the county fair.

“I will not be out-assed in my best friend’s kitchen,” Tanya mutters. “Not by a man named Kyle who uses the word ‘chakra’ in casual conversation.”

“I’m not competing,” Kyle says, laughing. “All bodies are beautiful.”

“Yeah, except mine’s more beautiful,” she shoots back, flipping her kimono back over her shoulders with a flourish. “I just wanted it noted. For the record. If we’re keeping track, which we should.”

“You’re very confident,” Kyle says.

“I am the confidence. Don’t let the wine fool you.”

“I like your energy.”

Tanya turns to me. “I hate him. I want to braid his hair and yell at him. But I hate him.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I hate that he has better butt symmetry than me.”

“I’m also aware.”

She pops the wine cork with her teeth, swigs from the bottle like a medieval warlord, and flops dramatically onto the couch. “Fine. He stays. For now. But I swear to God if I smell tofu farts in my sleep I’m burning this place down.”

“I’m right here,” Kyle calls out, cheerful.

“I know,” she says, sipping again. “And your butt’s a 9.5. But mine’s still the Beyoncé of this house. Don’t forget it.”

Muffin climbs onto her lap, curls into a ball, and farts silently.

“Oh my God,” Tanya mutters. “The ferret is farting now?”

“You’ve been initiated,” I say.

She raises the wine bottle in salute.

“To hell,” she says.

“To naked hell,” I reply.

Kyle, of course, just smiles.

The Real Reason He’s Here…

The day started normal—by our new post-Kyle standards—which means Muffin peed in my laundry basket, Kyle did naked lunges while explaining why deodorant is “a capitalist lie,” and Tanya was drinking wine straight from the bottle at 10 a.m., declaring that she was “here for moral support but mostly to keep an eye on Cheeky McNudepants.”

By noon, I was hiding in the bathroom with my phone and a leftover brownie, trying to Google “ferret rehoming near me discreetly” without crying.

Then the yelling started.

I heard Kyle’s voice first: “Come on, just admit it—my butt’s more functional!”

Then Tanya: “You couldn’t clench a quarter between those cheeks if your chakras depended on it!”

I peeked out of the bathroom, brownie crumbs on my face like the last civilian before a war zone. And that’s when I saw them.

Wrestling.

Naked.

On my living room rug.

I repeat: NAKED. WRESTLING. On the rug where I once tried to host book club.

“Oh my god guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed, dropping the brownie and nearly swallowing my own tongue.

Kyle was laughing—at first. “This is amazing! Nudist jiu-jitsu!”

Tanya grunted, “It’s not jiu-jitsu, it’s called getting your ass handed to you, kelp boy.”

They rolled. They grunted. They knocked over my bookshelf. A candle went flying.

And then—then—Tanya grabbed his penis.

I wish I could unsee it.

A full, determined grip. Like a woman grabbing a microphone at karaoke, except the song was pain and humiliation.

“OH MY GOD!” Kyle howled, face contorting like someone just read him a Yelp review of his soul. “I SUBMIT! I SUBMIT!”

“Too late,” Tanya hissed.

And then she slapped him. On the butt. Hard. Like a medieval punishment. A victorious, echoing thwack that sent Muffin fleeing under the couch and me back into the bathroom whispering “I am not emotionally equipped for this” into the towel rack.

Tanya stood up, panting triumphantly, her hair a lion’s mane of chaotic glory. “And that, Kyle, is why my butt wins. Forever.”

Kyle was curled up on the floor, one hand on his junk, eyes filled with the quiet horror of a man who has just seen his entire life flash before his butt.

“I think… I tasted… my soul leave my body,” he gasped.

“Good,” Tanya said, grabbing the wine off the counter and drinking it like she’d just won a gladiator match. “Now you know what dominance smells like.”

“Lavender and rage,” he whimpered.

I emerged from the bathroom slowly, like a hostage. “Are you two INSANE?”

Tanya smiled. “He started it.”

Kyle coughed. “I definitely didn’t think it would go there.”

“You wafted farts at me yesterday,” she replied. “You had this coming.”

“I need ice,” Kyle muttered, crawling toward the freezer.

“You need Jesus,” I muttered.

Tanya plopped on the couch, crossed her legs like a smug, battle-hardened empress, and held up the wine.

“Now,” she said, “can someone please tell me what this majestic moron is actually doing here? Because I still haven’t gotten a straight answer and I deserve answers after what I just touched.”

Kyle, from the floor, groaned. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”

And he did.

With one ice pack to the groin and one hand over his heart, Kyle confessed the truth.

And it was way dumber than I expected.

But that’s the next part.

One Final (and Very Naked) Twist

So there we were: me standing in the kitchen gripping a coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth, Kyle on the couch with an ice pack on his crotch and the emotional scarring of a man who had just been butt-slapped into submission, and Tanya lounging triumphantly nearby, sipping wine and humming what sounded like a victory song from Mortal Kombat.

The ferret, Muffin, was curled on top of the toaster like a weird, twitchy bread loaf.

Kyle cleared his throat. “Okay. So. The truth.”

We all turned toward him.

He took a deep breath and looked genuinely—genuinely—emotional. “I didn’t just show up because of Sharon’s text. That part was real, but the reason I jumped on the opportunity was… well... I wanted to find my birth mother.”

Tanya and I both blinked in unison.

“What?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’ve been searching for years. All I knew was that she lived somewhere in this neighborhood, that she was a nudist, and that she used to host naked drum circles in the ‘90s under the name ‘Star Anise.’”

Tanya choked on her wine.

“You’re telling me,” I said slowly, “that you came here hoping my neighbor was your long-lost nudist mother?”

“She still might be,” he said. “I’ve emailed her twice. I’m waiting on a response.”

“She’s on a silent retreat in Sedona,” I said, rubbing my temples. “You broke into my house to emotionally camp out next door.”

“Exactly,” Kyle said, completely sincere. “I just… needed to be close.”

Tanya blinked. “You know what? That’s both the dumbest and most wholesome thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I get that a lot,” Kyle said proudly, still icing his nether region.

And then the doorbell rang.

We all froze.

Muffin made a noise like a kazoo with anxiety.

I looked at Kyle. “Are you expecting someone?”

He shook his head.

I walked to the door, still nude, still exhausted, and opened it just a crack—because after this week, I no longer open anything wide.

Standing there was a woman.

Naked.

Holding a baking dish.

“Hi,” she said. “Is this the naked house with the weird Craigslist guy?”

I opened the door wider, completely numb to shame at this point. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

She smiled. “I’m Dusty. I met Kyle online. He said this was a communal nudist household and that I could crash here for a few days. I brought vegan lasagna.”

Kyle leapt up from the couch like his testicles had never been assaulted. “DUSTY?!”

She waved. “Hi, babe!”

Tanya looked at me.

I looked at Tanya.

Muffin pooped on the rug.

“YOU INVITED ANOTHER NAKED PERSON HERE?” I shrieked.

Kyle looked guilty. “Well, technically, I told her she might be welcome, depending on the vibe.”

“The vibe is me burying your phone in the backyard.”

Dusty walked in like she’d lived there for years, set the lasagna on the counter, and looked around. “This place is so homey! I love the energy.”

Tanya, wine in hand, stared at her. “I will fight you too. Don’t test me.”

Dusty smiled warmly. “We’re all friends here.”

“I grabbed him,” Tanya said, pointing at Kyle’s crotch. “Just so you know what I’m capable of.”

Kyle turned to me, hopeful. “She could take the guest corner. She’s very quiet. She’s only doing tantric vocal training in the mornings.”

I stared at the ceiling. “This is how cult documentaries start.”

Muffin tried to climb the lasagna dish.

Dusty clapped her hands. “This is so exciting! A house of naked spiritual warriors!”

“I’m not a spiritual warrior,” I muttered. “I’m a woman who needs a new couch and a restraining order template.”

Kyle beamed. “Isn’t this beautiful? Look at what we’ve built together.”

Tanya threw her head back and laughed. “This is a disaster, and I love it.”

And in that moment, standing in my kitchen, naked, surrounded by chaos, wine, tofu farts, and an increasingly suspicious ferret, I realized something.

This wasn’t a house anymore.

It was a nudist sitcom pilot episode from hell.

And I was the main character.

Again.

Kyle, ever the optimist, had somehow turned my living room into a “communal grounding zone.” Which in non-insane terms meant he laid out a yoga mat, tossed down a couple pillows, and invited Dusty and me to “reconnect with Mother Earth through horizontal nudity.”

So there I was. Naked. Face down on my own rug. Next to a man I never asked for and a woman who brought vegan lasagna like it was some kind of edible peace treaty. My cheek was pressed into the carpet, which smelled vaguely like incense and trauma. Dusty was humming. Kyle was breathing like a tantric walrus.

And Tanya?

Tanya had snapped.

She stood above us like a chaos goddess, half-drunk, kimono open, wine glass in one hand, and a manic gleam in her eye. I should’ve known something was coming when she started stretching her arms like a warm-up act.

Then I felt it.

SLAP.

Right on my left butt cheek.

“OH MY GOD,” I yelled into the floor.

SLAP-SLAP.

That one hit Kyle. He yelped.

Dusty giggled. “Ooo, percussion!”

SLAP.

Me again.

I twisted my head sideways just in time to see Tanya standing over us like a deranged drummer at a nudist concert. Her wine glass was now on the coffee table. She was using both hands.

SLAP-SLAP-SLAP.

“One cheek, two cheek, red cheek, blue cheek!” she sang.

SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP.

“This one’s squishy, this one’s tight, this one farted in the night!”

“TANYA!” I shouted, voice muffled against the rug.

But she was unstoppable. Naked. Glorious. Cackling like a witch who’d just discovered jazz.

SLAP.

Dusty squealed in delight. “This is so freeing!”

“Is this a cult?” Kyle whispered.

“Yes,” I replied. “And Tanya’s the leader.”

“Get ready for the big finish!” Tanya shouted.

SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!

She slapped all three of us in a chaotic rhythm that could only be described as “deranged nudist tribal fusion.” Then, with one final, thunderous WHAP, she threw her arms in the air and screamed, “AND THAT’S HOW YOU END A DRUM CIRCLE, BITCHES!”

Silence fell.

Kyle’s face was buried in a pillow.

Dusty was breathless.

I was face-down, vibrating with rage, disbelief, and the faint tingle of butt percussion.

Tanya sat on the ottoman, panting, flushed, triumphant.

And somehow, we all started laughing.

It was unhinged. It was feral. It was naked madness.

And it was, undeniably… home.

“All right, my little butt bongos,” she said, “let’s take this home.”

She cracked her knuckles, grabbed another swig of wine, and began slapping our behinds in perfect, unholy rhythm.

Then she started to sing.

And I will never—ever—get these lyrics out of my head:

🎵
“Booty one, booty two,
Got a left cheek, got a right for you.
Tap it once, tap it twice,
Kyle’s butt’s firm but mine’s still nice.

Kristin’s tense, Dusty’s loose,
Somebody’s butt just cooked couscous.
Drop it low, raise it high,
Don’t clench now, or you might cry.

Spank that bass, slap that beat,
We’re making music with our meat.
No pants, no shame, no sin,
The drumline starts where cheeks begin!” 🎵

SLAP-SLAP. SLAP. SLAP-SLAP.

She finished the last line with a synchronized double-whack that echoed through the house like the sound of dignity dying in surround sound.

Silence.

Dusty let out a soft, tearful giggle.

Kyle whispered, “That was… poetic.”

I just groaned into the rug and muttered, “I am going to need new friends. And also a priest.”

Tanya bowed.

“Thank you,” she said. “That one’s called ‘Symphony in Crack Major.’”

And that was the end.