A License For Sex

I don't know what made me do it. All I had intended was to buy a limited nudist license so I could sail my boat in my birthday suit. But the petite young blond smiled at me, and kept asking questions and making suggestions until I had signed up for a full exhibitionist license.

I knew my taxes would increase, but signed my name anyway. A person only lives one life, anyway. The cute blond sent me up two floors, where to my dismay, I was poked and prodded by an old grumpy doctor. He pronounced me in good health, implanted an enhanced STD wafer under my skin, the new ViagraII implant in my cock ("if you were 18, you'd need it," he said), and chemically engraved a one-year tattoo on my left chest. I admired the fancy green "E" overlaid by the number 000114 on my skin. Even the nudist license was new, and I might be one of a handful of exhibitionists in the city. Or maybe the first.

The Doc shoved the paperwork into my hands and said, "You have two choices: Get dressed or leave naked." And he walked out of the room.