Your new exhibitionist licence

I don't know what made me do it.

All I had intended was to buy a limited nudist license so that I could go swimming in the lake and at the pool in my birthday suit. Maybe strip down in the park on hot summer days. You get the idea. I'm certainly comfortable enough with my body that I don't care who sees it.

I guess maybe that last part isn't completely true, given that I ended up going for the full exhibitionist licence. Actually, it probably isn't true at all.

I went to the clinic and checked in for my appointment. I had prepared myself to be interviewed by someone who might be cold and judgemental, or at least clinical. Instead, the petite blonde nurse who did my questionnaire was so friendly, so enthusiastic. She couldn't have been older than 24. Her eyes sparkled as she told me about the possibilities, and her smile was so disarming. The clinic certainly did a brilliant job getting her to brief clients for this procedure: it must practically have been an investment.

After just fifteen minutes I had signed up for the full license, with all of the extras. The cost compared to the basic nudist licence was not small, and I knew my taxes would increase. But I signed my name. A person only lives one life, anyway, and I want mine to be fun!

The cute blonde sent me up two floors. To my dismay, I was poked and prodded by a grumpy doctor, who didn't look a day younger than 75. I didn't much appreciate his brusque manner, or the way he demanded that the procedure be done with me naked. ("If you're going to be showing your bits to everyone, you'd damned better be ready to do it in a doctor's office." I bit my tongue, rather than tell him that he could at least ask nicely.)

At least he was efficient. The procedure may be new, but the equipment for it all is already in place, and he knew his way around it. After he pronounced me in good health, he implanted an enhanced STD wafer under my skin. ("This country's medical services are pressed enough, without having to worry about who you let lick your genitalia when you get yourself excited," the doctor said to me with a scowl.) Then, with a machine like a metal stamp connected to a petrol hose, I was given chemical tattoos at the small of my back and my left inner thigh. The gruff doctor told me that it released medicines and hormones which acted as birth control ("This blasted procedure's bad enough without there being unwanted pregnancies"), as well as enhance my sexual response. ("If you were 16 and had nymphomania, you'd still need it. Lord knows the government'll make it legal to give it to them that age any day now. The perverted slime.")

The tattoos were also bright fuchsia in colour, and served to identify me as a licensed exhibitionist. It had a QR code, and an elongated E overlaid by the number 000114. Even the nudist license was fairly new, but there were only 113 licensed exhibitionists who came before me in the whole country. I might be one of a handful of exhibitionists in the city. Or maybe the first.