Naked and Vulnerable

Blog Original Creative Works Production Diary

December 12, 2025 / December 16, 2025 by Mister

I have always loved and dreaded sunshine and warm weather in equal measure. I used to joke about being the Michelle of my friendship group; everyone could be wearing shorts with a vest (or not), while I’d be there in a full tracksuit, completely covered up. But my levity did little to preserve the confidence that long sleeves afforded me when the weather made no sense. 

Body dysmorphia is something that I struggled with for most of my adult life, until I reached about 30 years old. I was always conscious about being slim, but the degree to which I would become distressed over the idea of people seeing my arms that in 2022, on that day when London seemed to be plunged into the devil’s asshole and the mercury hit 40 degrees celsius, I was wearing a long sleeve at work, pretending that I was cool as a cucumber. The reality was that I was sweating like people could see my arms, trying to breathe as slowly as I could to keep my body as calm – and cool – as possible. 

But all that changed in the last couple of years. Promiscuity from my twenties carried a little benefit in that the number of guys who had seen me naked and specifically complimented my arms began to cause real cognitive dissonance in terms of how I perceived my body through other people’s eyes. On the one hand I felt like they were just placating me, but on the other I started to become aware of how dysmorphic my concerns were, and began the task of trying to deconstruct my toxic beliefs and find the confidence (or at least, the indifference) that I needed in order to be able to dress appropriately enough to enjoy the summer heatwaves. 

I began attempting to push myself out of my comfort zone in my attempts to break free of the mental trap that kept me suffering throughout one of my favourite times of year. It started in the bedroom, of course. I stopped turning off the lights before taking my clothes off, I stopped providing disclaimers (‘I’m slim, hope that’s okay’). I started to pretend not to notice how ‘horrible’ my arms were, and found that the compliments I had received before started to feel more real because the compliments kept coming even though I wasn’t pointing at them. 

Eventually, I branched out and started to wear vests and go topless at the beach – in other countries, where I didn’t know anyone who might see me and so wouldn’t have to worry about their opinions lingering in my orbit. Every time I went on holiday somewhere warm I would do it again and find it became less and less frightful and more something that I looked forward to doing on holidays. I had started to experiment with small vests and t-shirts with lower cut sleeves that would hide my biceps. 

And now this summer, for the first time in my adult life, I did what was previously unimaginable: I wore a t-shirt to the first day of Notting Hill Carnival. None of the friends I was with realised what a momentous occasion it was for me, because my insecurities about my body are something I have kept largely private my entire life. But on the second of Carnival, I wore a string vest and was so proud of myself that I couldn’t help but celebrate out loud at once we had returned to my friends’ apartment. 

Every once in a while, two separate threads of the same life meet and intertwine, so allow me to provide some background on what happened next: since I started working (in earnest) on Project CycleBreaker, I’ve known that I want to develop my craft as a performer as well as a writer. I needed to find a style of movement and performance that would facilitate the exploration of more mature and complex themes surrounding queerness, blackness and gender conformity.

Burlesque is the perfect art form for this. Originally referring to satyrical and comedic plays that made light of serious subjects, burlesque gained popularity in America where it transformed over time to become increasingly risqué and sensual. The modern form of burlesque, which is much more strip-tease-focused, became popular in the UK in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. On the evening of the Spring Equinox, I had impulsively applied for a place at the Black Burlesque School. It was in the same week of carnival that I found out that I had been granted a full scholarship (with thanks to Feeld). And so, in February 2026 I will be performing a strip tease in front of a live audience at our graduation show– less than a year after wearing a t-shirt in the British public for the first time in nearly 20 years. Of course, this is mainly in service of developing my craft for my show – reaching this personal milestone is just the icing on the cake.

In my first post about Project CycleBreaker, I explained that over the course of the next year I am going to do things for myself that I previously would have done for unscrupulous and exploitative employers, and whilst no employer has ever succeeded in forcing me to wear their ugly short-sleeved uniforms (without long sleeves underneath), plenty have required me to leave my dignity at the door in order to get by. This is the first test. By viewing burlesque training as a means to an end, without consideration of my doubts and discomfort, I have already begun to feel the required confidence growing to fill the gap between where I am and where I know I am headed.

I’m not saying it’s simple. But as someone who was raised in a household that didn’t recognise his autism, I will say that I am pretty good at masking (ie at putting myself in and through states of being that are uncomfortable or unnatural to me in order to achieve things in society). I can definitely do it for my own development. In reality, I know I’m not sacrificing my dignity, but shame and self-consciousness work together to make it feel that way. But by confronting this false sense of indignity and embracing the only body I’ve ever had, I hope to finally purge the shame that has kept me sweating through the summer for way too long. 

Stolen from the Journal of Tríus, 05/10/2025