Get Naked the Game Show

 I have a really new story for you today that I'm surprised that nobody has ever thought of before genuinely, which is about two people who desperately need to make rent money go on a cheesy game show in which you have to get naked in order to win the show, and naturally they do. So I hope you enjoy this naked game show concept, I wouldn't be surprised if sometimes 10 years from now something like this actually is on television, and I just want to keep in mind that I thought of it first!

Get Naked the Game Show
The TV remote had been broken for three weeks, so Mark flipped channels the old-fashioned way—by stabbing the buttons with his thumb. "We should just throw this piece of shit out," he muttered, jamming his knee into the coffee table as he leaned forward.
    Mandy snorted from the couch, tossing a stale pretzel at him. "With what money? Last I checked, ramen doesn’t buy new TVs." She kicked her feet up on the armrest, her socked toes wiggling in front of the screen.
    A flicker of neon lights caught Mark’s attention as he landed on some garish game show. A host in a sequined blazer grinned at the camera. *"Welcome back to* Get Naked! *Where dignity goes to die and wallets get fat!"* Contestants—some grinning, some visibly nauseous—stood in matching mesh bodysuits under blinding studio lights.
    Mandy choked on her pretzel. "Jesus Christ, they’re actually doing this?" She grabbed the remote from Mark’s limp hand. "Wait, wait—they’re *paying* these people?" A graphic flashed on screen: *$50,000 grand prize!*
    Mark rubbed his temple. "Yeah, if you don’t mind America seeing your dick." One contestant—a lanky guy with bad posture—was already down to his boxers, his knees visibly shaking as he missed a question about 18th-century French architecture. The audience howled.
    On screen, the sequined host sauntered up to a red-faced woman in nothing but a bra and fishnets. Her hands kept darting up to cover herself, then jerking back down as if remembering the rules. "Tell me, Denise," the host purred, "what’s the capital of Botswana?"
    Mandy flicked the channel off with a disgusted noise. "We’re *not* that desperate." But the silence stretched too long after she said it. Mark’s knee bounced. The radiator hissed. A cockroach skittered across the linoleum—their third roommate, as Mandy liked to call it.
    She sighed, toes curling against the couch arm. "Okay. Hypothetically. How bad could it be?" Mark snorted, but his eyes flicked to the eviction notice taped to the fridge. The paper’s edges were soft from being handled.
    "You ever seen *me* naked?" Mandy continued, voice too light. "That’s a horror show they’d pay *us* to keep off air." She laughed, but it came out jagged. They both knew she was lying—they’d shared a bathroom for six months, thin walls revealing more than intended. Mark drummed his fingers on the remote.
    "Bet they’d reject us on principle," he muttered. "Too depressing. You think America wants to see two broke-ass millennials with student loan tan lines?" He yanked his sweatshirt sleeve up to reveal the pale stripe where his watch used to be—pawned last winter.
    Mandy grabbed his wrist, thumb pressing into the vulnerable skin there. "They’d *love* that. ‘Watch these debt-ridden idiots humiliate themselves! Will they make rent or die trying?’" Her grin was all teeth. The radiator groaned again, shuddering like it might give out. Somewhere in the walls, the roach colony celebrated.
    Mark stared at the darkened TV screen. His reflection was blurred at the edges—his own face looking back at him like a stranger. "We wouldn’t even be the saddest ones there," he said quietly. The game show audience’s laughter still echoed in his skull. He imagined Denise from Botswana hyperventilating backstage, clutching a folded towel to her chest while producers shouted about lighting adjustments.
    Mandy’s socked foot nudged his thigh. "Remember that guy who cried during the spelling bee? The one who pissed himself on national television?" She shuddered. "At least we’d *choose* to be there." The unspoken *unlike everything else* hung between them. The loans they’d signed at 18. The lease they’d scribbled their names on while the landlord tapped his watch.
    The cockroach reappeared, antennae twitching as it scaled the fridge door—right over the eviction notice. Mark watched its progress. "We’d have to shave," he said suddenly. "They’d make us. For ‘hygiene standards’ or whatever." Mandy burst out laughing, sharp and startled, and the sound loosened something in his chest. "Fuck," he wheezed, "can you imagine? Me bent over in the shower with a rusty razor—"
    "Stop," Mandy gasped, kicking him weakly. But her laughter died when another roach skittered across her ankle. She jerked upright, shaking her leg violently. "Goddammit." They both stared at the fridge. The notice’s due date glared back in bold. Mark exhaled through his nose, imagining sequins itching his neck under hot lights.
    Mandy’s fingers dug into the couch cushion. "Bet they’d edit me to look insane," she muttered. "Cut all my smart answers, just leave the nervous sweating." She mimicked a producer’s voice: *‘More pit stains, less commentary on wealth inequality!’*
    Mark snorted, but his palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans. The roach had reached the notice’s edge, antennae tracing the dollar amount they owed. *Fifty grand would cover it.* The math was stupidly simple. He pictured some hedge fund asshole watching from his penthouse, sipping scotch as Mark missed a question about tax brackets.
    Mandy’s knee knocked against his. "Still think we’d be rejected?" she asked softly. The radiator clicked off. The apartment held its breath.
    Mark shrugged, fingers drumming the remote. "Smartest people I know." His smirk was crooked. "Remember when you aced that poli-sci final hungover? While that frat guy puked in the trash can?"
    "While *you* puked in the trash can," Mandy corrected, grinning. "And you still got a B-plus." She flicked a pretzel salt grain off her thigh. "Bet you know how many wives Henry VIII beheaded. Capital of Botswana? Easy. But ask me to name one bill in our fucking Senate and I’d—" She mimed stripping off a shirt, then gagged. "Christ. Imagine the categories. ‘Name three things that *aren’t* in your bank account!’"
    Mark barked a laugh. "‘What’s the interest rate on your private loans?’ *Buzzer sounds.* ‘Sorry, that was a trick question—they’re variable!’" He mimed yanking off a sock with tragic flourish. The cockroach on the fridge twitched its antennae, as if judging them.
    Mandy’s phone buzzed. She flipped it open—a loan servicer email. She tossed it onto the coffee table like it burned. "Photos first," she decided suddenly. "Let’s take some real *winner* shots. You got that old webcam with the broken mic?" 
    Mark dug through the junk drawer, sending takeout menus fluttering. The webcam’s cord was frayed, duct tape holding the lens in place. Mandy snorted when he held it up. "Perfect. They’ll think we’re filming a snuff film." She dragged him into the bathroom where the lighting was "fluorescent nightmare" harsh. 
    They took turns posing—Mark with his peeling sunburn, Mandy purposefully cross-eyed with her unwashed hair in a tornado bun. The flash made their skin look corpse-gray. "I look like a Victorian child haunting a latrine," Mark wheezed, examining the shot where his zit gleamed like a beacon.
    Mandy wiped under her eyes, smudging her dark circles further. "They’ll assume we’re meth heads. Or vampires." She paused. "Or meth-head vampires." She tilted the camera down for a full-body shot of her ratty sweatpants and mismatched socks. "No way they air this. We’d depress the audience."
    Mark leaned in to inspect the screen. "Unless..." He zoomed in on Mandy’s ankle where a roach had just ambled into frame. "Unless we lean into it. ‘Meet Mark and Mandy! They’ll be stripping for rent money *and* fumigation services!’" 
    The bathroom light buzzed overhead. Their reflections in the mirror looked hollowed out. Mandy’s thumb hovered over the upload button. "What’s the worst that happens?" she murmured. The webcam’s red light blinked like a warning. 
    In the silence, the roach crawled onto the sink’s edge. Mandy didn’t flinch.
She flicked the webcam’s shutter button like dropping a mic—their ghastly portraits uploaded somewhere into the abyss of the game show’s website. “Congrats, corporate overlords,” she announced to the pixelated void. “You just got scammed by two idiots with nothing left to lose.” Mark snorted into his elbow, watching as she typed *References: See attached eviction notice* in the application’s “special skills” field.
    They erased their browsing history like criminals.
    For three days, they pretended it never happened. Mandy took to tossing the remote behind the couch cushions—“accidentally”—whenever *Get Naked!* reruns flickered on. But by Thursday, Mark caught her elbow-deep in a Wikipedia rabbit hole about Botswana’s mineral exports. “Hypothetical,” she muttered, slamming her laptop shut. The fridge shuddered in agreement.
    The eviction notice’s deadline bled closer. They ate ramen standing up, backs to the fridge, as if ignoring the date would dissolve the ink. But every night at 9 PM, like clockwork, one of them would “casually” flip to Channel 47. They studied the patterns: the way the host lingered on contestants with good bone structure, how the easy questions always came after the first clothing forfeit. Mandy memorized European capitals between shifts at the bodega; Mark quizzed himself on Renaissance painters during showers, the rusty razor abandoned on the tub’s edge.
    “It’s research,” Mark insisted when Mandy caught him watching a highlight reel of past winners. The screen froze on some poor bastard in nothing but tube socks, grinning through tears as he accepted a giant novelty check. Mandy chewed her thumbnail. “We’d never make it to the final round,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. The tube sock guy’s check was larger than their combined debt.
    By the fifth night, they’d developed a drinking game—one shot every time a contestant’s voice cracked on air. They were shitfaced by the second commercial break. “They’re *editing* the nervous pissing,” Mark slurred, pointing at a woman whose smile didn’t reach her eyes as she stripped to her Spanx. Mandy nodded sagely. “Like war propaganda. Cut the screams, leave the hero shots.” They toasted to Denise from Botswana, wherever she was.
    The show’s gaudy set began haunting Mark’s dreams—sequins reflecting studio lights like a funhouse mirror of late-stage capitalism. He woke sweating, imagining Mandy in mesh bodysuit, flubbing a question about healthcare reform. “We’re not *them*,” she’d say each morning, dumping cold coffee grounds into the sink. But the line blurred when they dissected strategies: *Feign confidence during the striptease, cry during the interview—America loves vulnerability with a side of tits.*
    One midnight, drunk on boxed wine and desperation, they roleplayed their imaginary audition. Mark draped a moth-eaten towel over his shoulders like a cape. “Contestant #387,” he announced, “a failed poet with *three* defaulted loans!” Mandy curtsied in sweat-stained pajamas. “And his *ex*-roommate, surviving on expired yogurt and spite!” They collapsed laughing, but the silence afterward was thick with something unspoken. The roaches watched from the walls.
    Then the email arrived. Mandy’s choked gasp woke Mark—her phone screen cast a blue glow on her stunned face. He knew before she spoke. “They want us,” she whispered. “*Next week.*” The radiator hissed. Somewhere, Denise from Botswana was probably still scrubbing herself raw in a shower. Mark reached for Mandy’s hand. Her fingers were ice. “We don’t have to—” he started. The fridge chose that moment to shudder violently, shaking the eviction notice loose. It fluttered to the floor between them, face-up. The numbers glared. Mandy exhaled. “Yeah,” she said. “We do.”
    The studio smelled like sweat and hairspray. A bored PA shoved clipboards at them—waivers thicker than their lease agreement. “Section 12-C,” the PA droned, pointing. “Liability if you piss yourself on air. Section 34-F: full nudity clause, no digital alterations.” Mandy’s pen hovered. Mark skimmed the fine print: *Contestant acknowledges that genitalia will be visible to studio audience and home viewers.* His stomach lurched. The PA smirked. “You can still back out.” Behind them, a contestant in sequined pasties hyperventilated into a paper bag. Mandy signed with a flourish so violent it tore the paper.  
    Backstage, they were herded into dressing rooms the size of broom closets. Mark’s “outfit” consisted of mesh briefs that dug into his hips. “Jesus,” Mandy muttered through the thin wall, “these fishnets are basically *cheese graters*.” Someone shouted about mic checks. Mark pressed his forehead to the cool mirror. This was happening. America would see his dick. *Unless*, whispered a traitorous thought, *you lose before that*. He imagined freezing up on some question about Baroque composers, shuffling offstage in just these cursed mesh undies while the audience howled. Mandy’s voice cut through his spiral: “If we go out, we go out *swinging*.” Her knuckles rapped against the wall—three sharp taps. Their old dorm signal. *I’m here.* 
    A knock startled them. “Five minutes!” The sequined host’s voice boomed from a monitor overhead: “*Next up—meet our newest contestants ready to strip for cash!*” The audience whooped. Mandy’s reflection grinned, all teeth. “Showtime.” Mark’s knees threatened mutiny. What if they bombed? What if they were just another cautionary tale—two broke idiots who humiliated themselves for *almost* enough money? The monitor cut to a close-up of Denise’s tear-streaked face from last season, mid-striptease. Mandy caught his eye in the mirror. “Fuck ‘almost,’” she said. The light above them flickered like a starting pistol.
    The stage smelled like bleach and adrenaline. Mark’s bare feet stuck to the floor—some poor bastard’s sweat? Mandy’s shoulder pressed against his, her fishnets snagging on his thigh. The host’s sequined blazer threw disco-ball glare into their eyes. The audience roared. The mic on Mandy’s collar picked up her shaky exhale. Mark’s vision tunneled—just the podium, the buzzer, Mandy’s chipped nail polish gripping the edge. The host’s grin widened. “Welcome to *Get Naked! It's the game show where you win by losing, clothing that is!*” A single bead of sweat slid down Mark’s spine. He didn’t dare turn his head, but his pinky hooked around Mandy’s. A silent *Go down swinging.*
    The first question flashed on screen: *What’s the primary export of Botswana?* Mark’s lungs unlocked. Mandy’s laugh punched through the studio lights. She slammed the buzzer so hard the host flinched. “Diamonds,” she announced, loud enough to drown the audience’s murmurs. The host blinked. “Correct.” Mark exhaled. No forfeit—yet. The crowd’s disappointment was palpable. Mandy shot him a look: *Told you Wikipedia would save our asses.* The next question loomed. Mark’s pulse hammered in his throat. The studio lights burned hotter. Somewhere beyond the glare, America waited to see them crack.
    The host leaned in, reveling in their hesitation. “Now for our *favorite* category—” The screen changed. *Name three things currently in your bank account.* The audience howled. Mark’s stomach dropped. Mandy’s fingers dug into his wrist. The buzzer taunted them. The host’s teeth glinted. “Tick-tock, contestants.” The studio held its breath.
    Mark slammed his palm down. The sound cracked like a gunshot. “Air,” he spat. The host blinked. Mark continued, voice steady—almost smug. “Dust. And a single, tragic nickel from 2007.” The silence was volcanic. Then—laughter. Not cruel, but startled, almost admiring. The host gaped. Mandy leaned into the mic, sweet as poison: “*Technically* the nickel’s in the jar by the laundry pile, but—” She shrugged, sending the audience into fresh hysterics. The host recovered, clapping like a seal. “*Correct!*” he crowed, as if they’d pulled a rabbit from a hat instead of their dignity from a dumpster.
    Across the stage, another couple fumbled their question. The woman—blonde, glossed lips trembling—whispered, “I, um. Forgot the Magna Carta year?” Her partner groaned. The host sighed, waving a hand. “Strip.” The audience roared approval as they peeled off belts, then socks. Mark caught Mandy’s eye. The blonde was crying in perfect, camera-ready pearls. Mandy mouthed: *We’re not them.* But the studio lights baked the thought away.
    The next question flashed: *Name a U.S. President who didn’t own slaves.* Mandy’s finger hovered. Mark saw the trap—too easy. The host wanted them complacent. He grabbed her wrist. “Wait.” The clock ticked. The audience jeered. The blonde couple, now down to undershirts, glared like they’d cheated. Mark exhaled. “Adams,” he said—too late. The buzzer blared. The host’s grin turned carnivorous. “Too slow! You know what that means…” The audience chanted: *STRIP! STRIP!*
    Mandy’s sock hit the floor first. Then Mark’s—his big toe poking through the hole like a periscope. The host fake-gagged. “Folks, we’ve got a *fashion emergency*!” The laughter was a living thing, crawling up Mark’s spine. Mandy kicked her other sock at the host’s sequined shin. “Keep it,” she deadpanned. “Looks like *you* shop at the same thrift store.” The crowd lost it. The host’s smile froze. Behind them, the blonde couple whispered, horrified.
    The scoreboard updated. They were tied—one forfeit each. The next question loomed. Mark’s pulse hammered in his teeth. The studio smelled like hot metal and cheap cologne. Mandy’s pinky brushed his. *Still swinging.*
    The host sauntered over, mic grazing their chins. “So, Mark and Mandy—” His grin was all veneers. “What brings two *lovely* people like you to our little show?” The audience tittered. The blonde couple—now down to matching polka-dot bras—leaned in, hungry for schadenfreude.
    Mandy grabbed the mic. “Eviction notice,” she said, crisp as a gunshot. The laughter died. Mark watched the host’s smile twitch. “Also, capitalism.” He took the mic, shrugging. “Turns out philosophy degrees don’t pay rent.” The silence was thicker than the studio’s foundation makeup. Somewhere in the audience, a nervous cough.
    The blonde—*Jessica*, according to her nametag—sniffed. “We’re here for *adventure*.” Her partner nodded vigorously. “And exposure! I’m an *artist*—” Mandy cut him off. “Yeah, we can see your *exposure*.” The crowd erupted. Jessica’s cheeks flamed beneath her contour.
    The host recovered, clapping. “*Moving on!*” The screen flashed: *What’s the average interest rate on private student loans?* Mark’s stomach dropped. Mandy’s knuckles whitened on the buzzer. Jessica squealed, slapping hers first. “Six percent!” she chirped. The host beamed. “Correct!”
    Mark exhaled. A trap—rates were higher now. Jessica preened, adjusting her bra straps like they were laurels. The host turned to them. “Your answer?” Mandy leaned into the mic. “*Predatory.*” The studio froze. The host’s eyelid twitched. “That’s… not a number.”
    Mark shrugged. “Neither is our bank balance.” The audience howled. The host’s smile looked stapled on. “*Incorrect!* Strip.” Mandy’s sweatshirt hit the floor—her tank top beneath sporting a faded *EAT THE RICH* print. The blonde gasped. The host’s mic picked up his whispered *Jesus Christ*.
    Next question: *Name one bill passed by the current Senate.* Jessica buzzed instantly. “The… Patriot Act?” The host sighed. “2001, Jessica.” Mark didn’t wait. “*None.*” The silence was atomic.
    The host’s teeth ground audibly. “*Technically* correct.” The audience lost their minds. Jessica’s polka-dot bra joined the pile. She was crying now—streaky, Instagram-perfect tears. Mandy smirked. *Not them.*
    The final question loomed. The host’s voice dropped to a purr. “*Who’s* really to blame for your… situation?” The screen blinked: *A) Laziness B) Bad luck C) The system*.
    Mark and Mandy lunged for the buzzer at once. The studio held its breath.
    “C,” Mandy snarled, louder than necessary—like she was answering for the eviction notice, the roaches, the goddamn *interest rates*. The host’s grin faltered. The screen flashed green. *CORRECT.* The audience erupted. Somewhere, Jessica whimpered in her rhinestone thong.
    Then the lights dimmed. A trapdoor hissed open onstage, revealing a garish obstacle course—inflated balance beams, spinning platforms, a pit of what looked like *actual pudding*. The host whirled, sequins catching the light. “*Congrats, contestants!*” he crowed. “Time for our *challenge round*!” The crowd chanted: *NAKED! NAKED!*
    Mandy’s fingers dug into Mark’s wrist. Her tank top was already halfway off, the *EAT THE RICH* slogan crumpled in her fist. His own hands shook as he fumbled with his belt. The studio lights burned—suddenly every pore, every scar *visible*. The audience’s murmurs crescendoed: *Oh my god are they really—*
    Mark’s jeans hit the floor. Someone wolf-whistled. Mandy’s bra followed—a defiant *snap* of elastic. The host’s mic picked up his sharp inhale. “*Folks, we’ve got a* historic *moment here!*” Mark’s briefs pooled at his ankles. The air was freezing. Mandy’s ragged laugh cut through the silence. “Told you we’d depress them,” she muttered.
    The obstacle course loomed, suddenly *monumental*. The pudding pit bubbled obscenely. Mark’s bare feet stuck to the floor—part sweat, part sheer terror. Mandy’s shoulder pressed against his, her ribs visibly trembling. The audience’s phones glowed like fireflies in the dark.
    “*On your marks…*” the host trilled.
    Mark exhaled. They were here. America could see his *everything*. And yet—Jessica was sobbing into her hands, her partner’s boxers sporting a *Live Laugh Love* print. Mandy’s pinky hooked around his.
    The buzzer screamed.
    They launched forward—skin against neon rubber, the pudding pit swallowing Mark’s shriek whole. Mandy vaulted over a spinning platform, *completely* airborne for one glorious second, the studio lights catching the stretch marks on her thighs like battle scars. The crowd *lost it*.
    Mark belly-flopped onto an inflatable ramp. His dignity was *gone*, but Mandy was *winning*—bare ass gleaming as she scaled the final wall. He hauled himself up, pudding dripping from his elbows.
    The host’s microphone clicked. “*And the winners are…*”
    Mandy’s hand locked around Mark’s wrist—*hard*. Her pulse rabbited against his palm. The spotlight burned.
    The audience held its breath.
    Mark's bare toes curled against the stage's sticky floor as the final-round buzzer blared—a sound like a dentist's drill made flesh. The studio lights had somehow gotten hotter, baking his exposed skin into something approximating medium-rare. Mandy's elbow dug into his ribs, her sweat-slick shoulder pressed against his. The *EAT THE RICH* tank top lay discarded somewhere in the pudding pit, along with whatever remained of their dignity.
    The host sauntered forward, sequins winking. His mic hovered dangerously close to Mark's pelvis. "Now for our *special* lightning round!" His grin was all veneers. "Where our *winners* prove they've got more than just... guts." The audience tittered. Mandy's exhale hitched—Mark felt the tremor where their hips nearly touched. Behind them, Jessica sniffled into her partner's *Live Laugh Love* boxers, now pudding-streaked.
    The screen flashed: *FIRST QUESTION*. The host's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mark. On a scale of one to ten..." He paused for dramatic effect. The studio lights dimmed. "*How awkward is it to discuss your childhood trauma while erect?*"
    The laughter was nuclear. Mark's knees nearly buckled. Somewhere in the front row, an elderly woman fanned herself with a *Get Naked!* program. Mandy's fingernails—still chipped, still digging into his wrist—were the only thing tethering him to Earth.
    "Eleven," Mark croaked. His voice cracked like a middle schooler's. The audience *howled*. The host clutched his chest like this was the Second Coming of Comedy. Mandy's shoulder shook—with rage or laughter, Mark couldn't tell.
    The screen changed. *Mandy: Who would you rather be right now—you, or the roach in your apartment?* The host's smirk widened. "And remember, folks—*honesty* wins the big bucks!"
    Mandy snatched the mic. The sound of feedback screeched through the studio. "The roach," she spat. "At least it's got *housing*." The audience's laughter died mid-breath. The host's smile froze. Mark watched a single bead of sweat slide down his jawline and land—with tragic precision—directly on his left nipple.
    The screen flickered. *FINAL QUESTION*. The host inhaled sharply. The studio lights brightened to interrogation-level glare. "*What*," the host purred, "*will you spend the money on first?*"
    Silence. The kind that came before avalanches. Mark's throat clicked. Mandy's fingers found his—bare, trembling, *alive*. The audience leaned forward.
    "Raid," they said in unison.
    Somewhere offstage, a producer facepalmed so hard it echoed.
    The shower water hit Mark’s bare shoulders like a thousand icy needles—punishment for being the first contestant in *Get Naked!* history to actually answer the final question honestly. Behind the frosted glass, the audience's silhouettes were a writhing mass of pointing fingers and phone flashes. Mandy’s knee jabbed his thigh as she elbowed for space under the pathetic spray. “Move,” she hissed, “I’ve got pudding in places pudding should *never* be.” The water sluiced pinkish-brown down the drain. Somewhere in the pipes, Mark was pretty sure Denise from Botswana was still sobbing.
    A stagehand tossed them matching *Get Naked!* branded towels—each roughly the size of a postage stamp. Mandy’s snort echoed off the tiles. “Is this a towel or a *threat*?” The audience whooped as she attempted to wrap it around herself, succeeding only in highlighting the exact curve of her left ass cheek. Mark’s attempt fared worse—the terrycloth barely grazed his hipbone before surrendering. The host’s delighted cackle crackled through the overhead speakers: “*Folks, we’re witnessing history! Never before has so much depression been so* exposed!”
    Mandy’s blush wasn’t the cute, peach-fuzz kind—it was full-body, nuclear, radiating heat like a malfunctioning radiator. Mark watched a droplet zigzag down her spine and vanish somewhere his brain refused to follow. His own ears burned. The studio lights had turned the shower into a terrarium—two debt-ridden specimens pinned under glass. Someone in the front row wolf-whistled. Mandy flipped them off with a hand still streaked with pudding.
    The host’s sequined shadow loomed beyond the steam. “*And now*, our winners will face their *final challenge*!” A trapdoor hissed open—revealing a catwalk lined with industrial fans. Mark’s stomach dropped. Mandy’s fingers dug into his forearm, her whisper venomous: “If those fans blow our towels off, I *will* commit homicide on live television.”
    The audience’s chanting crescendoed: *STRIP! STRIP!* The host’s teeth gleamed. Somewhere in the rafters, a roach scuttled across a *Get Naked!* banner—the only creature in the building with its dignity intact.
    Mark’s towel flapped like a surrender flag as the first gust hit. Mandy’s grip on hers was heroic, futile—one violent *whoosh* and it was airborne, snagging on a camera lens. The goosebumps rose on her thighs in real time, pale and raised as braille. The studio lights caught every tremor.
    Mark’s own towel went gracefully—fluttering down to drape over a producer’s head like a sad ghost. The audience gasped in unison. His dick, *traitorous*, twitched visibly at the sight of Mandy’s bare hipbone. The host’s delighted shriek pierced the noise: *“Folks, we’ve got a LIVE ONE!”* A spotlight swung to highlight Mark’s predicament. Mandy’s eyes flicked down, then back up to his horrified face. Her mouth twitched. “Really?” she muttered. “*Now?*”
    The fans roared louder. Their skin puckered in unison. The host’s mic hovered near Mark’s navel. “Wave to your fans, champs!” Mandy’s middle finger was halfway up before she caught herself, twisting it into a stiff royal wave. Mark mirrored her, elbows locked, his other hand cupped *strategically* over his groin. The audience howled. Jessica fainted cleanly into the pudding pit.
    Backstage, the PA handed them their winnings—a novelty check already warping from Mandy’s death grip. The host’s voice echoed down the hall: *“Tune in next week when our contestants will—”* Mark tuned out, focusing on the ceiling’s water stain. It looked like Abraham Lincoln.
    Mandy’s shoulder pressed against his, warm and solid. “Fifty grand,” she whispered. The eviction notice crumpled in her pocket. Mark exhaled. The roaches back home were probably throwing a party.
    The host’s mic squealed. “*Now*, folks, let’s *really* make these winners earn it!” He gestured grandly to the aisles. “High-five *every* audience member—*au naturale*—before those clothes come back on!” The crowd roared. Mandy’s fingernails dug into Mark’s palm. “Christ,” she muttered. “We’re gonna get herpes from a geriatric in row twelve.”
    Mark’s laugh came out strangled. His erection—mortifying, persistent—twitched as he glimpsed Mandy’s bare hip again. She noticed. Her eyebrow arched. “Really?” The host’s sequined blazer threw disco-ball glare onto her smirk. Mark’s ears burned. “Sorry. It’s—reflex.” Mandy snorted. “They *counted* on that.” She stretched, unrepentant, letting the studio lights catch every curve. “Almost flattering. In a fucked-up way.”
    They launched down the aisle—bare feet slapping sticky floors, high-fiving outstretched hands like a demented victory lap. An elderly man’s dentures clicked as he grinned up at them. “Atta kids!” Mandy’s palm met his with a wet smack. Mark’s thighs stuck together with sweat and residual pudding. A teenager’s iPhone flash illuminated Mandy’s stretch marks in brutal HD. She didn’t flinch.
    Halfway through row five, the absurdity hit. Mark’s giggle bubbled up first—hysterical, unstoppable. Mandy’s shoulders shook. By row seven, they were gasping, tears streaking their cheeks as they high-fived a bewildered soccer mom. The audience’s cheers turned confused. The host’s smile faltered.
    Backstage, clutching their clothes, Mark wheezed: “We just—*lap danced*—for—” Mandy collapsed against him, laughter vibrating through his chest. “For *landlords*,” she finished. Their knees gave out simultaneously. The floor was icy against Mark’s bare ass. Mandy’s breath hit his collarbone—warm, alive. The dressing room smelled like stale popcorn and industrial cleaner.
    Mark traced the eviction notice’s outline through Mandy’s jeans. Her fingers found his—sticky with strangers’ sweat, tangled together in the pile of discarded *Get Naked!* branded towels. The novelty check lay at their feet, the ink already smearing.
    Somewhere beyond the door, Jessica sobbed into a producer’s shoulder. Mandy’s thumb brushed Mark’s palm. They didn’t move. The roaches, at least, would be impressed.
    The check cleared on Tuesday. By Wednesday, their landlord’s smirk had evaporated along with the eviction notice. They celebrated with takeout eaten directly from the carton—no roaches darting for scraps. “Bet no one we know watches that garbage,” Mark mumbled around a mouthful of lo mein. Mandy nodded, toes curling in clean socks. The TV stayed off.
    Dawn bled through their unwashed windows. Mark’s phone buzzed itself off the nightstand. *37 New Memes*, read the notification. Mandy’s ringtone—a clip of the host screaming *STRIP!*—blared from the shower. By the time they made it to the bodega, the cashier’s grin was a blade. “Hey, it’s the pudding people!” 
    The sidewalk outside their building was a gauntlet. Neighbors leaned from windows, howling. Their super whistled the *Get Naked!* theme. A toddler pointed. Mandy’s grip on the grocery bag turned the plastic translucent. 
    Then—catcalls from across the street. Their college friends, all ten of them, marching in formation like a horny parade. “*STRIP! STRIP! STRIP!*” The chant hit like a sawtooth wave. Mark’s ears burned. Mandy’s exhale fogged in the morning air. 
    One beat. Two. 
    They dropped the groceries in unison. 
    Mark’s sweatshirt hit the pavement. Mandy’s leggings followed—peeled off with a *snap* that sent their friends into apoplexy. She stood there in stolen *Get Naked!* merch and yesterday’s underwear, arms crossed. Mark’s boxers—*Live Laugh Love*, liberated from Jessica’s partner—fluttered in the breeze. 
    Their friends lost it. Someone fainted. A car alarm started. 
    Mandy smirked. “The things people will do for money,” she announced, scooped up the milk, and strode inside. Mark followed, middle finger gleaming in the sunlight. 
    The roaches, wisely, stayed hidden.

This one feels like a pretty obvious thing to do, and I think that the initial thing that inspired this was I was asking grok about TV shows where people get naked for money, and they brought up the idea of that Fear Factor show where the one of the fears that they had to confront was being naked in public on television, and I thought what if they made that into a TV series in and of itself, it's exploitative and lowbrow, but the exact kind of thing that you would see in 21st-century America, where the poor have to degrade themselves in order to make ends meet and to survive in this economy, while rich people can watch this television show from home and watch people humiliate themselves. And yes the contest is really ridiculous, such as wading through pudding, because if you going to make a cheesy exploitative TV show that wants to titillate people you might as well go all out on it, and there are plenty of naked shows on TV such as surviving in the wild naked and naked dating, the fact that we haven't had a specific game show with naked people yet is actually quite surprising when you think about it, but if we ever do, well I thought of it first, so you're welcome! 
    This involves mutual male and female nudity and only ones naked in public.