Showing Your Stripes and Everything Else

 I have a new story today to end the new year on, it's a story about a man falling in love with an environmental activist who invites him to a rally to save the Tiger that involves streaking naked in public. The story pretty much just involves mutual male and female nudity in public. If you want to watch the videos that inspired this story they are available on YouTube under the title naked runners streak through London zoo and hundreds of streakers run nude to raise money for tigers. Enjoy the story and have a happy and naked new year!

Showing Your Stripes and Everything Else
"Did you seriously just recycle that?" Nathan asked, watching Greta pluck the aluminum can from his trash bin like it had personally offended her. She gave him that look—the one where her eyebrows did that sharp little dip, like she was recalculating his entire moral worth in real time.
    "It's not *just* recycling," she said, shaking the can pointedly. "It's about the entire system of waste we're perpetuating. This could be melted down, repurposed, *actually* used instead of sitting in a landfill leaching toxins for the next five hundred years." She was already peeling off the label with meticulous precision, as if the act alone could reverse climate change.
    Nathan slumped back on the couch, picking at the frayed edge of his sleeve. He liked her intensity, the way her hands moved when she talked about things that mattered—which, to Greta, was everything from plastic straws to prison reform. But he also couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that he was disappointing her just by existing. He didn’t have *causes*. He had a half-finished degree, a Netflix queue longer than his life expectancy, and a vague understanding that he should probably care more than he did.
    "You ever just... *not* think about stuff like that?" he ventured, nudging a pizza box under the coffee table with his foot before she could see it. Greta paused mid-peel, her expression shifting into something dangerously close to pity. "No," she said softly. "Not really." The silence between them thickened, and Nathan suddenly wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
    She set the can down with deliberate precision, fingertips pressing into the cool metal like she could absorb its history through her skin. "When I was ten," she said, voice tight, "I cried for three days straight because I read about coral bleaching. My mom told me to stop being dramatic, that the ocean wasn’t *my* problem." Her laugh was sharp, humorless. "But that’s the thing, Nathan—everything is. The plastic in that turtle’s stomach? The kids sewing your sweatshirt in some factory? The fucking *ice caps melting*? It’s *all* our problem, and pretending it’s not is how we got here."
    Nathan swallowed hard. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, like the weight of Greta’s conviction had altered the physics of the space. He wanted to argue, to say *normal people don’t live like this*, but the words died when her eyes flicked to his wrist—to the watch he’d bought because it was cheap, because he didn’t ask who made it. Her gaze might as well have been a scalpel.
    Outside, a car alarm wailed, the sound slicing through the tension. Greta exhaled, shoulders dropping just slightly. "I’m not asking you to chain yourself to a pipeline tomorrow," she muttered, picking at the edge of the label again. "Just... look up sometime. See what’s happening." Nathan watched her thumb trace the ridges of the can’s lip, her nails bitten raw. He’d never noticed that before.
    "Do you ever... I don’t know, take a break?" he ventured, shifting on the couch. "Like, just *exist* without worrying it’s killing the planet?" The question felt stupid as soon as it left his mouth—like asking a drowning person if they ever considered relaxing underwater. Greta’s laugh was brittle. "Yeah, Nathan. I take baths by candlelight because my building’s water heater runs on fossil fuels. I cry into my upcycled handkerchief. It’s *super* restful." Her sarcasm was a blade, but her hands shook.
    He wanted to reach for her wrist, to still that frantic energy humming under her skin. Instead, his gaze snagged on the way her sweater dipped just slightly as she leaned forward, revealing the faint freckles scattered below her collarbone. *Christ*. He dragged his eyes back up, heat prickling his neck. She was talking about carbon footprints and intergenerational justice, and all he could think about was how her hips would feel under his hands if he pulled her onto his lap right now.
    Greta didn’t seem to notice. She was pacing now, gesturing wildly with the mangled can. "And it’s not even *hard*—just stop buying shit wrapped in plastic, vote for people who aren’t sociopaths, *give a single fuck*—" Her voice cracked. Nathan stood abruptly, cutting her off mid-sentence. For one terrifying second, he thought he might actually kiss her. Then his foot knocked against the hidden pizza box, sending it skidding into view. The grease-stained cardboard gaped open like an accusation.
    Greta went very still. "Or," she said softly, "you could just keep doing... this." She didn’t sound angry. Just tired. Nathan’s stomach dropped. He opened his mouth—to apologize, to deflect, to ask if she wanted to order vegan takeout and fuck on his ethically sourced bamboo sheets—but she was already slinging her bag over her shoulder, the crushed can clutched in her fist like a grenade.
    Nathan sat frozen on the couch, the silence swelling uncomfortably in his chest. He stared at the door she’d just slammed—not hard enough to rattle the frame, but with enough force that the sound lingered. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. A meme from his group chat, probably. He didn’t check. Instead, he reached for the discarded pizza box and peeled it open to find two congealed slices staring back at him like a greasy Rorschach test.
    Five minutes later, he texted her: *"so you gonna tell me where i can ethically bury this pizza box or are we pretending i don’t exist now"* No response. He threw his phone onto the couch and rubbed his palms over his face. The apartment smelled like cold pepperoni and regret.
    Through the thin walls, he heard the neighbor’s shower turn on—the pipes groaned like a dying animal. Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose and stood, pacing to the kitchen. He yanked open the recycling bin (because of course he had one now, because Greta had glared at him until he ordered it online) and stared at the contents like they might reveal the meaning of life. Mostly beer bottles. A cereal box. He thought about the turtle. The sweatshops. The way Greta’s hands had trembled when she talked about the ice caps. Then he grabbed his keys and walked out, letting the door slam behind him harder than necessary.
    The night air was thick with humidity and the distant scent of fried food. Nathan didn’t know where he was going—only that he couldn’t stay in that apartment with its ghosts of half-formed arguments and the phantom weight of her disappointment pressing into his ribs like a bruise.
    He found her the next morning outside the coffee shop he only ever went to when he was hungover. Greta was perched on the edge of a bench, tearing the plastic sleeve off a muffin wrapper with the same surgical precision she’d used on the beer can. "Look," he blurted before he could second-guess himself, "about yesterday. I’m an asshole."
    She didn’t look up. "Yeah." The wrapper surrendered under her fingers with a crisp crinkle. "But you’re not *special* about it. Most people are."
    Nathan swallowed a laugh that wasn’t funny. "So, uh. If you hate sweatshops and fast fashion and whatever, maybe the solution is just... stop buying clothes?" His voice tilted up at the end, testing the waters of a joke.
    To his surprise, Greta’s mouth twitched. Then she did something worse—she laughed. A real one, sharp and sudden. But there was something dangerous in it, a glint in her eyes like a knife catching light. "Maybe," she said, leaning forward just enough to make his pulse stutter, "there’s some truth to that." Her fingers tapped the edge of the bench. "Maybe we should all just go naked. It *is* the most natural thing."
    Then she stood, brushing crumbs from her lap, and walked away without another word.
    Nathan’s brain short-circuited. *Naked*. The word lodged itself in his throat, in his hips, in the sudden heat pooling low in his stomach. He could *see* it—Greta’s freckled shoulders, the sharp angles of her collarbones, the way her hips would curve under his palms—and now the image wouldn’t leave. The sun was too bright. The sidewalk tilted. He needed a cold shower. Or ten.
    He didn’t realize he was still staring at the spot where she’d been until a passing cyclist cursed at him for blocking the path.
    Frank’s apartment smelled like stale beer and microwaved burritos. Nathan slumped onto the couch while his friend cracked open another can, grinning around a mouthful of cheese and tortilla. "So," Frank said, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt, "you’re telling me this girl freaked out because you *didn’t* recycle?"
    Nathan rolled his eyes. "It’s not just that. It’s—everything. Like, I breathe wrong and it’s a microaggression against the ozone layer." He mimed an explosion with his hands. Frank snorted. "Dude, she sounds like a walking TED Talk. Hot, though?"
    "Yeah. Like, distractingly." Nathan picked at the label on his beer, remembering the way Greta’s sweater had dipped when she leaned forward. Frank waggled his eyebrows. "Activist chicks are *always* kinky. All that repressed rage, right? Bet she’s into some wild shit. Handcuffs made of recycled materials, probably."
    Nathan choked on his drink. "Jesus."
    Frank shrugged. "Just saying. They’re *intense*. Like, sure, they’ll fuck you raw, but then you’ll wake up to a PowerPoint about deforestation." He took another swig. "Seriously, though—she sounds exhausting. Always gotta be saving the whales or whatever. Next thing you know, she’ll be chaining herself to a bulldozer and expecting you to bring her vegan smoothies in a fucking mason jar."
    Nathan frowned. "She’s not *that* bad."
    Frank smirked. "Oh, you’re *gone*. What’s her last name, Thunberg? She got a Swedish accent too?" He laughed at his own joke, nearly spilling beer on his lap. "Look, man, women like that? They’re *always* chasing the next cause. Today it’s your pizza box, tomorrow it’s your soul. You’ll never be woke enough."
    Nathan’s phone buzzed. A text from Greta: *"If you’re serious about that pizza box, meet me at the community garden. 4pm. Bring gloves."* His pulse jumped. Frank peered over his shoulder and groaned. "Oh, fuck no. She’s *volunteering* you? Run, dude. Run fast."
    Nathan didn’t run. At 3:58pm, he was standing outside the garden, holding a pair of gloves he’d bought from a hardware store two blocks away—the ones labeled *biodegradable* on the packaging. He wasn’t sure if that was a lie or not. He didn’t care. Greta was kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, freckled shoulders already pink from the sun. She didn’t smile when she saw him. Just handed him a shovel and said, "Dig." 
    He dug.    
    The shovel bit into the earth with a satisfying crunch, releasing the scent of damp soil and decomposing leaves. Nathan stole glances at Greta whenever he could—her hands gripping the wooden handle, tendons flexing under her freckled skin; the way her tank top clung to her ribs as she leaned into each motion. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, tracing the sharp line of her jaw before disappearing beneath her collar. Nathan swallowed hard and stabbed his shovel into the dirt again.
    "You're... uh, really good at this," he muttered, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
    Greta snorted. "It's digging, Nathan. Not neurosurgery." She yanked her ponytail tighter, exposing the delicate curve of her neck where her hairline met sun-warmed skin. He imagined pressing his mouth there, tasting salt and sunscreen. The thought hit him like a physical blow—he jerked the shovel harder than necessary, sending clods of dirt flying past her knees.
    "Careful," she said flatly, brushing soil from her thighs. Nathan mumbled an apology, but his pulse roared in his ears. He couldn't stop picturing her stepping under a showerhead, water sluicing over those shoulders, between her—
    "Are you *blushing*?" Greta tilted her head.
    "No," he lied, voice cracking. "Just sunburned."
    She smirked—actually smirked—and wiped her palms on her shorts. "You know," she said slowly, "if you're overheating, there's a hose around back." She gestured vaguely toward the garden shed. "Cold water. Very... refreshing."
    His brain short-circuited again. The image crystallized: Greta twisting the faucet, arching into the spray, water dripping from her—
    "Yes," he croaked. Then cleared his throat. "I mean. Maybe later."
    Greta just hummed and knelt to pat soil around a seedling, her shorts riding up just enough to expose the back of one thigh. Nathan dug faster, focusing on the blisters forming on his palms instead of the heat coiling low in his gut.
    The afternoon stretched on like this—him sweating through fantasies, her pretending not to notice. Until finally, as the sun dipped below the treeline, she stretched her arms overhead with a groan that made his shovel slip from his grip.
    "Done," she announced. Then, without looking at him: "Hose is still there if you want it."
    Nathan swore under his breath. He *did* want it. Desperately.
    And worse? He was starting to think she *knew*.
    "You talk like they're all separate things," Nathan found himself saying abruptly as he jabbed the shovel into the earth again. The words tumbled out before he could stop them—somewhere between confession and deflection. "Like, climate change over here, prison reform over there, sweatshops in this box. Doesn't it get exhausting keeping track of *everything* that's fucked up?"
    Greta didn't pause her work. "You think I have a spreadsheet?" She flicked a worm off her wrist without flinching. "It's all connected, Nathan. The same systems that exploit people burn the planet. Easy to ignore if you're not the one choking on the smoke."
    He watched her fingers press a seedling into the earth with tender precision. That was the thing about Greta—she didn't just *care*, she *acted*. Like every choice was a live wire humming with consequence. Nathan suddenly felt the weight of every plastic bottle he'd ever tossed, every election he'd skipped, every cheap t-shirt he'd bought without questioning.
    "It's not that I don't *want* to give a shit," he muttered, rubbing dirt off his palms. "It's just—where do you even start? Feels like trying to bail out the ocean with a teaspoon."
    Greta finally looked up, sunlight catching the sweat at her temples. "Start with the teaspoon." Her voice was softer now, almost amused. "Nobody's asking you to single-handedly dismantle capitalism before lunch. Just—" She snapped a dead leaf off the seedling. "Look at your own hands first."
    Nathan swallowed. Her gaze dropped to his wrists—to the fast-fashion watch, the unearned blisters—then back to his face. Not judging. Just *seeing*.
    The hose gurgled in the silence.
    "You're right," he said suddenly. "About the hose. I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the shed.
    Greta's lips quirked. "Yeah. You should."
    Nathan fled before she could see how hard he was blushing.
    The walk home was a blur of heat and half-formed fantasies—Greta twisting the hose’s nozzle, water cascading down her collarbone, her tank top clinging transparent to her ribs. He imagined her laughing at him, at the way his jeans strained against his zipper. *Pathetic*, she’d say. *Typical*. But her hands would be gentle when she pushed him onto his knees.
    His apartment door swung open with a creak. Nathan kicked it shut behind him and sagged against the fridge, pressing a cold beer bottle to his forehead. Condensation dripped down his temple, mimicking the phantom sensation of Greta’s sweat-slick skin under his tongue. He groaned and tipped his head back. *Fuck*.
    Guilt curdled in his gut. Was he really this shallow? One glimpse of her thighs in the sunlight and suddenly he gave a shit about carbon footprints? The hypocrisy was almost funny—his dick leading some pathetic moral charge while the world burned. He took a swig of beer, the bitterness sharp on his tongue. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Greta was just another cause-chaser, and he was the latest project she’d tire of once he stopped being interesting.
    His phone buzzed. A photo from Greta: her bare feet propped on the edge of a bathtub, water tinged pink from the clay caked on her ankles. *"Post-garden soak. You should try it."* No smiley face, no winky emoji. Just that—a challenge. Nathan’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could play it cool (*looks relaxing*), or honest (*I’m imagining you dripping wet*), or—
    He typed *"what else are you imagining?"* and deleted it immediately. His palms were sweating. *Christ*. He settled on *"might need a guide"* and hit send before he could overthink it.
    The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. His pulse hammered in his throat.
    Finally: *"Hose is still there tomorrow."*
    Nathan exhaled shakily. He wasn’t sure if it was an invitation or a test. Maybe both. He stared at the ceiling, pressing the beer bottle to his flushed cheeks. Tomorrow, he’d recycle. Tomorrow, he’d dig. Tomorrow, he’d—
    His phone buzzed again. *"Bring a change of clothes."*
    Nathan’s breath caught. Was she implying...?
    The three dots lingered. Then: *"You’ll sweat."*
    Of course. Practical. Always practical.
    He rolled his eyes at himself—at the way his stomach dropped with something like disappointment. But when he closed his eyes, the fantasy returned full force: Greta’s fingers hooking in his waistband, her mouth at his ear whispering *see how much hotter it is when you actually try?*
    Nathan groaned and reached for another beer. Tomorrow was going to be hell.
    And not just because of the blisters. 
    The hose was still there. 
    Nathan arrived early—so early the garden gate was still locked. He paced the sidewalk, gripping the biodegradable gloves like a lifeline. By the time Greta appeared, swinging a canvas tote filled with seedlings, he’d worked himself into a nervous sweat. 
    "You look like you’re about to face a firing squad," she observed, unlocking the gate with a rusty key. 
    Nathan swallowed. "Same difference." 
    They worked in silence—mostly. Nathan’s shovel scraped against rocks; Greta hummed under her breath. Every time their hands brushed passing tools, his pulse spiked. By midday, the compost pile was rebuilt, the new beds were mulched, and Nathan’s throat was parched with unspoken words. 
    "So," he ventured, wiping dirt off his jeans, "what’s next? Saving the whales? Storming parliament?" 
    Greta paused mid-stretch, arms arched overhead. The hem of her tank top rode up, exposing a slice of freckled stomach. Nathan’s mouth went dry. 
    "Do you actually care," she asked slowly, "or are you just trying to impress me?" 
    Nathan’s ears burned. "Can’t it be both?" The confession tumbled out before he could stop it. "Yeah, I—you’re attractive. But not just because you’re hot. It’s... you give a shit. Like, really give a shit. Most people just post a hashtag and call it a day." 
    Greta studied him—really studied him—her gaze tracing the dirt smeared across his forehead, the way his sleeves were rolled haphazardly above his elbows. "Most people," she said finally, "don’t realize comfortable lives are temporary. If the planet dies, we all die. Simple math." 
    Nathan swallowed. "Maybe they think someone else will fix it." 
    Greta’s laugh was sharp. "There is no ‘someone else.’ Just us." She tossed him a water bottle—reusable, of course. "And you, apparently." 
    Nathan caught it, fingers brushing hers. The contact lingered a second too long. 
    "Guess so," he murmured. 
    Above them, a sparrow darted between branches. Greta tilted her face toward the sun, eyes closed. For the first time, Nathan noticed the dark smudges under her lashes—the exhaustion she usually masked with sarcasm and stubbornness. 
    He wanted to ask how she slept at night, knowing what she knew. Wanted to trace the worry lines between her brows with his thumb. Wanted— 
    Greta’s eyes snapped open. "Hose is still there," she said, nodding toward the shed. 
    Nathan’s pulse stuttered. "Yeah," he croaked. "I know." 
    And for once, he did.
Greta flashed him a wicked grin over her shoulder—just before she spun on her heel and jogged away, her ponytail swinging like a metronome counting down the seconds until Nathan’s brain rebooted. The pamphlet crumpled in his grip: *Save the Tigers: Habitat Loss & Poaching Crisis*. A phone number was scribbled in Sharpie across the bottom—not the organization’s, if the looping *"call me ;)"* was any indication.
    Nathan stared at the asterisk-heavy bullet points (*Did you know a single tiger’s territory spans 100 square miles?*) while his pulse pounded in entirely the wrong head. The mental image of Greta naked except for tiger stripes body paint wasn’t helping. Neither was the way she’d deliberately slowed her pace near the crosswalk, her shorts riding up just enough to reveal the dimples at the base of her spine. *Christ*. He jammed the pamphlet into his back pocket like it might spontaneously combust.
    His phone buzzed before he could spiral further. A text from Frank: *"So did eco-freak chain you to a tree or what"* followed by three eggplant emojis. Nathan snorted and typed *"worse. she gave me homework"* before snapping a photo of the pamphlet beside his half-hard cock straining against his zipper. He deleted it immediately. Then regretted it. Then groaned and tipped his head back against the garden fence.
    The hose was still there. Greta was gone. And Nathan? He was fucked—just not in the way he wanted to be.
    He unfolded the pamphlet again. The tigers stared back, golden-eyed and doomed. Beneath their photo, Greta’s handwriting curled into a postscript: *P.S. Stop picturing me naked. Or don’t. But if you show up Saturday, wear sunscreen.*
    Nathan’s laugh startled a pigeon. The bird took off in a flurry of wings as he pressed the paper to his face, inhaling the faint scent of her ballpoint pen and something citrusy. God help him, he was *into* this. Into *her*. Into whatever fresh hell awaited at the tiger conservation booth where—if he was lucky—Greta might "accidentally" brush against him while handing out leaflets.
    The sun dipped lower. Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed. Nathan pocketed the pamphlet and walked home, already Googling *"ethical sunscreen brands"* like a man possessed.
    Back in his apartment, he tossed his keys onto the counter and immediately typed *Save the Tigers rally* into his laptop. The top result was a website called *Streak to Save the Tigers!* Nathan frowned. *Streak?* He clicked on it—and nearly choked on his own spit. It had the motto show your stripes and everything else.
    A slideshow dominated the homepage: dozens of people jogging through city parks, their bodies painted in vivid orange and black stripes. Completely naked. A caption scrolled across the top: *"Join our streak—a group of tigers is called a streak, after all!"* Nathan rubbed his eyes. The webpage didn’t change. There was Greta—third photo in the carousel—her freckled shoulders glistening under body paint, her grin sharp enough to draw blood. The caption underneath read: *Annual Naked 5K Fundraiser – All Proceeds to Anti-Poaching Patrols!*
    Nathan slammed his laptop shut. Then immediately opened it again, scrolling faster. More photos: Greta handing out water bottles to other streakers (her palm strategically placed over one runner’s nipple), Greta posing with a giant tiger cutout (her hip cocked just so), Greta laughing as someone painted stripes down her spine (the brush tracing the dip of her lower back—). Nathan’s throat clicked when he swallowed. His jeans were suddenly two sizes too small.
    His phone buzzed. A text from Greta: *"Find anything interesting?"*
    Nathan stared at the screen, his thumbs hovering. He typed *"just that tigers aren’t the only thing in danger of extinction rn"*—then deleted it. Then typed *"so the paint is...washable?"*—deleted that too. Finally, he settled on: *"what’s the sunscreen policy for streakers?"*
    The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then: *"Non-nano zinc oxide only. And it’s optional."* A pause. *"For the paint."*
    Nathan’s pulse roared in his ears. He could *see* her smirk through the screen.
    Another text: *"Still coming Saturday?"*
    Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose. On his laptop, Greta’s painted hips taunted him from the fundraiser gallery. He typed *"do i get a participation trophy if i finish"*—and hit send before he could second-guess it.
    Greta’s reply was immediate: *"Only if you’re fast."*
    Nathan groaned and tipped his head back. The ceiling offered no answers. Just like the tigers, he was fucked.
    He’d been so busy picturing Greta’s freckled shoulders under streaks of orange paint—the way her hips would sway in that tiger-striped sprint—that he’d entirely overlooked the fact that *he’d* be expected to peel off his clothes too. His mouse hovered over the folder labeled "*Tax Docs 2023*" (ha) where he’d stashed the photos. Fantasizing about Greta naked was one thing. Exposing his pale thighs to an entire park full of judgmental environmentalists? His stomach lurched. He wasn’t *shy*, exactly. But the last time he’d been shirtless in public, a kid had pointed and asked his mom why that man had “marshmallows stuck to his chest.”
    His phone buzzed. Frank: *"So u gonna do the naked tiger run or what"* followed by three fire emojis. Nathan typed *"shut the fuck up"* and threw his phone onto the couch. It bounced off and landed screen-up, displaying an older text from Greta: *"Streakers get free body paint. And a *very* thorough sunscreen application."* His brain helpfully supplied an image of her fingers smoothing zinc oxide over his shoulders, her thumbs digging into the knots of tension there before trailing lower—
    Nathan exhaled sharply. This was *ridiculous*. He wasn’t some blushing Victorian maiden. He’d changed in locker rooms! He’d peed at urinals! But those were *functional* nudities. This? This was performative. Like his body was suddenly a political statement he hadn’t signed off on. And Christ, what if it was cold that day? He tugged at his collar, already sweating at the thought.
    In the bathroom mirror, he critically assessed his reflection. Not *terrible*. But not— He flexed. The sad ghost of a biceps twitched. Maybe he could claim moral objections. Or a skin condition. Or—
    His phone buzzed again. Greta: *"Pro tip: the body paint covers stretch marks. And performance anxiety."* Nathan choked. Her next text arrived before he could respond: *"Also, nobody looks. Everyone’s too busy panicking about their own thighs."*
    Nathan stared at his phone. Then at the mirror. Then at the folder full of tiger-striped Greta. *Fuck it.* He typed *"what shade of orange makes pasty look intentional"* and hit send before he could chicken out.
    The event page listed press coverage from last year’s streak—local news, environmental blogs, a notoriously unhinged wildlife photographer who’d apparently gotten *way* too close to the runners. Nathan’s stomach twisted. His LinkedIn was public. His *mother* followed him on Instagram. He could already hear her voice: *"Is this why you never visit? Too busy frolicking naked with—what does it say here—‘anti-capitalist e-girls’?"*
    Greta texted back: *"Don’t overthink it. Stripes distract from cellulite."* A pause. Then: *"And if anyone recognizes you, just say you’re method acting for a Tiger King reboot."*
    Nathan laughed despite himself. The absurdity of it all—his bare ass immortalized in some Getty Images watermark, future employers googling *"Nathan [REDACTED] tiger stripes"*—should’ve been paralyzing. Instead, he felt... giddy. Like he was teetering on the edge of something irreversible. Maybe that was the point.
    He opened his closet. What did one wear *to* a naked run? Sandals? A robe? His fingers brushed against an old Halloween costume—a *very* tight Spider-Man suit. Not helpful. His phone buzzed again. Greta: *"Meet me at the paint station at 8. I’ll do your stripes."*
    His pulse spiked. Of course she would. Of *course* she’d be the one with her hands all over him while he stood there, naked and half-hard, trying to explain that *no, ma’am, that’s just my circulation*. Nathan groaned and pressed his forehead against the closet door. He was really doing this. Wasn’t he?
    The protest sign he’d absentmindedly doodled on yesterday—*"SAVE THE TIGERS (and maybe me?)"*—leaned against his desk. Nathan picked it up, tracing the shaky letters. For once, he wasn’t faking the panic. This wasn’t some performative wokeness. He was about to strip bare—literally—in front of strangers, cameras, *Greta*, all for some cats he’d never seen outside a zoo. And the terrifying part? He didn’t even care about the tigers yet. He just cared that *she’d* see him caring.
    His phone lit up with her final text: *"Wear sunscreen. Everywhere."*  
    Nathan exhaled. Tomorrow, he’d be a tiger. Tonight? He had some *very* specific Googling to do.
Clicking through the saved fundraiser photos for the twelfth time, Nathan traced a fingertip over Greta’s freckled thigh—or where it *would* be if not for the orange body paint. The image flickered under his touch, pixelated in the blue glow of his laptop. He’d bookmarked seven different shots—all innocuous enough at a glance (fundraiser! activism! tigers!), but zoomed in on the one where Greta’s hip cocked just enough to imply she *knew* where the photographer was standing.
    The mattress creaked as he adjusted, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his boxers clung. He was already half-hard—had been for roughly *three hours*—but the thought of stripping down in front of an entire park, Greta’s fingers slick with paint between his—
    Nathan groaned and tossed a pillow over his lap. He’d been in locker rooms. Urinals. Even a particularly liberal co-ed sauna in college. But this? This felt like performance art where the punchline was his pale ass and social anxiety. His brain helpfully supplied a vivid slideshow: Greta smirking as his erection bobbed during the sunscreen application. The local news zooming in while he tried to discreetly adjust. That *one* guy from HR recognizing him mid-streak and—
    The pillow hit the wall with a dull thud. Across the room, his phone buzzed—a text from Frank: *"Dude. U didnt answer. Are u gonna do the naked tiger run or WHAT."*
    Nathan typed *"shut the fuck up"*, deleted it, then settled on *"idk maybe"*. His thumb hovered. Added: *"what if i get hard"*.
    Frank’s reply was immediate: *"then u win the race u freak"* followed by *"also lol she’s totally gonna paint u last so she can ‘fix mistakes’"*.
    Nathan’s stomach dropped. Of *course* she would. Of course she’d linger near his hips, her breath warm on his neck as she murmured *"hold still"*—
    His phone buzzed again. Greta: *"Sleep well, tiger."*
    Nathan stared. Then—like an idiot—typed *"u too"* before realizing how fucking stupid that sounded. He groaned and threw his phone across the bed.
    The ceiling offered no reprieve. Neither did the cold shower. By 3 AM, he’d memorized every pixel of her tiger-striped shoulders—the way the paint clung to the dip of her waist—and accepted two truths: 1) He was absolutely going to embarrass himself tomorrow, and 2) Greta would *love* every second of it.
    Irony tasted bitter. Here he was—hours spent imagining her freckles beneath his palms—while she’d *actually* been out there, bare and unbothered, raising funds for endangered species. The joke landed like a shovel to the ribs: *You’re the one who can’t handle honesty, Nathan. Not even the kind that starts at your skin.*
    Morning arrived too soon. The protest sign mocked him from its place against the door. He flipped it over—*"PROUD SUPPORTER OF ETHICAL SUNSCREEN APPLICATIONS"*—then immediately tossed it in the trash. His phone buzzed with a photo from Greta: her reflection in a funhouse mirror, warped into a tiger’s snarl, captioned *"Ready to roar?"*
    The park thrummed with pre-event chaos when he arrived. Volunteers painted stripes on giggling participants while a DJ played *Eye of the Tiger* on loop. Nathan spotted Greta instantly—her hair braided back, her bare shoulders already dusted with orange pigment. She turned, catching him mid-stare, and crooked a finger.
    His pulse roared louder than any tiger ever could.
    Her fingertips were warm when they gripped his wrist. "You showed up," she said, like it was a victory. Her thumb brushed his pulse point. "Drop the clothes. Let’s get you *wild*."
    Nathan exhaled. The joke was on him. And god help him—he was laughing.
    Greta watched him with something like amusement—and something else. Something darker, hungrier. "You're trembling," she said, her voice low. "First time?"
    Nathan swallowed. "Yeah, I—" His throat clicked. "Haven't made a habit of getting naked and painted like a tiger."
    Greta's smirk deepened. She dipped her brush into the paint, swirling it lazily. "Annual event for me," she said, casual as anything. "Last year we raised enough to fund three anti-poaching patrols for six months." Her fingers trailed up his arm, leaving streaks of orange in their wake. "This year? We're aiming for four."
    Nathan's breath hitched. Her touch burned—not just from the paint, but from the way her eyes lingered on his collarbone, his ribs, the dip of his waist. She was cataloging him. Memorizing him. And Christ, he wanted her to.
    "You're overthinking," she murmured. Her thumb brushed his hipbone. "Just stripes, Nathan. Not a referendum on your worth as a human."
    He laughed—sharp, surprised. "Easy for you to say. You look good naked."
    Greta paused. Then—deliberately, slowly—she dragged her gaze down his body and back up. "So do you," she said, like it was a fact. Like she'd known all along.
    Nathan's pulse stuttered. The air between them crackled—thick with paint fumes and something hotter, sharper. Greta's fingers lingered at his waistband, her nail scraping lightly against his skin. Testing. Teasing.
    "Still nervous?" she asked, voice dropping to a whisper.
    Nathan swallowed. "Yeah."
    Greta's grin was all teeth. "Good." She pressed the brush into his palm. "Now paint me back."
    The air left Nathan's lungs in a rush. The brush trembled in his grip—he hadn't realized until now that his palms were sweating. Greta turned, presenting the freckled expanse of her back, the curves of her waist dipping beneath the waistband of her underwear. His mouth went dry. Of course she'd kept *those* on. Of course she knew exactly what she was doing.
    Every stroke of the brush felt like confession. The paint clung to her skin, highlighting the ridges of her spine, the dimples above her hips—places Nathan had only imagined touching. Greta shivered when he reached her shoulders. "Tickles," she murmured, but her voice was uneven. He could see her knuckles whitening where she gripped the table's edge.
    Nathan's own shorts—thin cotton, tragic in their transparency—left nothing to the imagination. The brush slipped from his fingers when Greta suddenly twisted to face him, her freshly painted stripes glistening. Her gaze dropped pointedly. Then back up to his burning face. "Well," she said mildly. "Aren't you *enthusiastic*."
    The volunteers at the next station wolf-whistled. Nathan wanted to sink into the earth. Greta just laughed—low and delighted—and stepped closer. Her breath warmed his collarbone as she whispered, "Relax. Half the guys here popped tents the minute the body paint came out." Her fingers brushed his waistband. "You're in good company."
    Nathan choked. "That's—not helping."
    Greta's smirk deepened. She plucked the brush from where it had fallen between them. "Then let's give them something *really* interesting to look at." Before he could process the threat, she dragged the wet bristles down his chest—slow, deliberate—stopping just shy of his waistband.
    The noise he made was inhuman.
    Around them, the fundraiser carried on—cheers erupting as the starting horn blew, volunteers calling out last-minute instructions. None of it registered. There was only Greta's fingers tracing the path of the paint, her lips parted in concentration, the way her tongue darted out to wet them when she reached—
    Nathan caught her wrist. "You're *evil*."
    Greta blinked up at him, all false innocence. "Just making sure your stripes are even." Her thumb brushed the head of his cock through the fabric. "See? Now you match the tigers."
    Somewhere, a conservationist was giving a speech about habitat loss. Nathan didn't hear a word.
    Greta's fingers hooked in his waistband. One sharp tug and his boxers pooled at his feet—leaving him naked as the tigers they were emulating. The morning air was cool against his flushed skin. So were her eyes. "Relax," she murmured, fingers trailing up his inner thigh. "I've painted *plenty* of dicks at these events."
    Nathan wasn't sure if that was reassuring or horrifying. Then the brush touched him.
    The first stroke nearly buckled his knees—bristles dragging slow up his shaft while Greta watched his face with rapt attention. Her free hand pressed flat against his stomach, pinning him in place as she worked. "Hold still," she chided, but her lips twitched when he gasped. "Unless you want crooked stripes."
    Each pass of the brush sent shocks through him—the rough drag of bristles, the cold paint, her fingers occasionally grazing where she'd already painted. He was *actually* vibrating now, torn between arching into her touch and fleeing the unbearable tease of it.
    Greta hummed, tilting her head as she feigned concentration. "You know," she mused, swirling the brush just under the head, "most guys don't get *this* worked up over body art."
    Nathan gritted his teeth. The brush paused—then flicked lightly across his slit. His hips jerked. Greta's laugh was pure sin. "Then again," she whispered, leaning in until her breath ghosted over wet paint, "most guys aren't *this* fun to mark up."
    The starting horn blew. Nathan barely registered it over the blood roaring in his ears. Around them, streakers were lining up—but all he could see was Greta's smirk as she stepped back to admire her handiwork: his cock striped garish orange, straining against nothing but air and her amusement.
    "Perfect," she declared. Her fingers trailed possessively down his chest—leaving streaks in the sweat. "Now let's see if you can *run* like one too."
    Nathan had never hated—or loved—a threat more.
    Greta hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, holding his gaze as she slowly peeled the fabric down. The stripes already painted across her thighs continued uninterrupted over the curve of her ass—until now. She stepped free of the fabric with deliberate grace, kicking it toward his discarded boxers like a challenge. "Your turn," she said, presenting her bare backside with a smirk over her shoulder. "But be careful—I have a *very* ticklish ass." Her grin widened. "Although probably not as ticklish as *you*."
    Nathan's throat clicked. The brush trembled in his hand as he stepped closer, the scent of citrus and body paint thick between them. Her skin was warm under his fingertips when he steadied himself with one hand on her hip—sweat-slick and sun-kissed, freckles scattered like constellations he wanted to map with his tongue. The first stroke of the brush made her jerk, a laugh bubbling out of her. "Told you," she gasped, shoulders shaking. 
    He painted her like a man possessed—each stripe a silent confession. The bristles dragged deliberately slow over the swell of her cheek, dipping into the crease just enough to make her breath hitch. When he circled a particularly dark freckle near her thigh, Greta's knees buckled. "Cheating," she accused, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. 
    Nathan didn't realize he'd leaned down until his lips brushed the last unpainted inch of skin above her tailbone. Greta froze. The park around them blurred—the whooping streakers, the DJ still pumping *Eye of the Tiger*, the volunteers calling for runners to line up—all of it faded to static as he pressed his mouth to the small of her back. 
    Greta's gasp was a live wire down his spine. 
    She twisted, paint-smudged hands gripping his face, and kissed him like the world was ending—which, given their current state of undress and the approaching starting gun, it *sort of* was. The taste of her laughter burned hotter than the stripes now smeared between them. 
    The horn blew. Greta broke away, pupils blown wide, her chest heaving. "Run fast," she panted, smearing orange across his collarbone with her thumb. "Win, and I'll let you peel these stripes off *personally*." 
    Nathan had never sprinted so hard in his life.
    His naked feet pounded the grass, painted toes splaying against damp earth as he dodged around slower participants. The crowd was a blur of orange and black stripes—some runners laughing, some grimly focused—but Nathan only had eyes for the flick of Greta’s braid ahead. Her bare shoulders gleamed under the morning sun, muscles flexing as she vaulted over a picnic table shortcut. He’d expected her to be all righteous fury in motion, but there was a wild, effortless grace to her stride—like she’d spent a lifetime outrunning something.
    A woman jogging beside Nathan—streaked in tiger stripes from neck to ankle, her gray ponytail swinging—caught his stare and grinned. "First time?" she panted, gesturing ahead at Greta. "She’s been winning this thing for three years." Nathan blinked. The woman winked. "Course, last year she sprinted the last lap backwards. Showoff."
    Nathan’s lungs burned. Around them, bodies glistened—some painted meticulously, some half-assed, all surging forward for the same cause. He couldn’t tell who was here for the tigers and who was here for the thrill of bare skin under open sky. Himself? He was here because *she* was here, and that was enough.
    Greta glanced back once—just once—her painted mouth curling when she saw him gaining. Then she *accelerated*, her breasts bouncing with each powerful stride, her ass flexing as she took the final hill like it was nothing. Nathan’s thighs screamed. His cock, still half-hard from her earlier attentions, bobbed obscenely with every step. A photographer crouched near the finish line zoomed in—not on his face.
    Greta crossed the tape first, throwing her arms up in victory, her chest heaving. She turned, sweaty and radiant, just as Nathan stumbled past the marker—and directly into her waiting arms. Her fingers dug into his biceps, steadying him. "Told you," she breathed against his mouth, "you’d look good naked."
    Nathan didn’t answer. He was too busy kissing her—right there, in front of the cameras, the volunteers, the gray-haired woman now cheering loudest of all. Greta’s laughter vibrated between their lips. Somewhere, a tiger prowled safely in its habitat.
    Nathan didn’t care. He’d found his own wild thing to chase.
    Greta’s lips tasted like sunscreen and victory, her body pressed flush against his, still heaving from the run. For a delirious moment, the crowd’s cheers faded—just her breath hot on his cheek, her fingers tangled in his sweaty hair, the absurdity of their painted stripes smearing together. He forgot they were naked. Forgot the cameras, the fundraiser, the way his cock was *definitely* making a comeback against her thigh. There was only Greta’s teeth nipping his lower lip, her quiet groan when he palmed the sweat-slick curve of her ass—
    Then the whistle shattered the haze.
    A dozen women swarmed Greta, their own tiger stripes gleaming, voices overlapping in congratulations. “Three-peat, you *animal*!” one crowed, slapping Greta’s bare shoulder. Another—a lean woman with neon-green hair—turned to Nathan and wolf-whistled loud enough to startle pigeons. “Damn, rookie,” she grinned, shamelessly eyeing him head to toe. “Guess Greta’s got a type.” Her gaze lingered pointedly below his waist.
    Nathan’s skin burned hotter than the sunburn he’d definitely regret later. He crossed his arms—then uncrossed them when it made his biceps flex awkwardly. His dick, the traitorous bastard, twitched under the attention.
    Greta, meanwhile, was *laughing*. “Play nice, Jess,” she chided, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned into Nathan’s side, her breast brushing his arm. “He’s still learning how to be…” She trailed off, her fingers drifting down his painted chest. “*Feral*.”
    Jess smirked. “Uh-huh. And whose job is it to *tame* him?” The women erupted into cackles. Nathan wished the earth would swallow him whole.
    Greta’s hand slid lower. “Oh, I don’t think tame is the goal.” Her thumb hooked in his waist—right where the paint ended and his blush began. “Besides,” she added, loud enough for the group to hear, “he’s *mine* to corrupt.”
    Nathan’s breath caught. The possessiveness in her voice shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. Jess fake-gagged. “Ugh, *gross*. Save it for the afterparty.” She tossed Greta a roll of biodegradable glitter—because of *course*—and winked. “Make him *sparkle*.”
    Greta caught it one-handed. “Oh, I will.”
    Nathan had never been more terrified—or excited—in his life.
    He glanced at Greta’s friend Jess, who was smirking at him while reapplying biodegradable glitter to her collarbone. "So, uh," he cleared his throat, "you come to this event every year?"
    Jess barked a laugh, flicking glitter at him like confetti. "Of course. Best place to see guys completely naked with everything *all* hanging out." She winked, nodding toward a group of men jogging past, their painted stripes doing nothing to conceal their...enthusiasm. "See? Excited *and* embarrassed. Classic combo."
    Nathan swallowed hard. At least women didn’t have to worry about involuntary boners in mixed company. Jess seemed to read his mind, grinning as she leaned in. "Don’t worry, tiger," she purred, patting his cheek. "We enjoy the view just as much as you do. Maybe more."
    Greta chose that moment to reappear, hips swaying as she squeezed between them, her body paint glistening under the afternoon sun. She plucked the glitter from Jess’s hand and dusted it over Nathan’s shoulders with deliberate slowness. "Don’t corrupt him *too* much," she teased, though her eyes darkened when her fingers brushed his collarbone. "I’m not done marking him up yet."
    Jess rolled her eyes but nudged Nathan forward. "Go on, then. Your *tamer* awaits."
    Greta’s laugh was low as she dragged him toward the afterparty tent, her grip tight on his wrist. "You heard her," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "Time to prove how *wild* you really are."
    Nathan’s pulse hammered. The stripes on his skin felt like a promise—one he was more than ready to keep.
    The afterparty roared. Music pulsed, bodies gleamed under the tent’s string lights, and laughter bounced off the enclosures where sleepy lemurs watched the chaos with bored eyes. Nathan had expected awkwardness—being the lone newbie in a sea of seasoned streakers—but the energy was electric, infectious. No one cared that his stripes were smudged or that his posture screamed *"please don’t look directly at my dick."* They were too busy dancing, drinking organic smoothies, and—
    "Ladies, gentlemen, and glorious wildlife warriors!" A mic screeched as a woman in nothing but body paint and a tiger-eared headband leapt onto the makeshift stage. "We raised *thirty thousand* today!" The crowd erupted. Nathan’s ears rang. Greta’s fingers dug into his hip, her breath hot on his shoulder as she cheered. "And guess what?" The emcee gestured dramatically to the side curtain. "*Meet* your money’s worth!"
    The curtain jerked back. A *real* tiger—massive, golden-eyed—paced inside a reinforced enclosure onstage. The crowd lost their damn minds. Nathan’s knees nearly buckled. Not from fear, but from the sheer *surrealness* of it all: naked people losing their shit over an actual tiger while he stood there, equally naked, next to the woman who’d painted stripes down his—
    Greta’s hand slid lower. "Told you it’d be worth it," she murmured, her thumb tracing the sensitive skin above his waistband. Nathan shivered. The tiger yawned, displaying teeth longer than his fingers. Someone wolf-whistled. Greta’s laugh curled through him like smoke. "Relax," she teased, pressing closer. "He’s not the scariest predator here."
    Nathan swallowed hard. The tiger’s gaze locked onto the crowd—onto *him*—and for a wild second, he understood the absurdity of it all: humanity’s desperate attempts to fix what they’d broken, to connect with something fiercer than themselves. Then Greta’s teeth grazed his earlobe, and all coherent thought evaporated.
    The emcee kept talking—habitat stats, conservation wins—but Nathan only heard the hitch in Greta’s breath when he finally turned and kissed her, deep and claiming, in front of god, the tiger, and three hundred naked strangers. Someone cheered. The tiger chuffed. Greta’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to sting.
    "Now *that’s* a donation," someone catcalled.
    Greta broke away, her lips swollen, her stripes smeared where his hands had gripped her hips. "Still think activism’s boring?" she challenged, breathless.
    Nathan grinned. The tiger watched them, unimpressed.
    "Not even a little."
    And he meant it.
    Greta’s laughter curled around him like sunlight as she stretched lazily against the picnic blanket, her painted stripes smudging where her thigh pressed against his. "See?" she murmured, gesturing around at the still-lingering streakers with her smoothie. "Best perk of activism. Environmentalists love getting naked." Her grin turned wicked as she traced a fading stripe along his collarbone. "And *I* love seeing them naked. Win-win."
    Nathan snorted into his kombucha, remembering the panic-fuelled Google search (*"how to manscape for a naked 5K"*) that had consumed his Thursday night. "So this is your recruitment strategy? Lure unsuspecting normies with the promise of seeing you naked?"
    "Only the promising ones." Greta’s fingers trailed lower, catching on a patch of glitter still clinging to his hipbone. "Most guys chicken out the second I mention ‘communal body painting.’" Her smirk softened as she met his eyes. "But you? You showed up anyway. Even though you were *obviously* just here to stare at my ass."
    Heat crawled up Nathan’s neck—not just from her words, but from the realization blooming behind them. She’d *known*. Known his motives were half-hormone, half-hypocrisy, and led him straight into the most vulnerable moment of his life anyway. Not to shame him, but to *see* if he’d follow through. To watch him squirm, yes, but also to watch him *choose*.
    Greta leaned in, her citrus-sweat scent drowning out the fair-trade cotton candy someone was passing around. "Turns out," she breathed against his jaw, "you’re exactly the kind of messy, self-conscious, *trying* hypocrite I can work with." Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "Keeper material."
    Nathan’s breath hitched. Around them, the party was dissolving into hazy, post-run euphoria—streakers napping in sunbeams, volunteers packing up banners, the tiger now drowsing in its enclosure. But all he saw was Greta’s sunburned nose, the way her chipped nail polish caught the light as she twirled a lock of his hair around her finger. He’d expected lust, maybe even laughter. Not this quiet, terrifying *recognition*.
    The tiger yawned, its pink tongue curling. Nathan kissed Greta—slow, deliberate—and tasted sunscreen and victory. When he pulled back, her smirk had gentled into something dangerously close to affection.
    "Next year," he said, voice rough, "I’m painting *your* stripes."
    Greta’s laughter rang out across the grass, bright enough to startle the sparrows from the trees. "Deal. Now come on tiger, let me really make you roar!"
    The next morning, Nathan woke with a groan to a vibrating phone shoved under his pillow. Frank’s text blinked up at him: *"So now u one of those save-the-earth nutjobs? U actually go to that tiger thing?"* 
    Nathan snorted, flexing his sore thighs under the sheets—still faintly streaked with orange paint in the creases. He typed back *"yeah and afterwards we did it like they do on the discovery channel"* just as Greta rolled over, her freckled shoulder pressing into his ribs. 
    "Who’s that?" she mumbled into his bicep. 
    "My friend Frank. Being an asshole." 
    Greta’s grin was wicked even half-asleep. She snatched the phone and added *"twice. with subtitles"* before hitting send. Nathan’s choked laughter shook the bed. 
    Frank’s reply was instantaneous: *"HOLY SHIT U FUCKED THE ECO TERRORIST"* followed by twelve eggplant emojis. 
    Greta threw the phone across the room where it landed in her discarded tiger-striped thong from yesterday. "There," she said smugly. "Now he’ll *really* lose his mind." 
    Nathan was still wheezing with laughter when Greta straddled him, her thighs bracketing his hips, sunlight catching the faint glitter still clinging to her collarbones. "Speaking of losing minds," she murmured, dragging a fingertip down his chest, "you never did answer my question." 
    "What question?" 
    Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "Are you one of us now?" 
    Nathan’s breath hitched. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past, its exhaust choking the morning air. The dissonance hit him suddenly—Greta’s bare skin warm against his, the stink of fossil fuels creeping through the cracked window, the way her hips rolled just so when she laughed. 
    He caught her wrists, pressing them into the mattress beside his head. "Yeah," he admitted, watching her pupils dilate. "Guess I am." 
    Greta’s smirk softened into something dangerously close to affection. "Good." She leaned down, her breath hot on his mouth. "Now let’s *really* convert you." 
    Nathan groaned as she kissed him, Frank’s text forgotten in the tangle of sheets—and tiger stripes—between them.
    For the first time ever he felt good and optimistic about the future of the world.

This story was actually inspired by a video I saw where in England or something like that there was this event called streak to save the tiger, because apparently a group of tigers is literally called a streak. And it was basically just a video of a bunch of people who painted themselves naked in tiger stripes, and they raised like thousands of dollars for preserving tigers and zoos or something along those lines, and from there I thought that that would be an interesting story, another naked story that involves body painting, which I thought was particularly erotic the way she was painting his genitals like that.
    But yeah I pretty much took the idea of a story of this guy who pretty much is attracted to this activist woman mostly because he wants to sleep with her, but the joke is on him because she knows that he is very attracted to her, but she feels completely unashamed about her nudity, so she invites him deliberately to this environmental event where he will have to get naked and then we learned towards the end she has done this three years in a row, so she is completely unashamed about being naked, whereas he is shy, but in the end he ends up being converted by her because he's genuinely attracted to her but she also made him care about the environment as well, so in the end he sort of followed his Dick and was thinking with his Dick, but in the end he sort of saw the point, and she saw that in him that there was the potential for somebody to really care about the environment so she put him in that uncomfortable situation to make him prove himself to her. I don't know if there's a message or moral to the story, once again I just thought it was an entertaining idea for a story that was inspired by a real-world event.
    And yes I named the main character after Greta Thunberg, because I was kind of picturing her in that mold, like one woman who genuinely wants to save the earth, but I like giving her this sort of devious part the fact that she also likes getting people to strip naked at these environmental events, because I think it's true that people who care about the environment sometimes are more open to nudity and sexuality and everything natural, and there's nothing more natural than being naked!
    The story pretty much just involves mutual male and female nudity in public.
    If you want to watch the videos that inspired this story they are available on YouTube under the title naked runners streak through London zoo and hundreds of streakers run nude to raise money for tigers.