The Phone Rings Naked

I have another story today was sort of a weird speculative idea that doesn't make any logical sense but is good at facilitating getting the characters naked. This is about a woman who is addicted to her cell phone but then a weird phenomenon occurs where people get text messages that if they answer them or open them up they will be rendered naked by their phone which soon turns into a mass phenomenon involving lots of mutual and non-mutual male and female public nudity that I hope you will enjoy!

The Phone Rings Naked
"Did you see that?" Alana's thumb paused mid-swipe, her gaze darting up for half a second before dropping back to her screen. The coffee shop around her buzzed with murmured conversations and clinking cups, but her attention never left the glow of her phone. A notification popped up—another email from work—and she tapped it open without hesitation. The lukewarm latte in front of her sat untouched, condensation beading on the glass like sweat.
    Her fingers moved on muscle memory, flicking between apps: Instagram for the third time in ten minutes, then Twitter to scan for updates she'd already seen. The lock screen flashed the time—2:17 PM—and she caught herself calculating how long it'd been since her last check. Three minutes. Too long. She unlocked it again, thumbprint smudging the camera lens. The barista glanced at her, then away, used to the woman in the corner who never looked up.
    Alana's chest tightened when the Wi-Fi stuttered. She held her breath until the signal bars steadied. No new messages. Her knee bounced under the table. She opened her texts, reread the last one from her sister ("Call me when you can"), and closed it. The weight of the phone in her palm was comforting, its slight warmth proof she hadn't missed anything. Missed anything. The thought slithered through her mind like a threat. What if—?
    A crash came from the kitchen. Alana's head jerked up, phone clutched to her chest like a shield. The barista laughed at something, and the tension bled out of her shoulders. She exhaled and opened Spotify, thumb hovering over her playlist. The screen dimmed. She tapped it awake, just to be safe. Just to be sure. Her reflection in the black mirror looked back at her, wide-eyed and pale. She swiped it away.
    Across the café, two girls—college-aged, probably—whispered behind their hands, glancing her way. One mouthed something with raised eyebrows. Alana’s stomach twisted. She angled her body away, scrolling aimlessly until her thumb ached. But she caught their murmurs anyway—"...obsessed with that thing..." and "...needs therapy." A flush crept up her neck. They didn't get it. She wasn't hurting anyone. It wasn't like she was shooting up in alleys or blacking out at parties. The worst she'd done was forget to eat lunch. Once. Maybe twice.
    When her sister's name lit up the screen, she nearly dropped the phone. The call vibrated against her palm, insistent. She swallowed, fingers tightening. If she answered, she'd have to explain why she'd ignored three texts. If she didn't—the voicemail notification would blink at her for hours. A lose-lose. The buzzing stopped. The silence felt heavier.
    Her knee bounced faster beneath the table. She tapped her Spotify playlist—grinding indie rock filled her ears—but the beat only made her pulse race harder. The college girls were still watching. One rolled her eyes, nudging her friend as they gathered their bags. Alana pretended not to notice, thumb scrolling through her inbox, refreshing. One new email. Spam. She deleted it. Refresh again. Nothing. The lock screen taunted her: 2:28 PM. Eleven minutes since her last check. Eleven minutes of—what? Breathing? Existing? She shuddered. Better to check. Better to know. Her thumbprint smudged the screen anew.
    That’s when she saw him. Tall, dark-haired, leaning against the counter while his coffee steamed untouched. His fingers danced across his phone screen—not frantically, like hers—but with an idle ease that made her stomach twist. Envy or attraction? Both. His thumb tapped something. A text? A swipe? Alana inhaled sharply, her own phone forgotten for half a second. Then—light. A thin, searing beam erupted from his screen, slicing upward in a jagged arc before splintering outward like shattered glass. His shirt dissolved first—cotton fraying into nothing, buttons dropping soundlessly to the floor—then his jeans, his socks, his—
    A collective gasp cut through the café. Every head snapped toward him. The barista fumbled a mug; ceramic shattered against tile. The man stood frozen, naked except for his phone clutched in both hands like a life raft. His mouth opened. Closed. A high, strangled noise escaped. Then—chaos. A woman shrieked. Chairs scraped back. Someone’s latte toppled, creamy brown liquid spreading across a tabletop.
    Alana didn’t blink. Her pulse roared in her ears. She’d never seen anything—anything—like this. Her fingers tightened around her phone. Was she recording? Should she? Around her, phones lifted like a flock of mechanical birds, flashes popping, screens glowing. The man crouched, arms crossed over his chest, face scarlet. His eyes darted wildly—to the exit, to the ceiling, anywhere but the dozen lenses pointed at him.
    She hesitated. Guilt prickled up her spine. But then—his shoulders flexed as he twisted, muscles taut beneath smooth skin, and her thumb moved on its own. The camera clicked. A perfect shot. His startled eyes met hers through the screen. A thrill shot through her. This, at least, was real.
    "Nothing to see here," Alana announced, voice steadier than she felt. She stepped between him and the crowd, phone still clutched in her palm like a talisman. The lie tasted sweet. A man whimpered behind her—pathetic, really—but she didn’t turn. Instead, she tilted her head just enough to catch the curve of his hipbone in her periphery. His skin was flushed pink. Interesting.
    The café buzzed louder. Someone shouted, "What the hell was that?" A chair scraped closer. Alana smirked. She could feel his breath on her neck now—hot, uneven. He smelled like espresso and panic. Her pulse hammered. This was better than refreshing her inbox. Better than counting minutes.
    "Back off," she snapped at a gawking undergrad who leaned in too close. The girl recoiled. Alana didn’t blink. The man’s fingers brushed her elbow—a silent plea—and she almost laughed. Power thrummed in her veins. For once, she wasn’t the one unraveling. She angled her body, blocking the worst of the stares, and whispered over her shoulder, "You might want to run." His Adam’s apple bobbed. She added, softer, "Unless you like the attention?"
    He bolted. A blur of pale limbs, elbows knocking into tables, his bare ass flashing as he hurdled a toppled chair. The café erupted—some in shock, some in laughter, a few wolf-whistles slicing through the chaos. Alana watched, lips twitching, as he collided with the push bar of the exit door. It swung open too slow; he shoulder-checked it twice before tumbling into the sidewalk. A group of tourists gasped. A cyclist swerved, nearly eating pavement. The man skidded to a stop, arms crossed over his crotch, then vanished around the corner like a shot.
    She exhaled, giddy. That’s when she caught movement to her left—a woman in a blazer, thumbing her screen with the same jittery hunger Alana knew too well. The woman’s brow furrowed. Then—light. A searing crackle, a sound like tearing silk. Her blazer disintegrated mid-button. Her blouse followed, threads dissolving upward from her waist in a slow, eerie wave. The woman shrieked, high and ragged, clawing at her bra as it evaporated strap-first.
    Alana’s breath hitched. The woman’s phone clattered to the floor, still intact. Her tights ripped away in jagged lines, seams unraveling like time-lapse decay. Someone’s phone flash went off. The woman spun, ass bare, heels skidding on tile as she scrambled for the exit. A man lunged to "help"—his hand "accidentally" grazing her hip—and she kneed him in the groin. He folded like bad origami.
    Silence pooled. Then murmurs. Then—ding. Alana’s phone buzzed in her palm. A notification: **Unknown Sender. Subject: You’re next.** Her thumb hovered. The screen glitched—a fractal of black static—before resetting to her home screen. Her mouth went dry. Across the café, three more heads jerked up, phones clutched tight. She knew that look. The hunger. The need. The terror.
    Slowly, Alana slid her phone into her back pocket. The weight of it burned against her thigh. Her reflection in the window caught her eye—wide pupils, parted lips—and she didn’t recognize herself. The thrill was back, sharper now. This wasn’t just happening. This was spreading.
    And she was still holding hers.
    Outside the café’s glass walls, a man sprinted past clutching his phone in one hand and his dignity in the other, his briefcase abandoned on the sidewalk. Two women—mid-conversation—suddenly froze as their blouses evaporated into threads mid-stride, their shrieks swallowed by the honking chaos of downtown traffic. A delivery driver dropped his coffee, too busy staring at his own screen to notice the screen of his truck flickering to static before the entire dashboard dissolved into nothingness. His seatbelt followed, nylon straps fraying into dust mid-buckle.
    Alana pressed her forehead to the cool glass, pulse rabbiting in her throat. Everywhere, phones glinted like blades in the afternoon sun. A teenager filmed a sobbing businessman crouched behind a trash can. A jogger’s leggings disintegrated mid-stride, sending her sprawling onto the pavement with a yelp. No one helped. Everyone recorded. The air smelled like panic and overheated circuitry.
    Her own phone buzzed again. She didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The café door chimed—another customer fleeing, their shirt half-gone—and the draft carried in the scent of ozone and sweat. Someone’s ringtone cut through the noise, the opening notes of a pop song warping into a garbled screech before their jeans unraveled at the seams. Alana’s fingers twitched. She could feel the weight of her phone like a live wire in her pocket. How long until—?
    A hand clamped onto her wrist. The barista, wild-eyed, shoved a crumpled receipt into her palm. Scrawled in shaky capitals: PUT IT DOWN WHILE YOU STILL CAN. Alana stared at the ink smudged by sweat. The barista’s apron strings were already fraying.
    The café TV, previously ignored, flickered to a bleached-out news anchor mid-sentence. "—confirmed cases in twelve cities. Authorities urge citizens to avoid screen contact until—" The feed glitched. A chyron stuttered below him: **PHONE VIRUS STRIPS VICTIMS**. Grainy footage played—a subway platform where commuters clutched at disintegrating suit jackets, a gym locker room where towels vaporized mid-use. The anchor adjusted his tie, unaware his collar was dissolving thread by thread. 
    Alana’s laugh came out too sharp. She should be horrified. She was. Mostly. But her gaze kept snagging on a shirtless bike courier dodging traffic, his sweat-slicked abs contracting as he vaulted over a hood. Her thumb twitched toward her camera. The barista hissed, "Don’t you fucking—"
    Glass shattered. The TV screen erupted in a spiderweb of cracks as the anchor’s pants vanished. His desk remained. The chair did not. He yelped, bare thighs sticking to leather as he scrambled sideways out of frame. A producer screamed something about "cut to commercial" before the feed died in a burst of static. 
    Outside, a car swerved onto the sidewalk—driver too busy filming a naked woman sprinting from a salon, her hair still foiled. Alana licked her lips. The chaos was almost beautiful in its randomness. A businessman’s tie slithered off like a shedding snake; a nun’s habit evaporated strand by strand until she stood in nothing but a crucifix and shock. The humidity carried their gasps through the open door, mingling with the scent of scorched silicon. 
    A warm weight pressed against her thigh. Her phone. Vibrating. Again.
    Alana curled her fingers into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms, but didn’t reach for it. The buzzing pulsed through her jeans like a second heartbeat. Her sister? Work? Some spammer offering extended car warranties? The not-knowing slithered under her skin, worse than an itch, worse than thirst. She ground her teeth. How long since she’d last checked? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The longest drought in years. Her throat tightened. Maybe she did have a problem.
    Across the café, a woman’s phone chirped. Automatic reflexes kicked in—Alana’s head snapped toward the sound, her body tensing like a dog hearing its leash jingle. The woman hesitated, fingers twitching above her screen. Then—light. The familiar searing crackle. The woman’s pencil skirt dissolved upward from the hem, seams unraveling in jagged lines. She shrieked, slapping at her thighs as the fabric vanished. Alana exhaled through her nose. Point made.
    The buzzing stopped. Silence. Then—ding. A notification. Her shoulders hitched. She could almost see the little red bubble blooming on her screen, the unread count ticking up. Her knee bounced wildly under the table. What if it was urgent? What if someone was hurt? The barstool creaked beneath her. She shifted, fabric rasping against denim, acutely aware of every thread between her and oblivion.
    A crash. The barista stumbled backward, his phone skittering across the floor. His apron hung by a single thread. “Don’t look!” he barked, shielding his crotch with a tray as his boxers disintegrated into mist. Alana jerked her gaze away—just in time to catch her own reflection in the sugar dispenser. Pupils blown, lips chapped, hair frizzing at the temples. She looked feral. Hungry.
    Her pocket buzzed again. A longer vibration this time—a call. Her muscles locked. The urge to reach for it was visceral, a hook behind her ribs yanking forward. She swallowed hard. The world narrowed to that rectangle of glass and lithium burning against her thigh.
    Outside, a car alarm wailed. A naked man sprinted past the window, arms full of clothes he couldn’t put on fast enough. Alana’s fingers flexed. One peek. One swipe. Just to see who was calling.
    Then she spotted him—Camden. Her neighbor from 4B. Tall, lanky, always smelling like stale energy drinks and bad decisions, currently streaking down the sidewalk with his phone clutched to his chest like a holy relic. His laugh echoed off the buildings—half-hysterical, half-delighted—as his bare feet slapped against the pavement. A security guard lunged at him; Camden pivoted, his long legs eating up the distance, and Alana’s breath caught. The angles of his body were—well.
    She was already pushing through the café door before she could second-guess herself. The heat hit her like a slap, the air thick with honking horns and the musk of a dozen panicked strangers. Camden zigzagged past a stalled delivery truck, his ass gleaming with sweat under the afternoon sun. Alana licked her lips. Technically, she was just—assessing the situation. Gathering intel.
    "Camden!" she called, too loud, too eager. He skidded to a stop, spinning so fast he nearly toppled over. His eyes—pupils blown wide—locked onto her. A grin split his face.
    "Alana!" He spread his arms like he was about to hug her, then seemed to remember he was buck-naked. His phone buzzed violently in his palm. "Shit—don’t look at yours, by the way. Unless you’re into impromptu nudism." He wiggled his eyebrows, and she snorted despite herself.
    She tried to keep her gaze above his collarbone. Failed spectacularly. "You’re not—you know." She gestured vaguely at his hips.
    "What, embarrassed?" He snorted, tossing his tangled hair out of his eyes. "Dude, three blocks ago I watched a CEO’s suit evaporate mid-press-conference. Pretty sure we’re past social norms." His phone vibrated again; he flipped it off.
    Alana’s own phone burned against her thigh. She should check it. She really should. But Camden was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his lean muscles flexing with every movement, and—well. Priorities.
    "So," she said, stepping closer. "You always run through downtown in your birthday suit, or is this a special occasion?"
    Camden grinned. "Only for apocalyptic events and really good brunch." He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Also, you’re staring."
    She was. Unapologetically.
    Her phone buzzed again. Louder this time. Camden’s gaze flicked to her pocket. "You gonna get that?"
    Alana hesitated. Then—light. A searing crackle. Camden yelped, jumping back as her jeans began unraveling at the seams.
    "Shit," she breathed. The fabric slithered down her legs like liquid.
    Camden’s grin turned wolfish. "Guess we’re even."
    The pavement was hot under her bare feet. Her phone clattered to the ground, screen flashing: **Unknown Sender. Subject: Told you.**
    Alana kicked it into the gutter.
    The phone skidded across pavement, its screen spiderwebbing on impact—but not before she caught Camden's smirk widening in her periphery. "I think somebody accidentally butt-dialed their phone," he said, voice dripping with amusement as she crossed her arms over her chest. The heat of humiliation crawled up her neck; she could already feel the stares of pedestrians, their phones lifting like a swarm of hungry vultures. A tourist gasped. Someone's flash went off.
    "Go ahead," she snapped, voice cracking, "take a picture—it'll last longer!" The words tasted like ash. Her bare toes curled against hot concrete. Home was six blocks away. Six blocks of catcalls, six blocks of gawking, six blocks with nothing but her clammy palms to shield herself. Camden's chuckle grated against her nerves. "Relax," he said, stepping closer, his own nudity somehow effortless. "You're acting like you've never been naked before."
    She wanted to knee him in the groin.
    Instead, she spotted her reflection in a car window—wild-eyed, hair frizzing in the humidity, body hunched like a cornered animal—and something in her chest splintered. The vulnerability wasn't just skin-deep. Without her phone, she was untethered. No maps. No calls. No armor. Just her and the endless, pulsing city.
    Camden bent to retrieve something from the gutter. Her phone. Cracked, but alive. The screen flickered: **47 missed calls. 112 unread messages.** He dangled it by one corner, eyebrow arched. "Still want this?"
    Alana hesitated. The weight of addiction warred with the sting of exposure. Around them, a woman's blouse dissolved into threads mid-scream. A businessman's briefcase hit the pavement, his suit evaporating as he scrambled for cover. Chaos tasted like ozone and sweat.
    She reached—
    Then recoiled as the screen flared white.
    Camden yelped, dropping it. The phone shattered on impact, its innards spilling across the sidewalk like glitching viscera. Alana stared.
    And laughed.
    It bubbled up from her gut, raw and unhinged. Camden blinked. "You good?"
    "No," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. "But I'm fucking free."
    Camden's gaze flicked down her body—slow, deliberate—before snapping back up with a smirk that made her skin prickle. "Side of you I've never seen before," he drawled, shifting his weight. The effect was... noticeable. Alana's laugh died in her throat. Her cheeks burned hotter than the pavement under her feet.
    "Well," she croaked, pointedly staring at a traffic light. "I can see you're... happy to see me."
    A beat of silence. Camden's tan skin flushed crimson from collarbones to forehead. He coughed, turning sideways in a futile attempt at modesty. "Uh. Yeah. Apocalypse boners are—fuck—a thing, apparently."
    The absurdity of it—standing naked in broad daylight, mortification warring with adrenaline—hit them both at once. Alana covered her mouth. Camden groaned into his hands. Their shoulders bumped as they shook with silent laughter, breath hitching between giggles.
    A car horn blared. Reality rushed back in. Camden grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward an alley. "C'mon," he muttered, "before someone livestreams us to TikTok." His palm was sweaty. Hers probably was too.
    Halfway down the alley, a dumpster lid slammed shut. They froze. A figure crouched behind it—hoodie pulled tight, face hidden—clutching a phone with both hands. The screen pulsed an eerie blue. Camden stepped in front of Alana, which would've been sweet if he weren't still painfully erect.
    "Easy," the figure rasped. A woman's voice. She lifted trembling fingers to push back her hood. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Her phone buzzed violently; she whimpered, clutching it tighter. "You—you feel it too, right?" she whispered. "The itch? The need?"
    Alana's empty pocket burned, or what if she had a pocket. Camden's jaw tightened.
    The woman's screen flared white. Her hoodie began unraveling at the seams.
    "Run," she breathed.
    They did.
    Alana's bare feet slapped against pavement still radiating midday heat, her arms pumping wildly as she tried—and failed——to simultaneously cover her chest and keep pace with Camden's lanky stride. His ass bounced with each step, pale cheeks flashing under the sun, while his… enthusiasm swung with the chaotic rhythm of their sprint. Behind them, the alley woman's shrieks faded into the urban cacophony—another casualty in the growing symphony of stripping chaos. 
    A cop car careened around the corner ahead, its light bar flickering erratically before the entire dashboard dissolved into metallic mist. Two officers tumbled out—one missing his pants mid-fall, the other clutching at his unraveling utility belt—and promptly collided with a naked cyclist wobbling past. The resulting tangle of limbs and curses would've been hilarious if Alana weren't currently experiencing her own mortifying physics showcase. Her breasts jounced painfully with each stride, and she nearly ate concrete when an unexpected breeze reminded her exactly which parts were now air-drying.
    "Left!" Camden yelped, grabbing her elbow to steer them around a gawking crowd—only for his grip to slip when his palm met her sweat-slicked skin. They skidded into a newsstand, sending magazines flying in a flurry of scandalized headlines. A tabloid cover photo of a dissolving celebrity stuck to Alana's thigh like a grotesque modesty patch before sliding off. 
    The city had become a surrealist painting: naked stockbrokers flagging down disintegrating taxis, a yoga instructor mid-handstand as her leggings vaporized upward from her ankles, a hot dog vendor using his rapidly-shrinking apron to shield himself while still manning the grill. Alana's lungs burned. Camden wheezed beside her, his erection finally succumbing to the sheer athletic humiliation of their sprint. Somewhere, a car alarm warbled into static before cutting out entirely—probably claimed by the same glitch devouring the world's wardrobes.
    "Think—" Camden gasped, ducking as a flock of pigeons scattered from their path, "—think we lost her?" 
    Alana risked a glance back. The hooded woman wasn't chasing them. She was crouched atop a mailbox instead, phone raised like a torch, its screen emitting a pulsing glow that made nearby streetlights flicker. Her lips moved silently, eyes wide and unblinking, as threads of her clothing lifted and dissolved not upward—but outward, tendrils of fabric stretching toward the nearest bystanders like some inverted siren's call. 
    Camden's grip tightened. "New plan," he breathed. "Run faster."
    Too late.
    Alana's stomach plummeted as she recognized the trio cutting through the crowd—Jenna with her signature leather jacket, Priya clutching an unharmed latte, and worst of all, Mark, whose eyebrows practically touched his hairline as he took in her nudity. They looked crisp. Untouched. Fully fucking clothed. Jenna's smirk widened like a predator scenting blood.
    "Well," Mark drawled, eyeing Camden's flaccid but still very exposed situation, "always knew you two would end up naked together." Priya snorted into her coffee.
    Alana's hands fluttered uselessly—covering her breasts meant exposing her pelvis, shielding her pelvis left her breasts swinging freely. She settled for crossing her arms and hunching slightly, which only made Jenna's grin turn feral. "Relax," Jenna purred, shrugging off her jacket. "We're not—oh shit."
    The latte hit the pavement. Priya's blouse began unraveling from the hem upward, threads peeling away like petals. Mark backpedaled, clutching his shirt collar—too late. His belt dissolved first, pants pooling around his ankles with a wet slap.
    Jenna's jacket froze mid-air. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket.
    "No," she whispered.
    A searing crackle.
    The leather jacket disintegrated in her hands.
    Alana stopped breathing.
    Mark's scream was impressively high-pitched.
    Camden sighed. "Group hug?"
    Jenna flipped him off with one hand while desperately clutching her disintegrating jeans with the other.
    Priya—now shirtless—tilted her head. "So. This is happening."
    A camera flash went off.
    Somewhere in the distance, the hooded woman laughed.
    "Okay, who's naked now?" Alana crowed, throwing her hands up in triumph—and immediately regretting it as her breasts bounced freely for all of downtown to see. Jenna's mortified shriek as her bra straps dissolved was almost worth it. Almost. Then Priya's skirt slithered down her legs like a dying snake, and Mark whimpered something about "chafing," and suddenly the sidewalk was a mosaic of bare skin and abandoned dignity. Camden grinned, unabashed, thumbs hooked in an invisible belt loop. "Told you it was contagious."
    Vindication swelled in Alana's chest—until she looked past their little circle. The street had become a carnival of exposed flesh: a banker shielding himself with a rapidly-disintegrating briefcase, a jogger's sports bra evaporating mid-stride, even a cop—handcuffs dangling from his belt-less hips—trying (and failing) to arrest a cackling bike messenger. The clothed were the outliers now, clutching their phones like talismans against the inevitable. One by one, screens pulsed. Fabric fell.
    And then—Alana froze. Because standing on the corner, phone clutched white-knuckled in her hand, was her sister.
    Tasha's eyes locked onto her. Widened. "Alana? What the actual—"
    Her phone buzzed.
    Alana lunged. "Drop it!"
    Too late. The familiar crackling hiss. Tasha's blouse peeled apart seam by seam. Her horrified gasp was almost drowned out by Jenna's sudden bark of laughter. "Family discount!" she hollered, earning a middle finger from Tasha even as she scrambled to cover herself.
    And then it hit Alana—really hit her—that she was standing bare-ass naked on Main Street with her sister, her ex, her neighbor-slash-whatever-Camden-was, and approximately sixty percent of the city's population. Her victorious grin faltered.
    Tasha, ever pragmatic, glared at her phone—now spitting static—before chucking it into a storm drain. "You," she seethed, pointing at Alana, "are explaining this. Now."
    Camden leaned in. "Technically, it explains itself—"
    Tasha's glare shifted. Camden shut up.
    Alana swallowed. "Uh. Happy birthday?"
    Somewhere, another phone buzzed.
    The entire block groaned in unison.
    Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose. "I live closest," she muttered, as if confessing to a war crime. Alana blinked—Jenna *never* volunteered anything, least of all her pristine loft with its stupidly expensive Japanese soaking tub. Then again, desperation made strange bedfellows. Literally, in Mark's case, who was currently trying to use Priya as a human shield against a gaggle of college girls filming the spectacle.
    "Lead the way," Camden said, then immediately regretted it when Jenna's death glare raked over his still-very-exposed body. He cleared his throat. "I mean. If you're—"
    "The alternative is watching Mark's pasty ass get sunburned," Jenna snapped, pivoting on her heel—and immediately yelping as her last scrap of fabric (a lace thong, because of course) evaporated mid-stride. The pavement sizzled under their collective humiliation as they scrambled after her, a naked convoy dodging glass shards and abandoned briefcases.
    Alana kept pace beside Tasha, whose furious mutters suggested this ranked slightly below her canceled wedding in terms of personal disasters. "You couldn't have texted me a warning?" Tasha hissed, nearly tripping over a discarded skateboard.
    "It's *literally* the one thing I couldn't do," Alana shot back, sidestepping a businessman attempting to preserve his dignity with a strategically held Starbucks cup. The cup was losing.
    A block later, Jenna's building loomed—its marble lobby now hosting a terrified doorman clutching his disintegrating uniform. He gaped at their approach. Jenna flipped him off without breaking stride. "If you value your pension," she growled, "the security footage better 'malfunction.'"
    The elevator ride was a masterpiece of awkwardness: nine bare bodies pressed together, all pretending not to notice Camden's renewed "excitement" every time the car jolted. Mark stared fixedly at the ceiling. Priya sighed. "Real mature, Camden."
    He grinned. "Blame gravity."
    Jenna's loft smelled like lemongrass and repressed rage. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of downtown chaos—clothing raining from skywalks, naked cyclists playing chicken with gridlocked cars. Someone had already graffiti'd **THE END IS NEAR (AND SO ARE WE)** on a bank façade.
    Tasha beelined for Jenna's linen closet. "Hands off the Frette towels," Jenna warned, dumping a bowl of decorative seashells onto the coffee table. "Use these."
    Alana picked one up. It barely covered her palm. "Seriously?"
    Jenna smirked. "Welcome to rock bottom."
    Outside, a distant explosion rattled the windows.
    The TV flickered on by itself—static, then a bleached-out emergency alert: **DISCONTINUE USE OF ALL ELECTRONIC—**
    The screen dissolved mid-sentence.
    Silence.
    Camden cleared his throat. "So. Anyone wanna order takeout?"
    Jenna's scream rattled the windows as another silk blouse dissolved between her fingers—this one leaving only a faint citrusy perfume and a single stubborn sequin stuck to her palm. The sequin twinkled mockingly before evaporating too. 
    "Fuck!" She kicked the closet door, then immediately regretted it when her bare toes connected with solid oak. Hobbling backward, she crashed into Priya, whose hands shot out instinctively—only for both women to recoil when skin met skin. "This is your fault," Jenna hissed at Alana, clutching her throbbing foot. 
    Tasha picked at the hem of a throw pillow like it might unravel too. "We need data," she muttered. "Patterns. Is it synthetic fibers first? Natural ones? Distance-based?" Her fingers twitched toward her absent phone before curling into fists. 
    Mark peered into Jenna's walk-in closet with the focus of a bomb technician. "Okay, new theory," he announced, reaching for a leather jacket—only to yank his hand back as the sleeves began curling into smoke. "Whatever this is, it's accelerating. Just a little while ago it took thirty seconds for clothes to go poof. Now it's instant." 
    The room collectively processed this. 
    Camden scratched his chin. "So we're officially in the 'streaking through the apocalypse' phase. Cool." 
    Another explosion shook the building. This time, the tremors didn't stop. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling as the floor tilted violently—sending everyone scrambling for balance on suddenly unsteady feet. Jenna's prized Eames chair slid sideways, its leather upholstery bubbling like acid was eating it from within. 
    Alana's stomach dropped. "That's not supposed to happen to furniture, right?" 
    Tasha's gaze locked onto the floor-to-ceiling windows where—blocks away—an entire office building's facade was peeling away in great dissolving sheets. Glass, steel, concrete: all unraveling like a poorly knitted sweater. 
    The realization hit them simultaneously: 
    Clothes were just the beginning.
    The silence stretched thick enough to choke on. Camden shifted uncomfortably, then winced when the movement made his situation more—noticeable. Mark cleared his throat and immediately regretted it when all eyes dropped south. "It's a biological response," he blurted, hands fluttering uselessly. "Like... adrenaline boners."
    Priya snorted into her cupped hands. "Adrenaline boners."
    Jenna rolled her eyes so hard her head lolled back. "Christ, I miss the patriarchy. At least then we could pretend you animals had self-control." But her smirk faltered when her own gaze lingered a beat too long on Camden's lean hips.
    Alana's face burned hotter than the pavement outside. The worst part wasn't the nudity anymore—it was the traitorous pulse between her thighs every time Camden's sweat-slicked abdomen flexed. She crossed her legs tightly, which only drew attention to the motion. Camden caught her looking. His slow grin made her want to both punch him and climb him like a jungle gym.
    Tasha made a retching noise. "Are you kidding me? The world's ending and you're—" she waved wildly at the general tableau of inconvenient male enthusiasm, "—like this?"
    "Blame evolution," Mark muttered, trying (and failing) to cover himself with a throw pillow. The pillow dissolved halfway up his forearm.
    Another explosion rattled the building. Plaster dust rained down as the walls groaned. Everyone froze—except Camden, who took advantage of the distraction to subtly adjust himself. Alana's mouth went dry. She couldn't even pretend to be disgusted anymore, not when her nipples were betraying her with every quickened breath.
    Priya sighed. "At least the women aren't visibly—"
    Jenna arched an eyebrow. Priya's dark skin flushed deeper.
    "Anyway," Tasha interjected loudly, "we should—oh god—" She recoiled as the marble countertop beneath her elbows began liquefying into viscous streams.
    The panic hit like a bucket of ice water. Alana's arousal evaporated faster than Jenna's last silk blouse. The men's... situations deflated in unison.
    Camden met her eyes across the dissolving designer furniture. For once, neither of them was thinking about sex.
    The building wasn't just losing its clothes anymore.
    It was losing itself.
    And they were still inside it.
    Jenna stabbed at the TV remote with a shaking finger—her silk robe pooled around her bare hips like a surrendered flag—as the screen flickered to life with the jagged distortion of emergency broadcast static. A woman’s face resolved in the pixelated haze, her features sharp as a blade under the fluorescent glare of what looked like a bunker. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, just the raw topography of crow’s feet and a scar bisecting one eyebrow. The chyron beneath her stuttered: **UNIDENTIFIED BROADCAST / UNAUTHORIZED FEED**.
    "You’ve been stealing glances at strangers’ texts on the subway," the woman said, her voice sandpaper-rough. "Filming fights instead of breaking them up. DMing nudes you never earned the right to see." The camera pulled back—she wasn’t wearing a shirt either, her collarbones stark above the scrolling marquee of a sports bra strap. "So congratulations. Now you get to *really* look." A smirk. "No screens between us anymore."
    The feed cut to a montage of security footage: a CEO sobbing into his hands as his Armani suit dissolved mid-board-meeting, a influencer’s designer hijab unraveling thread by thread during her morning livestream, a priest’s cassock evaporating as he reached for his phone to call the diocese. The woman’s voiceover continued, "You wanted to see everything? Now you *see* everything."
    Camden made a strangled noise. Alana realized she was gripping his forearm hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. On screen, the woman leaned forward until her pores filled the frame. "This isn’t a virus," she whispered. "It’s a *correction*."
    Static swallowed her. The TV emitted a sound like bones cracking—then the screen itself began dissolving inward, pixels curling into smoke. Jenna recoiled as the remote in her hand followed suit, its plastic shell sloughing off in ribbons.
    Mark inhaled sharply. "Did she just—confess to terrorism via *nudity*?"
    Priya stared at the blank space where the TV had been. "I think she just flipped us off with the entire concept of privacy."
    Outside, another building groaned as its steel skeleton peeled outward like overcooked meat. Alana’s pulse hammered in her throat. The woman hadn’t just stripped them of clothes—she’d ripped off the veneer of civilization itself. No more hiding behind work emails, dating app personas, strategic Instagram angles. Just skin. And underneath it?
    Camden’s fingers found hers. His palm was sweating.
    So was hers.
    The realization hit Alana like the last sip of bad coffee—bitter, clarifying. No phones meant no scrolling, no doom-refreshing, no anxious clawing at dopamine hits. Just her own naked pulse and Camden’s eager grin reflecting back at her like a funhouse mirror. She exhaled through her teeth. "Well. Looks like this bullshit’s permanent."
    Tasha scoffed, crossing her arms under her bare breasts—a gesture that would’ve been defiant if not for the way her nails dug into her own biceps. "You’re *enjoying* this?"
    Alana didn’t answer. Instead, she turned toward the door, the afternoon sun painting her bare skin gold. Behind her, Camden’s breath hitched audibly. She glanced over her shoulder, letting her gaze drag down his body with deliberate slowness. "So," she said, biting back a smirk as his pupils blew wide, "you wanna—"
    "Yes." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I mean. Obviously. Please."
    They were sprinting before Jenna could snark about STDs.
    Alana’s thighs burned—from running, from anticipation, from the way Camden kept glancing at her like she’d invented gravity. The city blurred around them, its chaos reduced to background static. A naked cyclist swerved past, whooping. A cop’s badge dissolved mid-tackle. None of it mattered.
    Her apartment building loomed ahead, its glass lobby now hosting a cluster of bewildered neighbors clutching at disintegrating bathrobes. Alana didn’t slow down. She barreled through the revolving door—felt Camden’s palm press between her shoulder blades—and then they were in the stairwell, their laughter echoing off concrete walls as they took the steps two at a time.
    Fourth floor landing. Her hands shook too badly to insert the key. Camden plucked it from her fingers, his chest heaving against her back. "Allow me," he murmured, all warm breath and trailing fingertips. The lock clicked.
    Inside, the air smelled like overdue laundry and the vanilla candle she’d forgotten to blow out that morning. Camden kicked the door shut behind them. His erection brushed her hip.
    Alana grinned.
    "Bedroom," she ordered.
    He saluted.
    The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above them as Camden pinned her wrists to the mattress, his hips slotting between her thighs with the ease of a key turning in a lock. Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat. Alana licked her lips.
    Outside, the world kept unraveling.
    She couldn’t bring herself to care.
    Alana’s fingernails scraped down Camden’s back—hard enough to leave marks this time, hard enough to make him hiss and buck against her—as he pinned her wrists to the mattress with one hand, the other tangled in her hair. Sweat slid between their bodies, sticking skin to skin in ways that should’ve been gross but just made her arch into him harder. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a rhythm that would’ve drawn complaints from the neighbors if anyone still gave a damn about anything but their own bare skin. Camden’s teeth grazed her collarbone; she gasped, her thighs tightening around his hips as the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth and the press of his body and the delicious, dizzying freedom of having nothing—no texts, no notifications, no social media—between them anymore.
    Afterward, sprawled across the damp sheets with Camden’s arm slung over her ribs and his breath warm against her shoulder, Alana stared at the ceiling fan’s lazy rotations and realized something: she’d never have to put on pants again. No more awkward morning-after walks of shame, no more digging through laundry piles for clean underwear—hell, no more laundry at all. The thought made her giggle, breathless and giddy. “What?” Camden mumbled, nuzzling the curve of her neck. 
    “Nothing,” she said, twisting to face him. His pupils were still blown wide, his hair a sweaty tangle against the pillow. “Just thinking how much faster everything’s gonna be now that we don’t have to get dressed first.” 
    Camden grinned—the kind of grin that should’ve been illegal without a permit. “Efficiency,” he agreed, dragging a fingertip down her sternum. “You’re a genius.” 
    Alana swatted his hand away, but she was smiling too. Outside, the distant wail of sirens underscored the point: the world was ending, and they were naked in bed. Priorities. 
    “You miss it?” Camden asked abruptly, propping himself up on one elbow. “Your phone, I mean.” 
    Alana opened her mouth to reflexively say yes—then paused. The itch to check her notifications was gone, replaced by something quieter, sharper. The feel of Camden’s calloused thumb tracing circles on her hipbone. The way the late afternoon light painted his shoulders gold. The sound of her own breath, unmediated by screens. 
    “You know what?” she said, surprised by her own certainty. “I think I’m seeing the world how it was meant to be seen for the first time.” 
    Camden threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and unselfconscious. “Naked?” 
    “Naked,” she agreed, and kissed him. 
    Outside, another building dissolved into the sky. 
    Neither of them noticed.

This is another one of those stories that probably betrays the fact that I'm mostly a speculative fiction writer at heart, because I think of some of these really weird scenarios. This story I was just thinking what if you had some woman who is addicted to her cell phone, like so many people are these days, but then she is terrified to use her cell phone because there is some inexplicable text message going around and if you open it that somehow it causes the phone to render you completely naked. Again there's not really any logical explanation for how or why this is happening, except that we learn it's the result of some kind of weird naked terrorist group, and this isn't actually the first story in which I have used terrorist rendering people naked, it's a very fertile concept, so I'll probably have more stories like that in the future. 

    I just thought it was kind of funny that she ultimately ends up getting over herself own addiction simply because of the embarrassment of being rendered naked, and the irony is that she didn't even actually check her phone but she accidentally butt dialed it, rendering her naked, and I just thought that that was just pretty hilarious in all honesty. So this is another one of those stories where you really get no logical explanation for what is going on but that's kind of irrelevant, the whole point is that it would make things very embarrassing and awkward for everybody, especially seeing as most people live on their cell phones these days and can't go more than a few minutes without checking it, so if something like this actually did happen I imagine that most people would be rendered naked pretty quickly in all honesty before they even realize this phenomenon was going on or what was causing it, so the rapid nature of it taking place where a majority of people end up being rendered naked quickly I think is actually realistic, well you know realistic in the confines of the ludicrous premise of the story!