The Naked Final Exam

 I have another full length novelette today and this is another one that involves both male and female nudity and it takes a while to get to the nudity but I think it works pretty well when you finally get to it. This is about a guy and his girlfriend taking a college course on sexual objectification where the final exam involves them having to take the exam completely naked! I thought this was a pretty good one so I hope you will enjoy it.

The Naked Final Exam
"You owe me," Jessica said, handing Ralph a black coffee before sliding into the seat next to him. He took a sip—bitter, no sugar—and tried not to stare at the way her knee bounced under the desk, like she'd been waiting for this moment all week.
    The classroom smelled like dry erase markers and old textbooks. Ralph counted three other guys scattered among twenty-seven women, all flipping through the same thick packet titled *Media, Power & the Gaze: Theorizing Sexual Objectification*. A girl with a nose ring glanced at him, then quickly looked away. Ralph hunched his shoulders, suddenly hyperaware of his own breathing.
    "You didn’t tell me it was a seminar," he muttered, thumbing the edge of his packet. "Thought it'd be a lecture hall. Less... intimate."
    Jessica snorted, uncapping a highlighter with her teeth. "Welcome to Women’s Studies, Ralph. Intimacy’s kind of the point." She grinned at him sideways, neon pink streaking down the first page of her reading. "Besides, you’re the one who said yes when I asked."
    He had. Over beers, three weeks ago, when she’d leaned across the sticky bar table and said, *I need a guy who won’t get weird about this stuff.* Ralph hadn’t asked what "this stuff" meant. Now, as the professor—a woman with silver hair and a sharp collarbone—clicked open a slideshow of vintage ads, he realized he should’ve.
    The first slide clicked into place—a 1950s cigarette ad featuring a woman in a red dress, her lips parted around the filter, eyes half-lidded. The professor’s voice sliced through the silence: *"Note the framing. Her body is the product, not the tobacco."* Ralph’s pen hovered uselessly over his notebook. He could feel Jessica’s knee brushing his under the desk, the accidental contact sending a jolt up his thigh. Around him, twenty-seven women scribbled notes, murmured agreements, snorted at particularly egregious ads. The guy two rows ahead—a lanky dude in a *Feminism is for Everybody* t-shirt—nodded along like he’d been born dissecting the male gaze. Ralph felt like an intruder who’d wandered into a secret meeting.
    The girl with the nose ring raised her hand. *"It’s not just the ads,"* she said, voice steady. *"It’s the fact that my dad still calls them ‘classy’ when they’re posed like that."* Laughter rippled through the room. Ralph swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of his own hands—too big, too clumsy—resting on the desk. He wondered if Jessica had brought him here as some kind of anthropological exhibit. *Observe the cishet male in his natural habitat, attempting not to implode.*
    He was halfway through an imaginary escape route—feign a coughing fit, maybe—when the professor’s gaze landed on him like a spotlight. *"Mr.—?"* She squinted at her roster. *"Ah. Ralph. Let’s hear from you."* Her smile was razor-thin. *"Since you’re occupying a unique demographic space in this room."*
    Silence pooled. Someone’s highlighter squeaked. Ralph’s mouth went dry as the chalk dust floating in the air. *Unique demographic space.* Translation: *You’re the fucking zoo animal here.*
    *"Pick any ad we’ve seen,"* the professor continued, tapping the slide projector remote against her palm. *"Tell us—honestly—what your first instinct was when you saw it. Before the analysis."* Her eyes gleamed. *"The gut reaction."*
    The slide clicked back to the cigarette woman, her red dress pooling around her thighs like blood. Ralph’s gut reaction? A flush of heat low in his belly, the kind he’d immediately buried under a layer of guilt. But saying *"I thought she was hot"* in a room full of women dissecting the mechanics of their own objectification felt like handing over a signed confession. Jessica’s knee pressed against his, a silent *Go on.*
    *"I—"* Ralph’s voice cracked. *"I wondered if she was cold."*
    Dead silence. Then the nose-ring girl barked a laugh. *"Cold?"*
    *"The dress,"* Ralph stammered, pointing at the slide like it was a hostile witness. *"It’s—what, December? And she’s outside in that. Seems impractical."*
    Jessica buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. The professor blinked, then—to Ralph’s horror—smiled. *"Fascinating,"* she murmured. *"A pragmatic objection. No arousal, no shame—just concern for her thermal comfort."* She tilted her head. *"Would you say that’s typical of your engagement with media imagery, Ralph?"*
    He could feel twenty-seven pairs of eyes dissecting him now, not as a potential predator, but as a baffling outlier. The guy in the *Feminism is for Everybody* shirt turned around, eyebrows raised. Ralph wished, violently, for a sinkhole.
    Jessica saved him. *"He’s lying,"* she announced, slapping her highlighter down.
    Jessica’s highlighter clattered onto the desk. “He’s lying,” she repeated, louder this time, and the entire room swiveled toward Ralph like a pack of wolves catching scent. His ears burned. “Come on, Ralph. You really looked at her”—she jabbed a finger at the slide of the cigarette woman, her dress clinging to every curve—“and thought, *Huh, hope she packed a cardigan*?”
    A few stifled giggles. Ralph swallowed. “Okay, fine. She’s attractive. But—” He floundered, hands sketching vague shapes in the air. “That’s it. It’s just… a thing my brain registered. Like noticing someone has blue eyes. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna—” He mimed throwing money at the slide. “Buy shit because of it.”
    The professor’s eyebrows crept up. “So you’re saying your attraction is… incidental? Doesn’t influence your consumer habits?”
    Ralph shrugged. “I mean, maybe? But I don’t think I’ve ever bought something *just* because there was a hot lady in the ad. Half the time, I don’t even remember what the product *was*.” He glanced around, suddenly aware of how defensive he sounded. “And—isn’t that kind of a two-way street? Women buy way more stuff than men, right? So if we’re gonna talk about ads manipulating people…”
    The nose-ring girl leaned forward. “You’re saying women are *more* susceptible to this?” Her voice was sharp, but her eyes were curious, not accusatory.
    “No! I—” Ralph exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m saying *everyone* is. But we only ever talk about the guy half of it. Like, what about all those cologne ads with shirtless dudes?” He gestured at the *Feminism is for Everybody* guy, who nodded enthusiastically. “Nobody acts like women are mindless zombies who’ll buy Axe body spray because some abs looked at them funny. But flip it around, and suddenly men are these pathetic horndogs who can’t think past a cleavage shot.”
    Jessica snorted. “Okay, but let’s be real—Axe sales *did* spike because of those ads.”
    “Yeah, but was it *women* buying them?” Ralph shot back. “Or teenage boys hoping they’d smell like sex?”
    The room erupted into laughter—real, unfiltered laughter, not the tense kind from before. Even the professor looked amused. “An interesting pivot,” she mused. “So you’re suggesting the *male* gaze isn’t inherently more predatory?”
    Ralph hesitated. “I’m saying maybe the problem isn’t *who’s* looking, but *how* we’re taught to look.” He rubbed his neck. “Like, if we’re gonna talk about objectification, shouldn’t we ask why we’re all conditioned to see bodies as… products? Not just men, not just women—everyone.”
    The professor tapped her chin, then grinned. “Perfect. Then you’ll love this assignment.” She clicked the remote, and the slide changed to a black-and-white photo of a 1950s housewife grinning beside a refrigerator. “For next week: split into pairs. Hit the streets, the mall, wherever. In thirty minutes, catalog every ad you see—billboards, magazines, bus stops—and tally two things.” She held up a finger. “One: how many feature conventionally attractive men versus women.” A second finger. “Two: how much clothing they’re wearing. Bonus points if you note *who* the product’s actually for.”
    Jessica elbowed Ralph. “Guess we’re partners.”
    The professor clapped her hands. “And since Ralph’s so *invested* in the *female gaze*—” The class tittered. “—I’ll expect his group to present first.”
    Ralph groaned.

Outside, the campus buzzed with students. Ralph squinted at a bus stop ad for athleticwear—a woman mid-stride, sports bra clinging, sweat glistening. Jessica scribbled in her notebook. “Female. Basically naked. Selling… socks?”
    “Shoes,” Ralph corrected. He pointed at the tiny logo. “But yeah. Her ass is the main event.”
    Jessica smirked. “Noticing the female gaze in action, are we?”
    “Shut up.”
    They passed a men’s cologne display in a pharmacy window—shirtless guy, abs like a washboard, smoldering at a bottle of cologne. Ralph snapped a photo. “Male. Shirtless. Selling… perfume?”
    “*Eau de testosterone,*” Jessica deadpanned. She paused by a makeup ad—a man with eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass. “Wait. This one’s interesting.”
    Ralph leaned in. “Male. Fully clothed. Selling… mascara?”
    “To women,” Jessica said slowly. “But he’s the face of it. Not the product.”
    Ralph blinked. “Huh.”

By minute twenty, Ralph’s notebook was a mess of tallies. “Okay, so far: forty-seven ads with women, twelve with men. Women are *way* more sexualized—like, eighty percent are in lingerie or implied nudity. Men?” He flipped a page. “Most are just attractive but not necessarily fully naked."
    Jessica snapped her notebook shut with a satisfied *click*, her grin widening as she nudged Ralph with her elbow. "We crushed this. Professor’s gonna eat it up—trust me, she *loves* cold, hard data served with a side of sarcasm." She bounced on her toes, the late afternoon sun catching the neon streaks in her hair. "Honestly? I’m kinda pumped to present."
    Ralph stared at his own notes, the columns of tallies blurring into a numeric indictment of modern advertising. His throat tightened. "Yeah. Great."
    Jessica’s grin faltered. "Oh, come *on*. You’re not actually nervous about this, are you?" When Ralph stayed silent, she barked a laugh. "Wait—you are. You’re nervous about *talking* about half-naked people in front of women?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Ralph. Buddy. They’re *boobs*. We’ve all seen ’em."
    "It’s not—" Ralph rubbed his temples. "It’s not the *boobs*, Jess. It’s the…" He gestured vaguely toward the humanities building. "The *context*. I’m the guy who’s supposed to be *learning* not to objectify women, and now I’ve gotta stand up there like, *Hey, class, here’s all the skin I noticed today!* It’s—"
    "Objectively hilarious?" Jessica supplied. She slung an arm around his shoulders, her perfume—something citrusy and sharp—mixing with the scent of Ralph’s own nervous sweat. "Relax. You think *anyone* in there hasn’t clocked you as the resident clueless straight dude? Lean into it. Be the guy who *admits* he’s clueless. That’s why I brought you."
    Ralph groaned. "You brought me as a *prop*."
    "Correction: *case study*." Jessica’s phone buzzed; she glanced at it, then winced. "Shit. Gotta run—Ethan’s freaking out about the lit paper *I* definitely forgot about." She shoved her notebook into Ralph’s chest. "You’re on slide duty. Make it pretty."
    Ralph stared at the notebook. "You’re *ditching* me?"
    Jessica was already halfway across the quad, her voice trailing back: "Text me if you panic! And Ralph?" She turned, walking backward, her grin wicked. "If you pass out mid-presentation, I’ll tell everyone you were *overcome by the male gaze*."

The classroom lights were *bright*. Ralph squinted at his laptop screen, the slides glaring back at him—*Ad Breakdown: Who’s Selling What (And How Much Skin It Takes)*. The title was Jessica’s. The bullet points were his. The sweat pooling under his arms was *definitely* his.
    The professor clapped her hands. "Alright, let’s hear from Ralph and Jessica’s group."
    Ralph’s stomach dropped. "*Uh*—Jessica’s—"
    "Running late," the professor finished dryly. "Shocking." She nodded at the podium. "Proceed."
    Twenty-seven pairs of eyes pinned him in place. Ralph swallowed. *Just read the slides. Don’t think about the fact that you’re the only person in this room with a Y chromosome.*
    He clicked to the first slide—a collage of their ad photos, women in varying states of undress selling everything from beer to car insurance. Ralph cleared his throat. "So, uh, our findings show that—" The classroom door creaked open. 
    Every head turned. Jessica stood in the doorway, hips cocked, one hand resting on the frame. She wore a bikini so small it might’ve been dental floss—electric blue, with cutouts that left nothing to the imagination. Ralph’s pen hit the floor. The *Feminism is for Everybody* guy choked on his water.
    "Sorry I’m late," Jessica said, sauntering down the aisle like she wasn’t halfway to naked. "Thought I’d dress the part." She hopped onto the podium beside Ralph, who was suddenly very aware of how close her thigh was to his elbow. "What? You’re presenting on the male gaze. Figured I’d give ’em a live demo." 
    The professor pinched the bridge of her nose. "Jessica—"
    "Relax, it’s *performance art*," Jessica said, plucking the clicker from Ralph’s frozen fingers. She advanced the slide. "So. As Ralph was *failing* to articulate, seventy-eight percent of female-presenting ads—" She gestured to herself, the bikini strings digging into her hips. "—use this level of skin to sell *literally* anything. Meanwhile—" Click. A slide of fully-clothed male models. "—dudes get to keep their dignity *and* their shirts." 
    Ralph’s face burned. He could see the nose-ring girl’s eyes flicking between Jessica’s midriff and his own stunned expression. "Jess," he hissed, "what the *hell*—"
    Jessica leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "Relax. You’re the *control group*." Louder, to the class: "Notice how Ralph’s sweating? That’s the cognitive dissonance of knowing objectification’s bad but still having a *biological imperative* to stare at my ass." She twirled, the bikini bottom riding up. Ralph closed his eyes. 
    The professor sighed. "This is… unorthodox."
    "Effective, though," the nose-ring girl muttered, scribbling notes. 
    Jessica grinned. "Exactly. Now—" She clicked to a slide of Ralph’s data tables. "Here’s the *real* kicker. Notice how the *few* ads featuring men in *less* clothing are *still* selling to *women*?" She tapped the screen. "Lingerie. Perfume. Even *shoes*. Meanwhile—" Click. A lingerie ad, the model’s back arched. "—this shit’s *for men*. Even when the product’s *literally* for women." 
    Ralph risked opening his eyes. Jessica’s skin glowed under the fluorescent lights, sweat already beading at her collarbone. He swallowed. "You’re… proving your point," he managed. 
    Jessica winked. "Told you I’d make it memorable." 
    The *Feminism is for Everybody* guy raised his hand. "Not to, uh, *objectify*—" The class snorted. "—but isn’t this just… reinforcing the thing we’re critiquing?" 
    Jessica shrugged. "Maybe. But Ralph’s *discomfort*?" She jabbed a thumb at him, his ears now violently red. "That’s the *point*. It’s *supposed* to feel gross. That’s how you know it’s working." 
    The professor massaged her temples. "Jessica, put *clothes* on—"
    "Nope." Jessica hopped off the podium, the bikini straining. "Not until Ralph admits he looked." 
    Ralph groaned. "*Jess*—" 
    "Admit it." 
    The class held its breath. Ralph exhaled. "Fine, I looked, you look stunning in that I admit  it."
The professor's smile curled like a cat who'd just spotted a particularly plump canary. "Well," she said, tapping her grading pen against her chin, "this was certainly *original*. A+ for both of you—and for giving me an idea."
    Ralph's stomach twisted. "An... idea?"
    "Oh yes." She clicked her pen once, decisively. "An *immersive* learning experience. You'll find out when we get to the final."
    Jessica, still clad in what amounted to dental floss and audacity, tilted her head. "Wait, *what* final—"
    The professor cut her off with a wave. "No spoilers. But let's just say..." Her gaze slid to Ralph, who was actively trying to melt into the floor. "We'll be *revisiting* today's themes. With *participation*."
    The nose-ring girl's hand shot up. "Is this gonna be another bikini thing? Because I didn't sign up for—"
    "It won't involve swimwear," the professor assured, though her eyes glinted in a way that suggested whatever she *did* have planned might be worse.
    Ralph opened his mouth—to protest, to beg for clarification, maybe to scream—but the bell rang, drowning him out. Jessica, grinning like she'd just won the lottery, grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the door before he could form words.
    The hallway was a blur of students and sudden, merciful distance from the classroom. Ralph whirled on Jessica the second they cleared the threshold. "*What the hell was that?*"
    Jessica patted his cheek, her palm warm against his flushed skin. "Education, Ralph. *Applied* theory."
    "You *stripped* in the middle of—"
    "I *illustrated*," she corrected, adjusting a bikini string that had no business holding anything together. "And it *worked*. You saw their faces. Nobody's gonna forget that presentation."
    Ralph groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I'm *never* living this down."
    "Probably not," Jessica agreed cheerfully. She dug in her bag—how she'd even *brought* a bag in that outfit, Ralph couldn't fathom—and tossed him a crumpled t-shirt. "Here. Before you pass out from sexual frustration."
    He caught it reflexively. "This is *yours*."
    "And now it's *yours*," she said, grinning as he shook out the fabric—a faded band tee that would smell like her citrus shampoo and probably fit him like a crop top. "Consider it a souvenir."
    Ralph stared at it, then at her, then at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention. It did not. "You're *insane*."
    "And you," Jessica said, stepping close enough that the heat of her skin radiated through the scant space between them, "are *welcome*." She plucked the shirt from his hands and tugged it over his head herself, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck. "There. Now you look *almost* as flustered as you feel."
    Ralph's fingers twitched against the hem of Jessica's borrowed shirt—her scent still clinging to the fabric, something citrusy and sharp beneath the faded cotton. He swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat. She'd *won*, obviously. The A+ was practically glowing on the professor's grading sheet. But the cost? His dignity, currently evaporating like sweat under the fluorescents.
    "You're a menace," he muttered, peeling the shirt away from his collarbones where it stuck. 
    Jessica just grinned, her bikini-clad hip bumping against him as she shoved her notebook into her bag. "And you're *welcome*. Admit it—you learned more in fifteen minutes of me in this—" She plucked at the scandalous blue fabric, the motion drawing Ralph's gaze like a magnet. "—than in three weeks of readings." 
    He couldn't argue. The way her waist dipped inward, the sweat-slick sheen along her ribs—*Christ*. Ralph wrenched his eyes upward, fixing them on a conspicuously interesting ceiling tile. "That's not—" His voice cracked. "—the *point*." 
    "Oh?" Jessica leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "Then what *is*?" 
    The classroom door banged open behind them. The *Feminism is for Everybody* guy—Ethan, apparently—barreled through, his eyes widening at the sight of Jessica's near-nudity. "Holy *shit*—" 
    Jessica rolled her eyes, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Eyes up here, champ." 
    Ethan's gaze jerked upward, his cheeks flaming. "Sorry, I just—" He gestured vaguely at her torso. "*Why*?" 
    "Pedagogy," Jessica said breezily, slinging her bag over one bare shoulder. "Ralph gets it." She elbowed him. "Don't you?" 
    Ralph opened his mouth—to protest, to deny, maybe to whimper—when the nose-ring girl (Maya, according to her name tag) shouldered past Ethan, her eyes flicking between Jessica's outfit and Ralph's borrowed shirt. "So," she drawled, "was this a *sex thing* or a *feminism thing*?" 
    Jessica gasped, clutching imaginary pearls. "Maya! Reducing my *academic* performance to mere *titillation*?" She pressed a hand to her chest—which only emphasized the bikini's... inadequacy. "I'm *wounded*." 
    Maya snorted. "Bullshit. You *live* for this." 
    "Guilty." Jessica winked, then turned to Ralph, her expression shifting. "But *he* didn't." Her fingers brushed his wrist—just once, fleeting. "That's what made it work." 
    Ralph's skin burned where she'd touched him. He should say something—defend himself, maybe—but his brain short-circuited the second he glanced down and caught the way the bikini bottom rode up her hip. 
    Maya rolled her eyes. "God, you're *insufferable*." She shoved a flyer into Ralph's chest. "Here. Since you're *so* invested in gender studies." 
    Ralph blinked down at the paper—*Campus Men's Forum: Deconstructing Masculinity in the 21st Century*—then at Maya's smirk. "Wait, is this—" 
    "Your *next* field trip," Jessica crowed, snatching the flyer. "Ooooh, *guest panelists*." She jabbed a finger at the small print. "Look—*athletes, activists, and one token frat guy*." 
    Ethan groaned. "I *told* them not to phrase it like that."
    Ralph stared at the flyer in Jessica’s hand—*Campus Men’s Forum: Deconstructing Masculinity in the 21st Century*—and felt his stomach lurch like he’d missed a step on the stairs. He was going to that. Of course he was going to that. Jessica would drag him by the collar if she had to, and Ethan would probably film it for TikTok.
    Jessica grinned at him, the flyer fluttering between her fingers. “Oh, don’t give me that face. It’ll be *fun*.”
    “Define ‘fun,’” Ralph muttered, rubbing his temples.
    “Panel discussions! Self-reflection! Maybe a *tearful* frat boy confessional—”
    “I hate this.”
    Jessica’s grin widened. “No, you don’t.”
    And that was the terrifying part. He *didn’t*. Somewhere between Jessica’s bikini-clad lecture hijacking and Maya’s deadpan interrogation, Ralph had started *caring*. Not just about surviving the semester, but about the stupid, messy, *important* things Jessica kept shoving in his face.
    He studied her now—the way her neon-streaked hair stuck to her temples with sweat, the way her hips cocked to one side like she was perpetually mid-debate. She was objectively attractive, sure, but that wasn’t what made his pulse stutter. It was the way she *leaned* into discomfort, hers *and* his, like it was something to be dissected rather than avoided.
    Jessica caught him looking and wiggled her eyebrows. “See something you like?”
    Ralph rolled his eyes, but his face burned. “I’m *assessing*.”
    “Assess *this*.” She flicked the flyer at his chest. “You’re presenting *our* findings at the forum. As *experts*.”
    Maya snorted. “Experts in *what*? Public indecency?”
    “In *applied theory*,” Jessica shot back, adjusting a bikini strap that had no business holding anything together. “Ralph *gets* it now. Don’t you, Ralph?”
    He did. And that was the most horrifying realization of all.
    Ethan clapped him on the shoulder, shaking his head. “Bro. You’re *doomed*.”
    Ralph groaned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    Jessica’s fingers brushed his wrist again—lightning-quick, deliberate. “You’re *welcome*,” she murmured, and then she was sauntering down the hall, her hips swaying, the flyer dangling from her fingertips like a dare.
    Ralph watched her go, his borrowed shirt smelling like citrus and recklessness, and thought, *Oh fuck. I’m learning.*
    The forum hall smelled like stale coffee and Axe body spray. Ralph hovered near the back, clutching his notes like a shield, as Ethan waved him toward a seat between two broad-shouldered lacrosse players. One of them—a guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass—leaned over and stage-whispered, "You the dude who got *strip-presented* to in Gender Studies?"
    Ralph groaned. "*Jesus*, does everyone know?"
    The guy grinned. "Bro, *TikTok* knows." He pulled out his phone—there it was, Jessica mid-twirl in that godforsaken bikini, Ralph's face a pixelated blur of panic. "*2.7 million views.*"
    Ralph buried his face in his hands just as the lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the podium, illuminating a nervous-looking freshman in a *Masculinity is Not a Monolith* tee. Ralph braced for cringe—but then the kid started talking about growing up with three sisters, how he'd learned to braid hair before he could throw a spiral, and something in Ralph's chest loosened.
    Jessica materialized beside him, her knee knocking against his. "*See?*" she murmured, jerking her chin at the panelists—a mixed bag of athletes, activists, and yes, one sheepish frat boy. "*Not all testosterone-fueled dumpster fires.*"
    Ralph didn't answer. He was too busy watching the frat guy—Brett, according to his nametag—shift uncomfortably as he admitted, "*I, uh, used to catcall. Thought it was a compliment.*" The crowd murmured; Brett swallowed hard. "*Then my little sister got harassed at a party. And I realized—fuck, that’s what I sounded like.*"
    Something hot prickled behind Ralph’s ribs. He glanced at Jessica, expecting a smirk, but her expression was oddly soft. "*That’s the point,*" she whispered, her shoulder pressing against his. "*You think I dragged you here to shame you? I dragged you here because you* listen. *Even when it hurts.*"
    The panel devolved into a lively debate about "toxic vs. tender" masculinity, with the lacrosse guy arguing that crying during *Inside Out* shouldn't be a fucking personality trait. Ralph found himself nodding along—then freezing when the moderator pointed at him. "*You in the borrowed band tee. Thoughts?*"
    Jessica’s knee bumped his again, a silent *Go on.* Ralph stood, his notes crumpling in his grip. "*I, uh—*" His voice cracked. "*I used to think feminism was just... not being an asshole to women. But it’s bigger than that. It’s unlearning how you’ve been taught to* see *people—including yourself.*" He hesitated, then added, "*Also,* Inside Out *is a masterpiece.*"
    The crowd laughed. Jessica’s fingers curled around his wrist, her thumb brushing his pulse point. "*Look at you,*" she murmured, her grin brighter than the stage lights. "*Applying theory.*"
    Ralph sat down, his face burning, and realized two things:
    1. He’d just publicly admitted to giving a shit.      
    2. Jessica’s hand was still on his arm, her touch warm and steady, like an anchor in the storm of his own discomfort.
    He risked a glance at her. She was watching the panel, but her lips were curved in a small, satisfied smile—the kind that said *I knew you had it in you.*
    Ralph exhaled. For once, the heat in his cheeks wasn’t from shame.
    It was from hope.
    Inside Ralph’s skull, the control room looked like a cross between NASA mission control and a fraternity house after a three-day bender. Emotions slumped over panels, half-empty energy drinks littered the floor, and a single flickering neon sign read *WHAT EVEN IS MASCULINITY ANYMORE*.
    At the central console, Anxiety—a twitchy gremlin in a *I Survived Gender Studies* hoodie—was mashing buttons like a gamer on a losing streak. “Red alert! Red alert!” he screeched, pointing at the live feed of Jessica’s fingers still curled around Ralph’s wrist. “She’s *touching* us! Casual contact! Casual *feminist* contact! What’s the protocol?!”
    “Protocol is *panic*,” muttered Confusion, spinning in a swivel chair with a dazed expression. “Always panic.”
    Meanwhile, Lust—wearing sunglasses indoors and leaning against the *Horny Jail* sign—whistled low. “Y’know, if we *hypothetically* imagined her bikini—”
    “NO!” shouted Guilt, slamming a fist on the big red *Catholic Shame* button. “We are *not* doing this again!”
    Across the room, a new emotion stomped in—a wiry figure in a *Critical Theory* tee, adjusting her glasses with an air of smug superiority. “Actually,” said Intellectual Attraction, “what we’re experiencing is a *paradigm shift* of socioemotional—”
    “Nobody asked you, nerd,” Lust drawled.
    Anxiety suddenly gasped, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Oh god oh god she’s *leaning in*—“
    In the real world, Jessica’s lips brushed Ralph’s ear as she whispered, “You’re *blushing*.”
    Back in the control room, every alarm exploded at once.

Ralph’s throat clicked as he swallowed. The forum hall blurred at the edges, the panelists’ voices fading into static. All he could focus on was the heat of Jessica’s breath against his ear, the way her knee kept bumping his like a metronome counting down to his inevitable meltdown.
    “I’m not,” he lied, voice cracking. “It’s—hot in here.”
    Jessica pulled back just enough to smirk at him. “Uh-huh.” Her thumb traced a slow circle over his pulse point, and Ralph’s brain short-circuited so hard he almost missed the moderator saying, “—and now, we’ll hear from Jessica and Ralph on their groundbreaking *advertising analysis*.”
    Jessica’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Showtime.” She yanked him to his feet before he could protest, her grip iron-clad around his wrist. The spotlight hit them like an interrogation lamp.
    Somewhere in Ralph’s skull, Anxiety was hyperventilating into a paper bag. “ABORT ABORT—”
    “Too late,” Lust sighed, reclining in his chair. “We ride at dawn, boys.”

The podium was smaller than Ralph remembered. Or maybe Jessica was just taking up more space than usual, her shoulder pressed against his as she flipped open their presentation folder with a flourish. “So,” she announced, “turns out capitalism objectifies *everyone*—just differently.” She clicked to the first slide—a side-by-side of the cigarette woman and the shirtless cologne guy. “Notice anything?”
    The audience murmured. Ralph cleared his throat. “Uh. One’s selling smokes, one’s selling… body spray?”
    “Wrong.” Jessica jabbed the clicker. “They’re both selling *fantasy*. Her—the fantasy of *being* desired. Him—the fantasy of *getting* whatever you want.” She advanced the slide—a graph showing Ralph’s ad tallies. “But here’s the kicker: *both* fantasies rely on the same lie.” She paused, letting the room lean in. “That your worth is something you *buy*.”
    A beat of silence. Then the forum hall erupted—cheers, whoops, scattered applause. The lacrosse guy was on his feet, fist-pumping the air. Even Maya looked reluctantly impressed, scribbling notes with her nose ring twitching in amusement. 
    Jessica turned to Ralph with a grin so bright it should’ve come with a radiation warning. "Nailed it," she mouthed, bumping her hip against his. His borrowed shirt rode up where her skin brushed his, warm and electric. 
    But the high was short-lived. Two days later, their Gender Studies professor strolled into class with a manila folder and a smile that spelled trouble. "For your final," she announced, tapping the folder against her palm, "you'll write an in-class essay on what you've learned—not just from the course material, but from the *experience* of taking the test itself."
    Ralph frowned. Jessica stiffened beside him, her highlighter freezing mid-swipe. "Wait," she said slowly, "what *experience*?"
    The professor’s grin widened. "Oh, didn’t I mention?" She flipped open the folder with a theatrical flourish. "You'll be writing it nude."
    The class erupted. Someone’s water bottle hit the floor. Maya choked on her gum. 
    Ralph’s brain short-circuited so hard he actually heard the *pop*. "I’m sorry," he croaked, "you want us to—"
    "Strip. Yes." The professor perched on the edge of her desk, swinging one leg. "Think of it as... applied theory. How does it *feel* to be objectified? To have your body scrutinized as part of an academic exercise?" Her gaze flicked to Jessica, who’d gone eerily still. "Some of you already have firsthand experience."
    Jessica’s fingers clenched around her highlighter. "That was *performance art*."
    "And this is *pedagogy*." The professor shrugged. "Unless you’d prefer an alternative assignment?"
    A dangerous glint lit Jessica’s eyes. Ralph recognized that look—it usually preceded chaos. "What kind of alternative?"
    "Five-thousand-word research paper. MLA format. Peer-reviewed sources." The professor smiled sweetly. "Due tomorrow."
    The class groaned. Jessica’s jaw tightened. Ralph watched the internal war play out across her face—pride vs. pragmatism, audacity vs. academic survival. 
    Then, to his horror, she stood up. 
    "Fine," Jessica said, and reached for the hem of her shirt.
    The room collectively held its breath. Ralph’s pulse thundered in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. 
    But then—Jessica hesitated. Her fingers twitched. For the first time since Ralph had met her, she looked... uncertain. 
    The professor arched a brow. "Problem?"
    Jessica’s throat worked. "What if..." She swallowed. "What if we’re not... comfortable?"
    A beat of silence. The professor’s expression softened. "Then you write the paper." She turned to the class. "That’s the *point*. Consent matters. Comfort matters. This isn’t about humiliation—it’s about *choice*." 
    A murmur rippled through the room. Maya slowly raised her hand. "So... we *can* opt out?"
    "Of course." The professor shrugged. "But ask yourself *why* you’re opting out. Is it body shame? Cultural conditioning? Fear of judgment?" She nodded to Jessica, still gripping her shirt. "There’s no wrong answer. Only self-awareness."
    Jessica exhaled hard through her nose. Then, decisively, she sat back down. "I'm writing the paper," she announced, flipping open her laptop with a sharp *click*.
    The collective tension in the room snapped like a rubber band. Ralph nearly collapsed with relief—until Jessica turned to him with that glint in her eye. "*But*," she said, nudging his shin with her boot, "you should totally do it."
    Ralph's stomach dropped into his shoes. "*What*?"
    Jessica grinned, leaning in close enough that he caught the citrus-sharp scent of her shampoo. "Come on. You've got, like, *nothing* to be ashamed of." Her gaze flicked downward pointedly, then back up. "*Theoretically*."
    Ralph's ears burned. "Jess—"
    "I'll even help you write the essay portion," she bartered, scribbling *FREE TUTORING* in the margin of his notebook. "Think of it as... ethnographic research. Participant observation. You'd be *contributing to academia*."
    The professor cleared her throat. "Decisions, everyone. Now."
    Hands shot up—some opting for the paper, some (mostly the *Feminism is for Everybody* guy, who looked alarmingly eager) choosing the nude option. Ralph's arm felt like lead as he raised it halfway. "Uh. Paper. Definitely paper."
    Jessica sighed dramatically. "*Coward*."
    Maya snorted. "You're one to talk, *performance artist*."
    Jessica flipped her off, but there was no heat in it. Ralph caught the way her fingers trembled slightly against her laptop keys—microscopic, but there. For all her bravado, even Jessica had limits.
    The professor clapped her hands. "Alright, papers on my desk by five. Nude participants—follow me to the art studio. We've set up privacy partitions."
    As the class split, Ralph watched Jessica's shoulders slump minutely. He leaned over. "You okay?"
    She blinked at him, surprised. "*Me*? Yeah, obviously." But her smile didn't reach her eyes.
    Ralph hesitated, then nudged her notebook. "So. Five thousand words. Wanna suffer together at the library?"
    Jessica studied him for a long moment—then smirked, the real one this time. "Only if you buy me coffee first."

Three hours and six espresso shots later, Ralph's eyeballs felt like they'd been sandblasted. Jessica, perched on the library table with her Docs hooked on the chair rungs, was highlighting passages like a woman possessed.
    "You're *sure* you don't want to just strip?" she groaned, tossing another annotated article at him. "This is *torture*."
    Ralph rubbed his temples. "Pretty sure, yeah."
    Jessica flopped backward across the table, her neon hair fanning out. "Ugh. Fine. But I'm holding this over you *forever*."
    Something twinged in Ralph's chest. He hesitated, then asked the question that'd been nagging him since class: "Why'd you back out?"
    Jessica stilled. For a second, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then— "Same reason you did," she muttered at the ceiling. "It's different when it's not *your* choice, y'know?"
    Ralph did know. He thought of Jessica's bravado in the bikini, how it'd felt like armor. How even she'd frozen when the power dynamic shifted.
    Jessica suddenly sat up, jabbing a finger at his notes. "*Here*—use this Judith Butler quote about performativity. It'll make you sound smart."
    Jessica snapped her laptop shut with a decisive *click* that echoed through the silent library. The sound made Ralph flinch—he'd been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, his vision blurring around the edges of Judith Butler's impenetrable prose.
    "Okay," Jessica announced, swinging her legs off the table and planting her boots squarely on the floor. "New plan." Her grin had that dangerous edge Ralph had learned to fear. "We're doing the nude exam."
    Ralph's highlighter slipped from his fingers. "*What*?"
    Jessica rolled her eyes. "Five thousand words by five PM? Impossible. But stripping?" She shrugged. "Takes thirty seconds max."
    Ralph's throat went dry. "Jess—"
    "Relax," she said, leaning in until he could count the freckles dusting her nose. "The whole class already saw me in a bikini thinner than your moral fiber. What's a couple less dental floss straps?"
    Ralph's brain short-circuited. Somewhere in his skull, Anxiety started sobbing into a stress ball shaped like the male gaze.
    Jessica stood abruptly, shoving her laptop into her bag. "Meet me at the art studio in fifteen. Wear something easy to take off." She paused at the door, flashing him a wink over her shoulder. "Or don't."
    The library doors swung shut behind her with a cheerful *whoosh*, leaving Ralph alone with his existential dread and six empty espresso cups.

The art studio smelled like turpentine and poor life choices. Ralph hovered near the entrance, clutching his borrowed band tee like a security blanket. Across the room, privacy screens formed makeshift changing stalls, their flimsy frames doing little to muffle the sounds of zippers and nervous laughter.
    Jessica materialized beside him wearing what appeared to be a cropped trench coat—a look that somehow managed to be both absurd and devastatingly attractive. "You came," she said, sounding annoyingly pleased.
    Ralph swallowed hard. "I—"
    "Save it." She tossed him a numbered tag. "You're station three. I'm four. Try not to hyperventilate."
    As Ralph shuffled toward his assigned partition, he passed Maya adjusting a strategically placed notebook over her chest. "*Don't*," she warned when he opened his mouth.
    The *Feminism is for Everybody* guy—now shirtless and gleaming with what smelled like coconut oil—gave Ralph a thumbs up. "Embrace the vulnerability, bro!"
    Ralph had never wanted to die more.
    Inside the partition, the overhead light buzzed ominously. Ralph stared at the folding chair where his clothes were supposed to go, his fingers hovering over his belt buckle. Somewhere to his left, fabric rustled—Jessica's coat hitting the floor, probably. His ears burned.
    A knock at the partition made him jump. "You alive in there?" Jessica's voice was closer than expected.
    "Barely," Ralph croaked.
    The partition rattled as Jessica leaned against it. "Look," she said, quieter now. "If you bail, I won't judge." A pause. "Okay, I'll judge a *little*. But mostly I'll get it."
    Ralph squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the tremble in her voice—microscopic, but there. Jessica wasn't fearless; she was just better at faking it.
    Something settled in his chest. He took a deep breath. "Nah," he said, stripping off his shirt with more confidence than he felt. "But if I faint, tell everyone it was *performance art*."
    Jessica's laugh was startled, bright. The partition trembled as she knocked her forehead against it. "Deal."
    Footsteps approached—the professor, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. "Five minutes, everyone. Remember—" Her voice carried through the studio, warm but firm. "—this isn't about shame. It's about choice."
    Ralph looked down at his clothes pooled at his feet, then at the numbered tag in his hand.
    Choice.
    He took a breath. Then another.
    And stepped out from behind the partition.
    The first thing Ralph noticed—*couldn’t* not notice—was the sheer volume of skin. The art studio had transformed into something between a life drawing class and a very specific anxiety dream. Dozens of students sat on stools or stood awkwardly clutching clipboards, all gloriously, unapologetically nude. And *oh god*, at least seventy percent were women.
    Jessica whistled low under her breath beside him. "Damn. This is like... a *really* progressive Renaissance painting." She nudged Ralph’s bare shoulder with her own. "You good?"
    Ralph’s vocal cords had apparently fused. His gaze snagged on a girl two stools over—*Philosophy of Gender* girl, he recognized—who was nonchalantly twirling a pen between her fingers like her nudity was the least interesting thing in the room. Meanwhile, his own hands had migrated to cover... *things*. 
    "Stop that," Jessica hissed, swatting his wrists. "You look like a Victorian ghost covering his ankles."
    "I *feel* like a Victorian ghost," Ralph muttered back. His skin prickled under the weight of multiple gazes—curious, assessing, *amused*. A girl with a septum ring smirked at him from across the room, her eyebrows lifting pointedly. Ralph’s face burned. 
    Jessica rolled her eyes and grabbed his wrist, hauling him toward their assigned stools like a parent dragging a reluctant child onto a rollercoaster. "Relax. They’re not staring at you because you’re *naked*." She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "They’re staring because you’re *panicking*."
    As if on cue, the *Feminism is for Everybody* guy—now fully nude and gleaming with what smelled suspiciously like baby oil—waved enthusiastically from his perch near the front. "Ralph! Over here, man!" 
    Every head turned. Ralph considered spontaneous combustion.
    Jessica snorted. "Come *on*, control group." She plopped onto her stool with the casual grace of someone who’d done this weekly, crossing one leg over the other. The overhead lights caught the sweat at her collarbone, the faint stretch marks along her thighs. Ralph abruptly found the floor fascinating.
    The professor clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone. Essay prompts are on your clipboards. You have ninety minutes." She paused, surveying the room with something between pride and mischief. "Remember—this isn’t about shame. It’s about existing in your body without apology."
    Jessica grabbed Ralph’s clipboard and shoved it into his hands. "Stop dissociating and start writing," she ordered under her breath. Then, louder: "And *stop* hunching. You look like a question mark."
    Ralph couldn't uncurl his spine. His knuckles whitened around the clipboard, which did *nothing* to hide his thighs. Or anything else. "Jess," he hissed, "I can't *think* with all this—" His gaze flickered involuntarily to *Philosophy of Gender* girl's collarbones, then snapped away like he'd been burned. "*Christ*."
    Jessica snorted. "Wow. Textbook cognitive dissonance." She leaned in, her bare shoulder pressing against his. "What's the matter, Ralph? Never seen a nipple before?"
    Ralph's ears burned. "That's not—" His voice cracked. "There are *so many*."
    "Congrats, you've discovered fifty percent of the human population," Jessica deadpanned. She tapped his clipboard with her pen. "Now write before I start pointing out how *Feminism is for Everybody* guy keeps flexing his abs at you."
    Ralph choked. "He's *what*—"
    Jessica rolled her eyes. "God, you're *paralyzed*. Look—" She grabbed his chin, forcibly turning his head toward the professor, who was serenely adjusting her reading glasses—still fully clothed, the *hypocrite*. "Eyes *here*. Breathe through your mouth if you have to."
    Ralph sucked in a ragged breath. The air smelled like acrylic paint and nervous sweat. "This is *every naked nightmare*," he muttered, "but with *grading*."
    Jessica's grin faltered. For a second, she almost looked... sympathetic. "Yeah," she admitted quietly. "Welcome to *existing while female* 101." She gestured vaguely at the room. "Now you know why we need feminism."
    Ralph opened his mouth—to protest, to defend himself—when the *Feminism is for Everybody* guy (Ethan, Ralph suddenly remembered) sauntered over, his clipboard held *strategically* low. "Hey," Ethan said, grinning. "You guys wanna form, like, a *nude study group* or—"
    Jessica kicked him in the shin. Ethan yelped.
    The professor cleared her throat. "Ninety minutes starts *now*."
    Ralph stared at his prompt—*Discuss the embodied experience of gender performativity in relation to societal expectations*—and felt his soul leave his body. Jessica nudged him with her bare knee. "Just pretend you're in your underwear," she whispered.
    He glanced around the room. *Philosophy of Gender* girl was twisting a lock of hair around her finger, shoulders hunched slightly inward. Maya had her arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping anxiously against the stool leg. Even *Feminism is for Everybody* guy—Ethan—was sitting stiffly, his tan lines glaringly obvious under the fluorescent lights.
    Jessica wasn't wrong—*everyone* looked uncomfortable. Just not... *physiologically* uncomfortable in the way Ralph was rapidly becoming.
    His throat constricted. He could *not* be the only one dealing with this. The biology of it was mortifying—women didn't have to broadcast their arousal like some grotesque flagpole. Jessica caught his panicked downward glance and smirked. "Oh my *god*," she mouthed, delighted.
    Ralph grabbed his clipboard and held it strategically over his lap. "Shut *up*," he hissed, ears burning.
    Jessica leaned in, her breath hot against his temple. "Relax. It's just *blood flow*." She paused. "Though given the *circumference*—"
    "*Jessica*."
    She cackled, loud enough that three stools over, Maya shot them a glare. "What?" Jessica stage-whispered. "He's *contributing to the discourse*!" She tapped Ralph's clipboard with her pen. "Write that down—*male gaze, internalized*—with a *footnote* about involuntary—"
    Ralph choked. "I will *end* you."
    The professor cleared her throat. "Focus, please."
    Jessica flipped her hair over one shoulder—a move that did *nothing* to help Ralph's predicament—and scribbled something in the margin of his notes: *Boner ≠ counterrevolutionary. Breathe, dude.*
    Ralph exhaled shakily. The room smelled like sweat and acrylic paint, the air thick with the unspoken tension of fifty exposed bodies trying *very* hard not to acknowledge they were exposed. He gripped his pen tighter. This was academia now. This was his life.
    Jessica nudged him again. "Hey." Her voice dropped, uncharacteristically serious. "You're *fine*. Nobody cares."
    Ralph glanced sideways at *Philosophy of Gender* girl, who was now chewing her thumbnail while staring resolutely at her own knees. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Maya's neck. Even the professor had her arms crossed tightly over her blazer.
    "See?" Jessica murmured. "We're all *miserable*." She uncrossed her legs deliberately, the movement casual. "Just... don't *stare*, and nobody'll notice."
    Ralph swallowed hard. "Easy for *you* to say."
    Jessica's grin returned, sharp as a blade. "Oh, please. If *I* got visibly wet every time I saw something hot, feminism would've died out in the 90s." She flicked his earlobe. "Now *write*, or I'll tell Ethan you're *into* his flexing."
    Ethan, as if summoned, chose that moment to adjust his posture—which did *nothing* to help Ralph's circulation issues. Ralph groaned and hunched over his clipboard like a gargoyle.
    Jessica sighed. "God. *Men.*" But her knee stayed pressed against his under the stool, warm and solid—an anchor in the sea of naked dread.
    Ralph stared at his blank page. The prompt blurred. He took a breath. Then another.
    And began to write.
    Ralph squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled through his nose—four counts, hold for seven, exhale for eight—just like his therapist had drilled into him after the panic attack during finals week last semester, and that was a final where he got to stay dressed! The studio air smelled like turpentine and the faint metallic tang of sweat-dampened skin. When he opened his eyes, the prompt swam into focus: *Discuss the embodied experience of gender performativity in relation to societal expectations*.
    Something clicked.
    Suddenly, it wasn’t about the nakedness—Jessica’s sharp hipbones jutting as she shifted on her stool, Ethan’s awkwardly crossed ankles, Maya’s white-knuckled grip on her clipboard. It was about the *performance* of it all—the way Jessica’s smirk faltered every time someone’s gaze lingered a second too long on the stretch marks along her thighs, how Ethan kept flexing his abs like he was being graded on them, the way *Philosophy of Gender* girl had wrapped her arms around herself the moment the professor turned her back.
    Ralph’s pen hit the paper. Words spilled out faster than he could form them coherently—*the illusion of control versus the reality of exposure, the paradoxical freedom of forced vulnerability*—his handwriting degenerating into jagged scrawls as he raced to capture the thought before it evaporated. He forgot, briefly, that he was naked.
    Then he glanced up.
    *Philosophy of Gender* girl—*Laura*, her nametag read—was staring at him. Not at his face. Lower.
    Ralph’s pen skidded sideways, leaving an ink scar across the page. His cheeks burned, but oddly, the humiliation was secondary to the dawning realization: *She’s uncomfortable too*.
    A choked laugh escaped him. Jessica whipped her head around, her neon-streaked hair sticking to her flushed neck. “What?” she hissed.
    Ralph gestured vaguely at the room with his pen. “It’s *all* performative.” His voice came out louder than intended. Several heads turned. Ethan gave him a thumbs up, his biceps flexing involuntarily.
    Jessica’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth—probably to mock him—but then her gaze flicked downward. Her cheeks went violently pink.
    Ralph blinked. That was new. Jessica, who’d sauntered through the lecture hall in a bikini thinner than his patience, was *blushing*? Her cheeks burned crimson, her fingers twitching against her clipboard like she wanted to cover herself—or maybe punch him. The irony was almost poetic: ninety percent naked had been fine, but one hundred percent naked was suddenly *too much*.
    Jessica caught him staring and scowled. “What?” she snapped, her voice cracking.
    Ralph smirked. “Nothing,” he lied. “Just... noticing how much difference a few square inches of fabric makes.”
    Jessica’s glare could’ve melted steel. “Shut *up*.” She crossed her arms—then uncrossed them quickly when the movement made her shoulders hunch. “It’s *different*, okay?”
    “How?”
    “Because—” Jessica’s throat worked. She glanced sideways at Laura, who was *still* staring, and something in her expression tightened. “Because when I *chose* it, it was *mine*. This?” She gestured sharply at the room. “This is... *theirs*.”
    The words landed like a gut punch. Ralph’s smirk faded. He’d been so wrapped up in his own panic, he hadn’t considered—of course it was different. Jessica in her bikini had been a grenade tossed into the room, all calculated shock and defiance. Jessica here, now, was just... exposed.
    A choked noise escaped her—half laugh, half gasp—as Ethan sauntered past, his hips swinging with exaggerated confidence. “God, *look* at him,” she muttered. “He’s *performing*.”
    Ralph followed her gaze. Ethan *was* performing—shoulders back, chest out, abs flexing like he was in a damn Calvin Klein ad. But his knuckles were white around his clipboard, his smile strained at the edges.
    “Oh,” Ralph said softly.
    Jessica exhaled sharply through her nose. “Yeah. *Oh*.”
    Laura cleared her throat pointedly from her stool. “Are you two *done*?” Her voice dripped with disdain, but her knees were pressed together so tightly they trembled.
    Jessica stiffened. Then, deliberately, she uncrossed her legs and leaned back—a movement that should’ve been casual but screamed *fuck you*. “Yep,” she said, popping the *p*. “Just *deconstructing the male gaze*.” She shot Ralph a look. “Right?”
    Ralph’s throat dried. His gaze snagged on the freckles scattered across her collarbone, the way her ribcage expanded with each breath. *Deconstructing the male gaze* was a nice academic phrase for *trying not to stare at your best friend’s tits*.
    “Right,” he croaked.
    Jessica rolled her eyes—but her shoulders relaxed slightly. “*Pathetic*,” she muttered, affectionately.
    The professor clapped her hands. “Ten minutes remaining!”
    Ralph looked down at his essay—a frantic, ink-smudged mess of half-formed thoughts about vulnerability and performativity. He’d written *more* in forty naked minutes than he had all semester.
    Jessica peered over his shoulder. “Huh,” she said, her breath warm against his bare skin. “You *can* think with your dick.”
    Ralph elbowed her—gently, because she was still *naked* and he wasn’t a monster. “Shut up.”
    She didn’t. Instead, she leaned closer, her hair brushing his shoulder. “Admit it,” she murmured. “This was *educational*.”
    Ralph glanced around the studio—at Ethan’s forced grin, Laura’s white-knuckled grip, Maya’s hunched shoulders. At Jessica, flushed but unyielding beside him.
    “Yeah,” he admitted. “It was.”
    Jessica’s smile was small, private. “Told you.”
    The bell rang.
    Chaos erupted as fifty students lunged for their clothes. Ralph yanked his shirt over his head with embarrassing haste, his fingers fumbling the hem. When he emerged, Jessica was already dressed—mostly. Her band tee was inside-out, her hair a wild tangle.
    She caught him looking and flipped him off. “Not *one* word.”
    Ralph zipped his lips—then unzipped them immediately. “You’re blushing again.”
    Jessica kicked him in the shin.
    It was *glorious*.
    The classroom smelled like stale coffee and the faint, lingering ghost of acrylic paint—though Ralph suspected that last part was just his PTSD. He hovered near the door, clutching his backpack straps like they were the last shred of his dignity. Which, after yesterday’s *immersive learning experience*, they might’ve been.
    Jessica elbowed past him, her usual swagger dialed down to a hesitant shuffle. Her neon-streaked hair was pulled into a messy bun, and for once, she wasn’t wearing a crop top—just an oversized band tee that swallowed her whole. Ralph blinked. "You're... dressed."
    Jessica shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. "Shut up." She yanked at the hem of her shirt like it offended her. "I’m *rebranding*."
    The professor cleared her throat from the front of the room, holding a stack of graded finals. "Before I return these," she said, her voice dripping with amusement, "I’d like to acknowledge *one* group’s... *unconventional* approach to the assignment." Her gaze landed on Jessica, who sank lower in her seat. "Jessica, your *performative* presentation was certainly... *memorable*."
    The class erupted into nervous giggles. Ethan—now fully clothed but still radiating frat-boy energy—whispered loudly, "*Iconic*."
    Jessica groaned and buried her face in her hands. Ralph, against his better judgment, patted her shoulder. "There, there," he murmured. "Your *art* touched us all."
    Jessica flipped him off under the desk.
    The professor continued, smirking. "And while I *initially* considered deducting points for the sheer *chaos* of it all..." She paused dramatically. "I couldn’t deny the effectiveness. A+ to both of you."
    Ralph’s jaw dropped. Jessica peeked through her fingers. "*What?*"
    The professor shrugged. "You proved your point. *Viscerally.*" She tossed their graded finals onto their desks. Jessica’s was covered in red ink and one emphatic note: *Next time, less nudity, more footnotes.*
    Ralph stared at his own grade—the crisp A+ glaring up at him—and the professor’s scribbled addendum: *You survived. That counts for something.*
    The bell rang, and the class erupted into motion, a collective exhale of relief. Ralph stood, his legs wobbly, and glanced at Jessica, who was staring at her paper like it might bite her. "So," he said, nudging her with his elbow. "Was it worth it?"
    Jessica’s lips twitched. "Shut up." But she was fighting a smile.
    They filed out with the others—Ethan bumping shoulders with Maya, Laura shooting Jessica a hesitant thumbs-up—and for a moment, the whole group lingered in the hallway, fully clothed and awkward as hell.

I'm surprised the story got as long as it did but this was one I just thought of about, and again this one probably requires a lot of suspension of disbelief, what if you had some kind of class about sexual objectification in the media and all of that, and that is part of the final exam they had to take the final exam naked, and I figured it would mostly focus on this guy who was an overwhelmingly female class so the majority of the naked people are women but he is probably the one who is more anxious about being naked. In the end though the immersive experience of taking the exam while naked sort of teaches him all the lessons that the course was trying to teach him and I thought that it turned out pretty well in the end. This one takes a while to get to the nudity but when it does I think it actually is more effective for all of the buildup once again.