Bared: On the Night of Primal Scream

I’m supposed to be writing a short piece for The Crimson to include in a compilation of opinions about Primal Scream, a mass streaking event that kicks off on the midnight before the first day of finals. I told the Crimed in charge that I’d be writing about body image (you know, because mine is oh-so-positive). At only 120 words, this should be a piece of cake and a fun opportunity to take cheap shots at my favorite target: myself. But I’ve been trying to start this thing since Saturday night and there are no witty observations that come to mind.

Though I ran Primal Scream my freshman spring, I was less than certain about giving it a second go. I had to coach myself through the experience this time, especially when I realized that there would be much more strolling than jogging thanks to the overwhelming number of participants. I was also hand-in-hand with a petite girlfriend, not the multiple, tall male friends who accompanied and shielded me last semester. Thankfully, I found the run more exhilarating than intimidating. Caught up in the moment, I even felt secure about my body, positive about how I looked. But that was it – a moment. Once completed, this defiant act had little lasting impact.

I want to write that Primal Scream permanently changed the way I view myself physically, that it inspired some remarkable epiphany about how self-perception is all that matters. But the truth is that after the deed was done, my clothes came back on and with them, my insecurities. Perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to articulate my feelings on the subject, because all the liberation it afforded only lasted 180 seconds.

Or perhaps I’m experiencing writer’s block because the only thing I can think or write about is not Primal Scream but what happened afterward.

Four hours after I streaked alongside my peers, I stripped down for a second time in front of Peter, a guy I’ve been seeing. A bit drunk and more than a bit horny, the two of us had practically been going at it moments earlier in front of his friend and my gal pal Kay. Those two got the hint and ducked out early, leaving us alone in his apartment. In no time, we made it in bed. He was lying on top of me when he broke away from our kiss and sat up, staring at me wordlessly.

After a few seconds of silence, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking at you …” His voice trailed off.

“Uh, why?”

“You look perfect like this.”

I laughed. “Um, okay. You’re making me feel really self-conscious.”

“No, really. You look perfect.”

I bit my lip, mildly bewildered, and watched him watching me. I couldn’t decide if I believed him or not. We were about to have sex after all. Attraction was presumed. Besides, I wasn’t exactly a stranger to pre-intercourse compliments and have no problem taking them. But this felt different, almost uncomfortable. Maybe because he used the word “perfect” instead of “hot” or “sexy” or another overtly sexual adjective. Maybe because he was one of the few men I’d grown fond of this term.

Regardless, I think I’ve pinpointed the cause of my writer’s block. For all the supposed liberation streaking ought to bring, it is really just a showcase of the human body and where’s the meaning in that? Though empowering, my jaunt around the Yard wasn’t nearly as memorable an experience as my encounter with Peter later that night. However he looked at me — sexually or not — there was a sense of appreciation that transcended lust, that made me feel like I wasn’t merely on exhibition for spectators or lying on his bed for carnal consumption. I was bared twice on the night of Primal Scream, but Peter saw far more of me than most of my classmates ever will.