It’s three fifteen in the afternoon when I arrive at the photographer’s studio. The entire apartment is one large room. All four walls consist only of brick and black cavities where brick once existed. A lonesome, feeble wood column reluctantly holds up the entire ceiling. It moans in agony as I pace the room, threatening a collapse. The door latch clicks shut with an irreversible finality. I’m trapped.

I peel off my shirt at a glacial pace. My breathing reduces to quick, shallow wheezes. I belatedly realize why most nude models change into robes first. My fingers, shaking like dogs in the rain, move to my shoes. I blink, and both of my useless hands are ensnared in a tangled labyrinth of shoelace. I forcefully shake them free, curse under my breath, and kick my shoes off. They collide hard against the wall. The column groans in pain. My socks, a pair of black cotton pythons, asphyxiate my mousy ankles. They are a relief to uproot.

I’m now face to face with the agonizing affair of taking off my pants. The caterpillars chewing at my stomach have mutated into full-blown butterflies. Cacophonous, imaginary laughter floods my ears. Conceptually (in the realm of art), the human body, regardless of shape or size, is beautiful. But ideals can’t be woven into a safety net. And I’m about to take the plunge.

My jeans take a nosedive. They crash-land into the floor with a deafening echo. I’m only one garment away from complete nakedness. The photographer disembowels the camera and bluntly forces in a new roll of film. He’s feeding the beast. It viciously gnaws on its meal with predatory playfulness. I hold my breath and shut my eyes. I pull down my briefs. There’s nothing left between my heart and the lens but skin. I am completely nude. I am completely vulnerable.

I open my eyes. The muscles in my face tighten and contort, twisting uncontrollably into… a smile? I’m smiling! I feel weightless. I bounce about the room, pausing in one area, then another. I comfortably lean against a windowsill. The camera shutter flutters with excitement. I humorously sit on a silver and red ten-speed Motobecane. I lounge on a blank velvet loveseat and smoke cigarettes.

A new roll of film is switched in, and the room transforms into a prop warehouse. I happen upon a pair of neon orange rimmed sunglasses. They’re so gaudy I have to put them on. A bottle of pink lemonade rests on the kitchen counter. I pour myself a glass and sip it in front of an opaque Kamakura furniture screen. The lemonade tastes like a sunset in Palawan.

Time flies and before I have a chance to catch my breath, the session is over. I begin to put my clothes back on, but I don’t hurry the process. I feel no immediacy to re-enter clothed society.

I say goodbye to the photographer and leave the studio. As I’m walking down the stairwell I come to an enlightening conclusion. Was I vulnerable because I was completely uncovered? Or was I impregnable because I had nothing to hide? The answer is easy. I was nude, not exposed.

Scott Nanos currently studies in the Music Therapy department at Berklee.