Fucking Day: Naked Attraction đ (Patreon)
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âDating in reverseâ sounds like meeting in divorce court and breaking up on a blind date. Or breaking up at a singleâs mixer and meeting because they want white kids. Itâs also the slogan of Naked Attraction, the outer limit of primate-on-primate violence.
The internet lied to me. The finest reality TV cruelty doesnât come from America, Japan, or even the Russian fight pits. Englandâs the uncontested king of Milgram reenactments. All thanks to Channel 4: a suffering-powered machine intended to take us all to Avalon.
Britain approaches reality television with the same empathy and restraint as real estate. But their signature food supply pranks will be forgiven and forgotten long before Naked Attraction. This show starts with hate for human flesh and ends with hate for human souls.
Despite the name, Naked Attraction isnât a nudist colony thriller. Itâs a game about exposing your soul. The contestants also have no clothes, but that barely matters. The star is the misshapen wraith hiding behind civility.
But thatâs just my take. Like any modern crime, Naked Attraction has promo copy.
Thereâs at least one intact brain behind Naked Attraction, because âdating in reverseâ does twice the work without the cliches. Whenever a dating show makes apps the Great Enemy, theyâre liquefying at least one human soul per ad break.
In case you also skim pictures when youâre hung over: on Naked Attraction, six people line up to be judged, limb by limb, like a Virginia fire sale. Despite representing a different triangle trade vertex entirely, players jump in with a Jeffersonâs enthusiasm. Cultural diffusion at its finest.
Iâll skip whether or not this would work. No one cares if dating show guests find love, including the guests. But of all the rituals for Instagram followers, this is the darkest since Age Gap Love. Which is real, exactly what it sounds like, with the first problem you thought of, and also British. Gladiators are next.
I smelled pain after finding ten seasons with no local knockoff. Networks love rushing hits to the syndication money-printer. Ten uncashed checks isnât oversight. Itâs a cover-up. Theyâre hiding the kingdomâs 539th greatest crime.
That, or their spinoff empire canât process nudity without burying Janet Jackson/Katie Hill/[free space]. It takes work to out-prude the people that coined Victorianism, but children strive to surpass their parents. I lashed myself twice for every testicle in this show, and three times for every lash I enjoyed. The NBC set would look a little different..
Before we dissect the frog, two Flash Facts. One: The behavior in this torture chamber and my godless sense of humor donât reflect the reality of dating. They reflect lonely souls judging desperate souls on national television. Body dysmorphia is as common as having a body, so keep that in mind. Two: everythingâs censored, but if you read this at work youâll end today less employed than you began it.
Naked Attraction spirals, but not far. Weâll warm up with the pilot, before deadlifting the heavy despair.
Our host is sideshow veteran Anna Richardson, not that youâd know from watching. Her name appears less often than pierced perineums. The penalty for self-promotion in her contract likely involves a cyanide tooth, or an episode as a contestant.
A shame, since her job takes flexibility. When the guestâs an escaped nun exploring rumors of muscular apes, Anna makes three jokes about balls. When the guest is a cult leader recruiting brides before The Ascension, Anna makes three jokes about vulvas. Iâm not saying sheâs bad. Just that sheâll be replaced by HarassGPT.
She hosted Secret Eaters, which did for eating disorders what Naked Attraction does for body dysmorphia. Anna opened episodes with âBritain has got a big fat secret,â a sentence tied with CCP propaganda for the cruelest words Iâve quoted. Secret Eaters played the oboe over it, alongside footage of people eating against their will. Cooler heads softened it to âBritain has a big problemâ in season two, but by then mankind was ready to stream slap fights to the death.
Her first victimâs Aina, a London musician and perfect mark. Sheâs one of twelve fools to sign up for a reality showâs first season, before anyone knows how many MXCs of humiliation get added in post. The Great British Bake-Off and Big Brother pull from the same species on the same island. Adobe Premiere decides whether you get depravity or Big Brother.
She parties too hard for most guys, so Ainaâs here to find one that also doesnât get consequences. Love means more to her than exposure, unless someone would lie to be famous.
The host parrots Ainaâs intro, and then the dick auction begins.
One of the dicks has this tattoo.
The match is over. In ads, the âunique value propositionâ is something only your product offers, and a lie. Agencies invent the magic separating Pepsi from a theoretical alternative. This man has a real one, in plain sight, with two floppy ears. Every trait that leads someone to S1E1 of Naked Attraction leads to Elephant Dick.
The appeal may be lost on you, because you read. But writing workshops gave me some insight into people that donât. For ennuiâs horniest victims, elephant ears have all the charm spellcheck lacks.
Youâll get both, because the next phase is lying. Weâre pretending the game isnât over. Aina still has to evaluate five other dicks, and send someone home for one of two possible reasons. Followed by four more rounds of live mendacity.
âCheap Thrillsâ plays while Aina eliminates the smallest penis. Per Aina, itâs because of âSomething in the stance.â Before your brain can reject that, we learn the face a human makes during a Genital Walk of Shame.
I get it. Heâs the first man out in a public dick-measuring contest. Only a select group of fraternity rejects know his pain. Afterwards, comfort and mockery will sound and feel identical. The only thing I know about Yellow Pod is that he deserves better.
Yellow Podâs a computer science student, and education canât prepare you for that moment. The class is too hard to pitch: more of us would get mileage out of Advanced Dirty Bomb Defusal than Intro to Televised Dick-Shame. All you can do is brush yourself off, hold your head high, and plot revenge from Monte Cristo.
I could say that the other players arenât eliminated in girth order. That a round answering âWhatâs your favorite body part?â puts the game in the air. That the oceans are retreating and Vince McMahon is going to jail. But Naked Attraction bought ten seasons with one truth: we never stop lying. Players eliminate overweight people for their voice, short people for their elbows, and black people for their fixation on Chinese Emperors. But like Zhao Gaoâs usurpation of Qin Er Shiâs court, everyone can see whatâs happening.
Aina gets naked for the finals. And after revealing her id, she takes her clothes off too.
This theoretically reverses the dynamic, as the host feeds contestants leading questions about Ainaâs body. But Ainaâs still scheduled to humiliate one of them afterwards, so itâs a compliment contest. The man on the left knows heâs lost, and calls her âpresentableâ twice. Meanwhile, as Elephant Man wobbles towards victory, he shows more confidence. His enthusiasm becomes apparent. He gets an erection.
Perfect power move. They leave together.
A cynic might call this premise an incel factory. Yup. That, if nothing else, isnât Naked Attractionâs fault. I donât double-check trending terror motives when I write, except I do because Iâm a lunatic. But I donât expect others to.
âThatâs a lot of incel jokes for one dating show,â says the strawman. âBut I trust Dennard. Surely he knows consensus reality canât survive an incel episode of Naked Attraction.â
Got you again, Comedy Strawman. When will you learn?
By season 7, Naked Attraction is done with standard human isolation. The spark is dead. Itâs heard all of isolationâs stories, tried every position isolation likes from porn, and rerolled sex dice with isolation until their usual came up. Buying a coupleâs cruise only made the divorce bells louder.
Thus begins the stunt casting.
The season premiere has the Christian. I retired from jabs at the Abrahamic expanded universe, after learning I was an âassholeâ who was ânot helpingâ at multiple âweddings.â Naked Attraction skips that lesson, and sets up the softest target it can find for a direct collision with the zeitgeist.
We meet Brian in a jarring cutscene. It has the grace and subtlety of an unprotected chair shot. Weâre a long way past Season Oneâs underground charm, which didnât exist. Naked Attraction can feel The Masked Singer breathing down their neck, and they donât have Chris Jerichoâs number.
Brian explains âIf I was a wine, Iâd be a well-aged Californian Cabernet Sauvignon with lots of elegance and flavor, paired with all kinds of big, bold, beefy dishes.â Screenwriting books call that the lie your hero believes. This gentleman will elegantly call three women fat and pair with no one.
Brianâs never had a girlfriend, kiss, or full explanation of reality TV. I donât know why his Tory friends didnât warn him. Or at least tell him not to say âI donât know where all the parts of the vagina are.â It robs comedy writers of fun paraphrases.
He likes taking things slow, the way a political prisoner likes free housing. Abstinent people are all over the place, but theyâre not charging onto Naked Attraction. And Brianâs hornier than someone ordering wings at a strip club. An editor he should never forgive included this shot:
Then the game begins. Annaâs more dialed-in than usual, which is never good for the players. She hits Brian with five variations of âHow much not-fucking have you done?â seconds after showing a short film with the answer. Brianâs too direct and evasive at the same time, explaining heâs had âhalf a lapdanceâ and âavoided looking at the bottom part.â
Anna smells blood. They roll out six bottom parts.
Brian struggles with the concept.
And bails.
Once again, the match is over. Brianâs still here for love, but the pods are here for airtime. Whoever wins, the date ends in untouched wallet condoms and Jordan Peterson retweets. Anna and Unseen Producer feign concern before gently and supportively getting Brian back to work.
To his credit, he rallies. Genetic memory helps Brian spring into human shopping, and discard idolaters with piercings and makeup. But first, he eliminates Blue Pod for being his âusual type.â I will now cash in my one free virgin joke. Iâm tearing out the coupon, handing it to the cashier, and going back to bored Emperors afterwards.
Brianâs âusual typeâ doesnât matter because he canât have a usual type. I donât have a usual type of private jet. Reagan doesnât have a usual part of Heaven. Naked Attraction knows Brian canât see himself, so itâs set him up to fail. Brianâs dick is an afterthought; his brainâs naked.
Then Green Pod, a gothy gym resident, helpfully identifies key areas of the vagina. And itâs a lock. Three minutes after saying âI think sex should be sacred,â Brian decides Suicide Girls are sacred. Weâre now playing for silver.
Seven seasons in, that means dancing while Brian plays piano.
The logic? Brian needs a classy girl that can wall-twerk to Bach. The truth? Theyâre dead and Anna Richardsonâs the devil. She barks improv comedy at the pods, while Brian avoids tritones in front of bodies heâll never touch. Green Pod and Pink Pod sway in confusion, which I get. Yellow Pod refuses and Red Pod sends it, both earning my eternal respect.
Strong showings all around, but Brianâs fully committed to Elviraâs torso. Heâs planned their wedding reception, down to the wine and Bible translation on each table. Which is a shame, since Blue Pod looked willing to take that deal.
Each trial ends with a time skip and post-date autopsy. I didnât show you Ainaâs, because you know what happened. Some say theyâre still going. But did Brian connect with the Morticia stunt double of his dreams?
Look at that gap. The couch has a demilitarized zone.
This should be the only censored image. Itâs graphic. The couch is Naked Attractionâs cruelest character, and Anna Richardson tries. Failed couples sit across a force field, with eyes that say âI miss the pod.â Itâs like the Penance Stare: I feel every rejection Iâve received or given at once. Homecoming and divorce court, combined on one couch cushion.
It happens a lot.
See, in the NakedVerse humiliation isnât punishment for thirst, prudishness, desperation, aloofness, low ELO, dropping dumbbells, cruelty, or naivete. Itâs punishment for breathing.
Brian slips into playing hall monitor again, but Iâm done needling him. Letâs tap into something I normally avoid: new ants. Noo-aunts. Nu-wants. Fuck. I can do this. Clap your hands and believe in Jamaican Tinkerbell. Nuance. Someone can be a reactionary dork and get done dirty by Channel 4 at the same time. The latter isnât justified until they load up on Tren and become dating coaches.
Naked Attraction bugs me because it wears constructive clothes. If it was called The Lonely Torture Hour or Fuck You, Iâd be talking about chokeslams right now. Instead, Channel 4 made a sex-positive venus fly trap. Brian doesnât need Naked Attraction. He needs two years of constructive failure and a sex-ed pamphlet. Now heâs the U.K.âs most humiliated non-prime minister.
And yes, itâs worse than swiping. Comedians hate online dating and new material. Yet Naked Attraction effortlessly defends the concept. OKHingeMeetsFish, if nothing else, puts some distance between you and live judgment of your pores. For many, that inch of comfort separates romance and Romanian law enforcement. The industryâs an antitrust suit waiting to happen, but so is water.
As for self-promotion? I get it. I really do. Half my career is walking by klan rallies with a âkick meâ sign. Hereâs a handy rule. Write down the craziest shit youâd do to double your following. Not your reach, sales, respect, or fanbase: just passerby on Mark Zâs lawn. Take a photo. If anything more humiliating than that comes along, say no.
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