The Emergency Legal Disclaimer

A brief warning: this one contains adult subject matter, questionable judgment, and significantly more discussion of nudity than is customary for a law firm website. Proceed accordingly.

I overthink everything. I am a lawyer, so for years I called this a professional skill. Eventually, I had to admit that sometimes my brain is less “legal analysis” and more “seventeen tabs are open and one of them is screaming.” Either way, I knew I had a tendency to complicate things.

What I did not know was that this would continue while naked, and frankly, that feels like information somebody should have included in the paperwork.

I had not been with a new man in a very long time. Long enough that I honestly did not know whether there had been updates. I had questions about shaving. I had questions about underwear. I had questions about whether grown women still pretend to own matching lingerie or whether we have collectively reached an age where a man should simply be grateful the bra came off without bolt cutters and a YouTube tutorial.

I also had concerns about my body. Not because I think I am ugly. I do not. Jesus Christ, even typing that made me uncomfortable. Let me immediately insult myself so nobody thinks I have developed self-esteem. I know I am attractive. I also know I have had three children, lost weight, gained weight, lost it again, and spent enough money on Botox that my forehead and I are no longer authorized to communicate directly. Both things can be true.

Naturally, before I ever let a new man see me naked, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and conducted an inspection. This was a terrible idea. Never inspect your naked body under bright bathroom lights. That is not lighting. That is an interrogation technique. I turned sideways and sucked in my stomach, then let it out, then immediately sucked it back in because there was no reason to ruin my own evening. I lifted one breast and looked at it for a minute. I do not know what I expected to learn. It remained a breast. I put it back.

Then I bent over slightly and immediately stood back up. Absolutely not. Some information does not help the case. I am convinced every beautiful woman in America is approximately one accidental bathroom angle away from canceling plans and entering a convent.

Nobody needs a complete 360-degree investigation of her own ass at thirty-eight. The human body was designed before full-length mirrors and front-facing cameras. God never intended this level of discovery.

After about twenty minutes, I decided I still looked pretty damn good and the room would be dark. Not romantic dark. Dark dark. I wanted a man to have to rely primarily on memory, enthusiasm, and whatever he thought he saw on the way in. I had been married long enough to know that eyesight is not required for most male decision-making anyway.

Eventually, the possibility of a new man seeing me naked became considerably less theoretical. I had prepared for this. I have handled murder cases. I have argued in appellate court. I have given birth three times and remained conscious through an impressive percentage of it. Surely, I could handle one man seeing my breasts without requiring professional intervention.

I could not. The problem was not being naked. The problem was that he kept looking at me, which immediately made me suspicious. I finally asked, “What?” He looked confused and asked what I meant, so I explained, “You’re looking at me.” He said yes. I asked, “At what?”

There was a pause long enough for me to actually feel this man reconsidering every decision that had brought him into the room. Finally, he said, “You.” Oh. Right. Me.

Apparently, I had forgotten men look at naked women. In my defense, I had been married. I had spent years walking naked from the shower to the closet while discussing electric bills, lost shoes, school forms, and whether anybody had bought toilet paper. I could have crossed the bedroom completely naked carrying a plunger and received approximately the same reaction as a maintenance employee entering an occupied hotel room. Now this man was staring at me like nudity remained commercially relevant. I did not trust it.

Then he told me I was beautiful, and I said, “You don’t have to say that.” There are women who receive compliments gracefully. I have seen them in public. A man tells them they are beautiful and they smile slowly and say thank you like bitches who knew. I apparently require authentication. When he said, “I know,” that should have been enough. Instead, I told him he had said it really fast.

He asked how fast he was supposed to say it, and I immediately realized he had identified a weakness in my argument. I told him I did not know. He reminded me that I was the one who had complained about the speed, so I suggested maybe three seconds. He repeated, “Three seconds?” and I informed him I had not drafted the rule yet. This is how I found myself naked in the dark creating evidentiary standards for compliments while a man who had presumably anticipated sex accidentally attended a continuing legal education seminar on Authentication of Verbal Praise in Post-Marital Sexual Encounters. One hour ethics credit pending.

I should have stopped talking. Unfortunately, once I realize I have poorly explained myself, I become absolutely committed to fixing the situation with significantly more information. This has never worked, but I admire my consistency. I told him I was nervous. He said, “I know,” and I immediately became offended. I asked what he meant by that. He laughed. I did not. At this point, he had complimented me too quickly, identified my emotional state without laying a foundation, and laughed during questioning. The investigation was expanding rapidly.

Then he asked if I was okay. I said yes. Perfect. One word. Direct answer. We could have moved forward. Instead, my brain climbed over the front seat, grabbed the steering wheel, and I added, “Legally.”

I do not know why I said legally. I have replayed the moment and found no reasonable explanation. I am a grown woman. I have handled serious criminal cases and stood in front of appellate judges. Yet there I was, completely naked, reassuring a man that I was legally okay. There are moments when God himself gives you a clear opportunity to shut the fuck up. I have never been particularly receptive to divine intervention.

He slowly asked, “What?” I admitted I did not know why I had said it. He repeated, “Legally?” I told him to forget legally. He said he did not think he could. I then clarified that I was consenting, which caused him to point out that he had not asked. I told him I knew he had not asked and that I was merely clarifying. He asked what exactly I was clarifying. At that point, I had absolutely no idea, but I had begun an explanation and I will burn an entire city to the ground before I abandon an explanation halfway through.

“This isn’t about you,” I told him. He actually closed his eyes. Apparently, even naked men recognize that sentence as a threat. I corrected myself and said it was a little about him but mostly about me. He said, “I figured.” I ignored his tone.

He said, “Judith,” but I told him to let me finish, another phrase I assume no man hopes to hear while naked. I explained that I have Bipolar I, a law degree, and a brain that can turn one perfectly normal compliment into a six-part evidentiary hearing before most people have found their underwear. He said, “You are beautiful.” I said, “Allegedly.”

He stared at me. I stared back. Somewhere in the silence, I realized I had just accused a naked man of fraudulent attraction. Worse, I could identify no motive. This genuinely bothered me, so I explained that I was simply trying to understand the scam. He asked what scam. I said, “Exactly. That’s the problem. I cannot identify the financial incentive.”

He started laughing. I do not mean a polite little laugh. This man was genuinely laughing while I was naked and emotionally conducting discovery. In an effort to provide further context, I explained that my brain is complicated. He said, “I can tell.” Rude.

Eventually, the man sat down. He had apparently accepted that whatever he originally thought was about to happen had been postponed due to pending litigation. I continued because dignity had left the room several objections earlier. I told him my brain needed evidence. He pointed out that I was naked. I called that circumstantial. He reminded me I was naked in front of him. Still circumstantial. Then he pointed out that he was also naked. I had to concede that this was more compelling.

He put his face in his hands, and I honestly felt we were finally making progress. A man could call me beautiful and I questioned his timing. He could kiss me and I questioned his motive.

Apparently, a man could remove his own pants and some damaged little portion of my brain would still be sitting in the corner with a yellow legal pad saying, “Interesting. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

At some point, I explained that apparently I had created an internal appellate court devoted entirely to deciding whether anyone actually meant the nice things they said to me. He said, “Judith.” I said I knew. He said my name again, and I finally told him, “I KNOW. Imagine living in here.”

He kissed me. Smart man. It turns out you cannot effectively cross-examine someone while they are kissing you.

Later, I realized I had spent a significant portion of the evening challenging a man’s credibility because he wanted to have sex with me. Do you understand how little men have historically been required to do for sex? Be present. Sometimes barely. A man can wake up from a nap, have no idea what day it is, where his phone is, or whether he has already eaten dinner and still become sexually available before he locates his glasses.

Meanwhile, I needed foundation. I needed proof. I wanted his opinion that I was beautiful authenticated and, if possible, peer-reviewed. I was one insecurity away from asking him to identify every woman he had found attractive during the preceding ten years and explain the basis for comparison. Three references would have been helpful. A sworn affidavit from his mother would not have hurt.

The truth is, I had spent enough time not feeling wanted that I had apparently forgotten what being wanted looked like in person. I understood it theoretically. I had seen it in movies. I vaguely remembered it from my twenties. But after enough time being able to walk naked through a bedroom carrying a plunger without interrupting anyone’s train of thought, a man looking at you like he genuinely likes what he sees feels less flattering than suspicious. My self-esteem did not rise to the occasion. It asked follow-up questions.

I wish I could tell you I learned an important lesson. I did not. If a man tells me I am beautiful, I still have questions. What specifically? When did you first form this opinion? Has your opinion changed over time? Have you discussed this matter with anyone else? Are there text messages? Did you tell your friends? What did they say? Please answer only the question asked.

I am trying to improve. If I am ever again asked whether I am okay under similar circumstances, I have prepared a better answer. I am going to say yes. That is it. Just yes. No legal disclaimer.

No discussion of my life history. No supplemental disclosures. No allegations of fraud. I am going to smile like one of those emotionally stable women I have seen in pharmaceutical commercials and shut my mouth.

Probably. I make no warranties, express or implied, and past performance is absolutely no indication of future results.

Judith L. Hampton

Attorney-at-Law

Hampton Law Firm

(Disclaimer - this story is entirely based in fiction; however, if you know me, you know it is entirely possible that it could be autobiographical)

Areas of practice include: 

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⚪️Real Estate & Title Insurance

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⚪️Boundary Disputes 

⚪️Interdiction & Guardianship

⚪️Other Civil Matters

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