Take me Naked (1966) Michael & Roberta Findlay.

'She is a living tomb of flesh, in her nothing will grow!'

Some might say purple prose and Skid row Slap n' tickle makes for an inharmonious coupling, and it is, perhaps, this startling incongruity that makes 60s fartsy artsy flesh phantasmagoria 'Take me Naked' so uniquely fascinating. If Warhol had been a true artist, he would have made Take me Naked, but he wasn't, so he didn't, thank Satan for the Findlays, fervid purveyors of distractingly voluptuous Sinema. I find it to be a teasingly tactile experience, softly, and strangely alluring, as though being tenderly enveloped in a filigree gauze of the finest silk. Watching these divinely uninhibited creatures cavorting sensually amongst a sumptuous confluence of female fecundity remains an intoxicating experience, especially since Take Me Naked has an elegiac, deliriously hashish-hazed quality. This enthusing might be somewhat overripe, but we can't all be F. Scott Fitzgerald, some of us have to make the best of existing as a crawlspace-dwelling nullity. In summation, or, in completion, I have composed a beatnik love ode, a lode, if you will, my heartfelt tribute to a smutty Grindhouse feature I'm really rather fond of.

'some may call it rude, to so wantonly wallow in such creamy-dreamy pulchritude, but, dude!!! I ain't no rube, turn off that boob tube, and pass me the lube, Ermintrude!'