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I didn't go to the recent Dali exhibition at the NGV. I tried to go, I really did! I love Dali's style, but when I heard the queue to get in on the final night stretched as far back as Flinders Street, I wimped out.

I feel like a bad Melburnian. Regardless, at my age could I really line up for three hours on a Saturday night (without a beverage)? No way. I convinced myself I would see the exhibition another time, somewhere else. Years ago, I was different. I couldn't wait to get involved with everything the Melbourne arts scene offered up. Even if that meant ditching the smalls.

One year during the Melbourne International Arts Festival, a photographer who encouraged people to strip off en masse for his art was touring.

Some friends and I got involved. No questions asked. It was our duty to ensure Melbourne had the largest numbers of participants of any city in which this guy had photographed so far. This was going to be bigger than the AFL grand final! No shorts, but plenty of balls.

On a freezing morning, thousands of us ditched our inhibitions and stripped down. All our wobbly bits were on show. Honestly, it was a liberating experience. Together we really just looked like a flock of sheep.

I found out a few things too. A lot of Melburnians have dodgy tatts (Celtic for boys, dolphins for girls), most don't bother to wax, and nude blokes just can't help but remind you of the effect the cold has on them.

Years later my nude art experience was long forgotten. Then I got a call from a good friend. He told me he had something I needed to see. His tone was serious. This was bad.

This friend was working on a building site in Altona. The site was serviced by a Portaloo. Said toilet held some intellectual reading material for the lads; a cheap, now-defunct weekly mag that specialised in grid girls, gruesome injuries and pictures of blokes vomiting on their mates. Quality stuff.

Inside the mag were images from the Melbourne nude extravaganza. There was a general shot of the thousands of participants, celebrating our lofty ideal of everyone as one, and also, a small pic of my three friends and me. Out of 4000 people a random photographer on the street had singled us out? Oh. My. God.

Distraught, I anonymously called one of those el-cheapo law firms that advertise on daytime TV alongside the Go Duster and Sham Wow ads. Was there anything I could do about it? Nope. The article was years old, and it was my choice to strip off in a public space.

It's all my stupid fault, I thought. If only I'd had a bout of my recent apathy, I'd never have to suffer the humiliation of seeing that photo years later.

I bared my all for art, and then it turned around and bit me on the bum. My big, bare bum!

Unfortunately, it seems I had signed up for the Melbourne International ''Arse'' Festival.

In retrospect, I think if I hadn't had so much youthful exuberance, none of this would have happened. At the time, maybe I should have questioned my actions, thought about the consequences and shied away.

Then I'd have no regrets.

But then, what a boring life I would have led.

There are two upsides to this. First, if anyone suggests I do a tacky men's magazine shoot I can tell them there's no need; I've already got a version, complete with blotches from the cold, no airbrushing and bad '90s hair. I have to embrace it.

Otherwise, I'd go mad thinking about it.

Second, while I didn't stand in a queue to go to the Dali exhibition, I did magically appear nude in a Portaloo in Altona.

That's surreal enough for me.