Here’s the deal: if you’re going to be nekkid and take what could end up potentially being agonizingly embarrassing photographs of yourself, you really can’t be too surprised when they end up in the hands of others.
Or a few million others.
It’s not that I am giving any sort of ‘free pass’ to the slimy hackers that recently pilfered through the storage computer ‘clouds’ of celebrities, in various states of undress and behavior, and revealed them for financial gain, it’s just that, even if you had photographs locked up in a desk or a safe at your home, there is still always the chance that someone, anyone, could find and steal them: a common thief, your kids, a divorce attorney…
So maybe decide against that tipsy, spur-of-the -moment madness involving a sombrero and Nutella. Really. Yes, it’s your private life and yes, you should be able to document any event you like, but what are you going to do with those shots, anyway? Pull them out on your wedding anniversary, in a few years time, to prove to yourselves you once actually were happy-go-lucky and spontaneous? Or savor the 28” waistline before the twins?
Sure, it’s nice to have a record of how you looked in the halcyon days of youth and strength. When Lauren Bacall passed away, each obituary I read showed her at her sizzling best: the smoky eyes, the cascading river of hair framing her face. But luckily, as she and Bogie were together before the invention of Polaroid, there was no temptation to record any particular exploits they might have fancied. Perhaps some quick sketches, but I doubt either one was much of a doodler. And how nice for the rest of us that both of them will only be remembered in a sort of gossamer haze of timeless glamour and elegance.
Then there’s Rihanna. She’s just one of dozens of celebrities whose privacy was compromised after this targeted attack although, frankly, most of Rihanna can already be seen from the countless ‘selfies’ and ‘instagrams’ that she has already personally released. 
And Mrs Kardashian-West, who insists we see close-ups of her at the pool, featuring her ample derriere in a thong, which, to me, always look like she’s sitting on the heads of two, bald, men, can’t be terribly embarrassed, can she?
By the way, Kim, just because a thong is a size XXL doesn’t mean one must feel compelled to wear it (I’d like a saucer of milk, please).
Boy, am I delighted there are no lurid photographs of me to be found. And relieved. Because, besides the fact that there were no such things as camera phones during the most hectic time of my life on the road, with friends I hear were later paroled, I’m not someone who ever felt particularly proud enough of my body to have anyone record it wrapped around a dancer’s pole. In fact, there would be little difference between the two. And if I had done such a thing, believe me, even if my face was covered, I would be sweating bullets right now.
The thought of possibly being mistaken for Keith Richards, is horrifying.