The first time I noted the steamy pics and fiction in the New Yorker, it was meant as a … um … “cheeky” joke. It was just a wacky convergence of pulse-elevating literary smut (Junot Diaz) and high-minded, artistic nudity (Man Ray and John Currin).

The second time I posted about nudity in the New Yorker, I thought it funny. Grinning, I posted the image and claimed – with faux exasperation – that the New Yorker was “at it again.”

Now I feel like I’m obligated to keep you updated.

This week, Vince Aletti’s capsule review of Micheal Schmidt’s photographs at Mitchel-Innes & Nash is accompanied by Schmidt’s “Untitled (From the series ‘Frauen’)” (1997-99).

I merely offer this as a service to parents whose teen sons may have suddenly and inexplicably taken a keen interest in the whimsical goings on about the five boroughs and long, winding essays on fallen C.E.O.’s, quirky fashion divas, and failed military intelligence.