Natural Beauty Pt. 03

Come to think of it, this was the first organized social gathering (as opposed to informal get-togethers with my colleagues) I had attended since my arrival. Soon afterwards, I was invited to spend a weekend with the Renettes, my relatives. They live on Frigate Island, as proprietors of Palmira's most luxurious hotel, the Chevron. I took the ferry from Régate for a ninety-minute cruise. The hotel is larger and grander than the Andromède. On the other hand, Regina's family owns two establishments, so the score between the two clans is pretty much even.

I was greeted by my second cousin, Lydia. She's aged in her early twenties and is almost impossibly gorgeous, with azure eyes and flame-gold tresses that cascade onto her slender shoulders like a river of fire. Her smile is radiant, her skin is flawless and her body is divine. She moves with feline grace. Very much cognizant of her own splendor, she pulls her shoulders back as if to emphasize her perfect breasts; and when she's still she casually pushes forward her pelvis, as if to proclaim her womanhood. But her body language betrays that she's not entirely at ease with her nudity, though she wears it (so to speak) proudly. Her haughtiness evokes vulnerability. There's a distance in her demeanor, a coldness in her eyes as if they were about to turn from ocean-blue to glacier-blue. It's not that she's rude or acts aloof — quite the opposite, although that seems more a product of good breeding than an intrinsic part of her nature.

There were two dozen passengers on the boat, and several were bound like me for the Chevron Hotel. One of the now familiar open-air taxis awaited us, and a young man was at the wheel. It is immediately obvious when you see them that he is Lydia's twin brother. Xander (short for Alexander, I assume) has the same striking features, but in an odd way not as well defined, almost blurred. It's his manner. He doesn't project himself. He's grown up in the shadow of his sister, who is easily the dominant. His expression is one of apathetic detachment. His clothes droop on him; he has the sort of languid bearing where even a tailored suit appears ill-fitting. Compare that with Lydia, acutely aware of her naked beauty.

The twins' mother, Amelia, is English, and you see where they inherited their looks. They were born in Britain but grew up on Palmira. Kudos to them that, like Regina and her brother, Lydia and Xander have taken on regular jobs at the hotel. Yet they seem frustrated by the ennui imposed by their limited horizons. Both are intelligent and intellectually curious, and were fascinated by my "worldly" experience and academic credentials. During my visit they interrogated me endlessly about life in Australia, about archaeology and even about Palmirene history.

That night a soirée was held to welcome the cousin from down under. It was a more elaborate affair than anything I'm cozy with, and for an unpretentious gal who eschews glamour and glitter, nudity proved a blessing. No fancy gown to worry about. But I was lavished with exquisite jewelry — a pearl encrusted barrette, emerald earrings and a turquoise pendant on a black velvet choker. It was weird to be so expensively embellished from the neck up and totally unadorned below. In fact, I ended up even more denuded than before.

Earlier, I had blamed my disheveled hair on the wind during my trip across the water; but that cut no ice with frosty Lydia. She took me down to the hotel's beauty salon for a hairdressing overhaul. I have to admit that my unruly shag cut was transformed for the better into a sassy side-swept crop. But then Lydia lowered the back of my chair, and when I was horizontal she ordered me to spread my legs. She instructed the coiffeuse to shave me (because a more thorough depilation would leave me with inflamed pubes for the evening), but advised that I should get a waxing when I returned to the mainland. I decided against resisting, since I'd been thinking about a move in that direction anyway. Nevertheless, I remained ambivalent. I have always associated pubic hair removal with presenting a "clean" bikini line, and that is plainly not an issue on Palmira. While aesthetic preferences play a role, it's mainly to distinguish married from unmarried women, and that is itself is a fairly recent (and in my opinion unnecessary) trend. In any case, when I returned to Cimarrón everyone complimented me on my double hair makeover, and I eventually went for my waxing.

The soirée was attended by members of what counts as the local élite. It was presided over by Amelia, who marshalled her guests and serving staff with the command presence of a major-general. As I had already perceived, Palmira is very much a matriarchal society. The Renette women rule their aristocratic roost; and as I'd also learnt, being naked does not preclude power. Indeed, in an interesting way their womenfolk's mandatory nudity gives the males of Palmira a uniquely resilient sense of their masculinity, which obviates gratuitous displays of macho egoism; they are easy-going and user-friendly. I once heard a man described as being strong enough that he can afford to be tender; and I think there's a similar principle at work with Palmirene men. They have nothing to prove. Their identity and security as males is reaffirmed all around them all the time, so they can get on with being good men. (I'm not criticizing males elsewhere; but Palmirenes seem to be a breed apart.) I've also heard it said that a strong woman is she who can bring out the best in a man. Palmirene women do that. It's not the essential purpose of the nude law — at least not these days — but it's what you might call a fringe benefit.

Virginia Woolf wrote: "Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size." And in a way, but a positive way, that's the case on Palmira.

And the thing is, Palmira is one of the least sexist environments you can imagine. There are two factors at work here. Psychologists and social scientists have long been aware that a person who is viewed as sexy is perceived to lack "agency" — personal power, the ability to plan, act and exercise self-control — and even intelligence. Although this applies to both sexes, women are more adversely affected, not just because (in the Western world) we traditionally wear more revealing and more sensual clothing. Take applying for a job. Even if you're conservatively dressed woman, a man will judge you more harshly (and unfairly) than will his female colleague. Because men tend to focus on the visual, you will be assessed not just on your clothing but on your physical attributes. Merely having breasts, however well they're covered, puts you at an immediate disadvantage. You are adjudged less competent because someone else finds you attractive.

Palmirenes aren't perfect. But at least part of the problem is short-circuited. You're not judged on your state of dress or undress (by men or women) because your personal agency is undiminished, because you must be naked. And men are less biased because they see, every day and everywhere, women whose appearance is reduced entirely to the sexual and yet are clearly not lacking in competence or intelligence. So while I don't know if, in this respect, less attractive women have an advantage, what is clear is that to lay claim to any level of logical thinking a Palmirene man must, in a sense, reset his brain, training himself to look beyond first impressions.

Even so, it might be asserted that the nude law is sexist. On Palmira the female body is so revered that it is illegal to conceal it. Yet the intent and effect of this law are not the objectification of women. In this respect the critics (such as exist) are mistaken. Exposing your body to the world, being obliged by society's rules to abandon all inhibitions and put aside encumbering modesty, is an intensely personalizing and joyously liberating experience. And nudity being for one sex alone is not demeaning to females. Never have I been so conscious and proud of my womanhood. Like most women, I do not have a perfect figure or abounding confidence. I do not crave attention but neither do I shun it. Back home, on a beach in a bikini, I rate a few fleeting looks and that's nice. But on Palmira your body is the proverbial temple; it's hallowed ground — admired, respected and well-treated. Both men and women come from all over the world to worship here; but it's the women who are worshipped. If it's true you're an object, you're an object of veneration.

All women are. Even in the company of demigoddesses like Amelia and Lydia, there was a feeling of sisterhood amongst all the females in the room — hostess, guest and waitress alike. The uniformity of nudity imposes an egalitarian sodality which also transcends differences in shape, size and color. The expensive ornamentation we wore actually reinforced this effect, which may seem counterintuitive. Jewelry properly worn serves to enhance or draw attention to what you're wearing without being a distraction. When you're not wearing anything else, that is what your accessories draw attention to.

(Lydia and a couple of others wore dainty gold and silver waist chains which I hadn't realized are legal until I saw a few in Régate. I now wear one sometimes. It tempts the line of sight downwards and upwards, from the raw sexuality of your breasts and vagina to the sensual safe space in between. It gives emphasis to the totality of your nakedness rather than the exposure of your parts.)

Throughout the evening, the two sexes mingled without awkwardness, diffidence or dalliance. The most stimulating part was the conversation. On such occasions as this, I have found Palmirene high society to be very conversable, more literati than glitterati. Yet it still felt slightly surreal. Back home, a "cmnf" party would be a major event on the kinky calendar. On Palmira it's just another night out. More than at any other time since I'd been on Palmira, I felt as if I might be the woman in Manet's Luncheon on the Grass — not flirting or flaunting, but not shrinking from the public gaze.

Even so, it was the also first time since stripping upon arrival that I felt at all self-conscious. Wearing only pretty baubles and a sociable smile, as the guest of honor I occupied centre stage, so all eyes were on me. I lost the safety in numbers. But I recalled a snazzy one-liner from Gypsy Rose Lee. "I wasn't naked; I was completely covered by a blue spotlight."

The next time I felt anything like that was when Daniel arrived. I met him at the airport, and although he knew what to expect, by the time he'd gone through customs he was already mind-boggled. He had flown from Jamaica with two young women who had been attending a conference. (More about that in a moment.) I watched through the glass partition as the girls stripped naked; and I could see that they enjoyed his attention. He tried to act nonchalant, but the pretense melted away when he came out of the lounge and saw me. It was as if he walked into an invisible wall. I allowed him to take a good long look at my body. I just smiled and he gave up trying to be subtle.

I had almost forgotten what it was like feeling awkward about being naked. I hadn't worn a thing in six weeks. And I have learnt that once you've become completely comfortable in your own skin (what an apt phrase!), you don't have to be cold or coy or coquettish; you don't feel the need to flourish or camouflage your feminine charms. But Daniel was the first person I knew from back home to encounter me in my new au naturel habitat. What's more, I was his mentor and academic confidante. I'm seven years older and our relationship has always been strictly platonic (in the sense of being both asexual and mentorial). Indeed, this was really the first time that he saw me unambiguously as a woman. And as I've pointed out, maybe ad nauseam, the impact comes from not just the nudity but the fact that it's one-sided and that, simply on account of being female, I'm forbidden to wear clothes. So I knew it would take a few days for our old connection to be restored.

Daniel introduced me to his new friends and we took a taxi into the city. Molly and Sabrina showed in their faces and their gestures the same feelings I had experienced on my first day, right down to the embarrassed gasp of pleasure when one's bare bottom first touches the upholstery. They had been in Florida for a symposium on public health policy (strategies for promoting physically active and healthy lifestyles). The conference had adjourned for a restart on Palmira with some of the attendees, to study the unique culture and its prospects for "wellness tourism". (I hadn't known that was even a thing.) They were flying in a couple of days before the others, for some reason. Around two-thirds of the group were females, and I heard that they made quite a splash during their visit. (I read later in the conference proceedings that a recommendation had been made for greater promotion of clothing-optional resorts. I'm all in favour, but these will never have the same exotic flavor as Palmira. And I don't think there will ever be a male equivalent of the nude law. The world just doesn't work that way.)

By the end of the week Daniel had seen and interacted with enough nudity that mine was no longer a novelty or a distraction. Nevertheless, like Sean he enjoyed the company of naked women. That seems a case of stating the obvious, but Australia is very much a "bloke culture" where young guys don't socialize much with the womenfolk. That said, he never played on his privilege. By this I mean he never considered himself special or superior because unlike us (Rebecca, Marcia and myself, who were his supervisors) he was permitted to cover his body. Indeed, he treated me with discernibly more deference to my femininity than before — not just being chivalrous but respecting the fact that I have the strength and self-confidence to reveal myself so completely, proclaiming and celebrating my womanhood, being proud of what I am and having no pangs about what I'm not.

Whereas, sadly, it did not work out quite so well with Matthew. During my previous expeditions, when I spoke to him via videophone, sometimes I would take off my top, or even strip all the way. He never did, but I was okay with that. In my first three months on Palmira nothing changed in this respect, although he did comment that I was browner all over. However, when we reunited at Robina airport, I could see he was rattled by how comfortable and casual I was with my public nudity. He didn't appreciate men looking at those parts of my body which he regarded as his exclusive domain. He stayed for two weeks, and though I cannot say that we've broken up, things haven't been the same.