The Effable Joy of Nudity Pt. 01

Effable (adjective): (1) capable of being uttered or expressed; from the Latin effari. (2) sexually attractive; from the Old Norse fukka.

"Home is the starting place of love, hope and dreams." (Leena Mudbidri)

There is a saying: You can never go home again. It means that when you leave to make your way in the world, things you've left behind, the people and the places, inevitably change. But even if they haven't, you have. It's like reading a good book. Once you've finished it, the next time you pick it up, no matter how much you loved it, it will not seem the same. But it is the same book; the change is in you. And that's not necessarily bad. You have more knowledge, a new perspective. And so it is when you leave home. You outgrow what you were. Old roots wither and new ones grow. So what you have are your memories; and it seems to me that the best you can do is not fret about what you've lost or try to reclaim what no longer exists, but instead move on to explore new fields, and maybe in the process discover more about yourself.

On the other hand, the place where you grew up will always be special. And this applies to the other formative parts of your life. For me the most meaningful of these was going off to university and living on-campus. It took some adjusting. I then spent the first summer vacation with my parents; and it was nice to revisit old haunts and reconnect with former playmates and school friends; but what I remember vividly was returning to my dormitory and saying to myself "Home sweet home!"

Ten years later, I was feeling much nostalgia for my home town and my alma mater, as our plane began its final approach. While it was good to be back, I was also looking forward to finding out what was new and different. The flight had taken four hours. In the seat next to me, Daniel had gone quiet. He was tightly clenching his fists. I resisted the urge to offer soothing words or a reassuring pat on the arm. I didn't want to be patronizing. In any case, as we came to a halt on the tarmac he released an audible sigh of relief. He turned to me, and allowed himself a sheepish grin.

We touched down in the early afternoon. We deplaned and collected our bags. There were a dozen in our group (four males and eight females), from various universities, and we joined a similar sized party before heading out of the terminal and filing onto the waiting bus. I appeared to be the oldest, at the ripe old age of 28. The others were still students, mostly undergraduates, but there were three postgrads.

Our chauffeuse introduced herself as Sabrina. Hazel-eyed with caramel-blonde hair, she was almost impossibly beautiful. She wore a tiny, cream-coloured, lace-edged slip dress which hugged her perfectly contoured body and showed off exquisitely tanned thighs. One narrow shoulder strap had slipped strategically down her arm, and the other was poised precariously to barely hold the dress upon her chest. All of us, guys and gals, stared unapologetically. With the studied insouciance of a gorgeous woman accustomed to such attention, she smiled and allowed our eyes to linger.

Once we were moving all the exhilaration and apprehension we'd earlier felt returned. Perhaps there were second thoughts, but no one would admit to them. Still, any bravado waned as we neared the campus. Everyone went quiet as someone pointed out the window and we all turned our heads to look. There were excited whispers and nervous giggles.

As we crossed the threshold onto the university grounds, we saw two young women strolling by, on the promenade alongside the road. Except for hats and sandals they were naked. Further along, two couples were picnicking beside a pond, in a scene reminiscent of Édouard Manet's famous painting Luncheon on the Grass -- the males fully clothed (indeed, rather overdressed, in suits and ties) and the females au naturel. A couple were out jogging, a guy and girl. She was well-endowed in the chest department and cupped her hands under her breasts to reduce the bouncing. She was careful to keep her fingers from covering her nipples.

Since it was the height of summer, the campus was not crowded; but the number of people increased gradually as we passed from the outskirts to the hub. Not all the females were naked, but almost all the younger ones were. The males were dressed in the carefully styled sloppy-chic of the fashion-conscious uni student, in jeans, chinos, capris, cargo shorts, plaid shirts, polo shirts, flannel shirts, T-shirts, etcetera. They didn't seem to notice the nudity; or they were used to feigning nonchalance. And none of the exposed women appeared self-conscious, nor did they make any discernible attempt to conceal any part of their bodies from sight. In fact, many seemed to make a special effort in that respect. Some wore backpacks, some carried bags or brief cases, but they did so in a way that their most intimate parts remained open to public view

Our destination was Lakeside Hall, on the far side of the campus. The buildings hadn't changed much since I'd lived there. The surrounding lawns and gardens were neater and also more luxuriant. A crew of student residents were at work, tending the flower beds and vegetable gardens, hoeing rows, cutting the grass, trimming trees and shrubs. I was pleased that the collaborative spirit had not diminished.

Everyone on the bus stared with admiration at the females. They pulled their weight, doing the same work as the males, but they toiled in the nude. They wore hats, caps or visors, gloves and boots, but with nothing in between. Perspiration glistened on bodies which gleamed with sunscreen lotion. Skin tones were a range of hues from peach to olive to sable, but no tan lines showed on even the fairest flesh. The midsummer sun blazed furiously in a cloudless sky, and there was not a whiff of breeze. I felt a bit sorry for the males in their sweat-sodden clothes.

When we stopped, Sabrina was the first to alight. She immediately drew her dress down past her hips. It fell to her ankles; she stepped out of it; and as she crouched to pick it up she took off her sandals. She hadn't been wearing knickers, and her dress was so short that her backside must have been in direct contact with the seat vinyl during the journey. I remembered with fondness that deliciously disquieting sensation of bare flesh sticking to and slipping against warm, moist upholstery.

Sabrina stood by the door as her passengers disembarked. She smiled indulgently as we filed past her and the guys in particular nearly stumbled, their eyes fixed on her instead of the steps. Her well-toned body was no less than sublime than her visage. It was hard to not feel jealous. She was slim and athletic but not brawny or sinewy, curvaceous in exactly the right places. Her breasts were not large but perfectly curved; she had a concave belly and a taut butt. Daniel, the last off the bus, muttered a "Thank you" and her smile outshone the sun.

Sabrina led us into the lobby and escorted us to the reception desk. She left us there, but as she walked off we all turned to study the delightful wiggle of her divine derrière. The receptionist waited patiently for us to finish our gaping; but she was also very attractive. I was starting to feel genuine envy now. She had sleek brown skin and eyes that glittered like black diamonds. She wore her hair plaited in elaborate, beaded cornrows; and she spoke in a melodious voice with a subtle accent. A nameplate on the counter identified her as Catriona.

She welcomed us to the university and to Lakeside Hall, checked off our names, and then gestured towards half a dozen young women waiting nearby. They were of the age as the girls in our group (except for ancient yours truly). They took our bags, and the guys tried to be gallant and carry their own. Our bare-skinned porteuses insisted.

And incidentally, in any other situation it might have seemed odd that the males had more luggage than the females.

We were shown to our rooms. Mine was on the second floor, and I felt somewhat embarrassed to be ushered into a twin-share suite that I have to myself, especially since a lot of the residents who remained on campus for the summer had their rooming arrangements altered to accommodate us visitors. Of course, as an old veteran I guess I warranted some extra consideration.

There were fifty thousand students and staff at the university (at least during the academic year). Females comprised nearly two-thirds of that number. Most, almost all, had embraced the effable joy of one-sided nudity. And now the university, specifically Lakeside Hall, was hosting a nationwide conference on CMNF -- clothed male naked female -- with delegates from dozens of clubs and societies dedicated to the movement.

This was, to a large extent, my legacy.