The Effable Joy of Nudity Pt. 06

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

"What is beauty but nakedness unashamed of itself?" (Marty Rubin)

It is just before dawn when I awake. Blinking away the blur, I peer out the window. The sun's first pale rays are fanning out across an indigo sky. The horizon shimmers. There is already heat in the air. It's going to be another sultry day.

Next to me in the bed, Matthew stirs. Not wanting to rouse him, I ease myself out from under the covers and search the floor with my toes for my slippers. I feel a warm hand on my back, tenderly stroking. I turn towards him. The room is too dark to see him clearly, but I can tell he is smiling, and squinting through the gloom. I lie back down. He props his head up with one hand to look at me. With the other, he fondles my breasts, gently kneading the flesh, playfully rubbing and squeezing my nipples between his fingertips. He draws his hand slowly down my body, gliding over my belly, the nails grazing and tickling my skin. I try to pull his pajama shirt over his head, but our bodies are pressed together and it won't lift up. His fingers pause to explore the soft folds between my legs before entering me. I gasp and begin to squirm as he probes deeper. He slides his body over mine, kisses me, whispers words I do not hear. He presses close to me, pushes into me.

Afterwards, for a long time, he just lies there, still on top of me, still inside me. He's breathing heavily, but otherwise he's silent. I think that maybe he has gone back to sleep, and I wonder how I can extricate myself to prepare for the day ahead. The weight of his body is becoming oppressive, but I love the feel of the cool, silky slickness of his pajamas. He looks like an old man in his satin paisley-pattern PJs; but they're delicious against my skin. With each breath we take, and every movement we make, the sleek fabric thrills my sensitized nipples and tingles the insides of my thighs.

I very lightly pinch his ear. He withdraws from me, rolls off and away from me. The sun has reached the window sill, and a beam of gold is creeping along the floor towards the bed. Matthew watches me as I rise from the bed onto wobbly feet, bracing myself with a yawn and a stretch. I sense his gaze following me until I am out the door. I'm still a bit light-headed, but a shower rouses me to full awareness.

I look into the full-length mirror, stare at my reflection, allowing the steam to fade from the glass. The gradual reveal is like a slow striptease. I try to appraise myself objectively, to see what others see. I perform a little pirouette, arms outstretched. I'm probably no more or less self-critical than the average woman, but overall I'm not displeased. A slender body, short but well-proportioned, hardly voluptuous. Small breasts, though nothing to be bashful about. Flat belly, narrow hips, unremarkable backside. My mother may be right; I need to eat more. Sparse wisps of pubic hair embroider the contours of pink flesh, blurring the outline of my cleft. I've thought about removing the fuzz, but I like the idea of being completely au naturel.

I dry myself, drag a brush across my flaccid hair. I go to the kitchenette.

Just as the coffee is brewed, Matthew joins me. He stands close behind me as I fill two mugs. He is wearing his robe. The coarse fibers are faintly irritating on my skin as he presses his front to my rear end, between the cheeks of my backside. He's nuzzling my neck and shoulders, cupping my breasts in his hands, lightly compressing my nipples between his fingers. He suddenly pinches hard. I jerk forward, almost spilling the coffee. I begin to scold him, but his hand closes over my mouth. I prise his fingers from my lips.

"Let's make it a quick one," I say, immediately regretting how dumb that sounds. But we have our quickie...

The tiles of the kitchen floor are hard and cold under me as I lie on my back, still puffing and panting. Matthew is beside me, his arm around my shoulders, cushioning my head. He's caressing my face with a tender hand, and kissing my breasts. I'm still in a dreamy state, but aware enough of the numbness where my bare flesh is in contact with the floor. It's irrational, but I momentarily resent my boyfriend for his pajamas and robe, shielding his body from the frigid faux marble.

He reaches up to the counter and brings down the two mugs of coffee, now only lukewarm. I gratefully sip the tepid brew.

"I'm going to have to take another shower," I complain.

"Why? You're incredibly sexy when you're all sweaty."

I don't respond, but start to get up. I'm aching from our encounter on the tiles, but I really can't blame a guy for getting aroused when his girlfriend walks around the place with nothing on. The first time sent him goggle-eyed, and he was still in a gaga state when we got to our room; but he recovered quickly and ravished me on the spot.

"I'm not used to seeing girls wandering about starkers," he'd explained.

"Get used to it," I said.

Yet all these months later, he still gets excited each morning seeing me nude, and that's nice. But there's more to it than just that. Matthew is still a lad at heart. He's younger than me, a "lowly" undergraduate, and was a little overawed when he finally got to take me out, after several rebuffed attempts. And then I invited him to move in with me, into my apartment in the east wing of Lakeside Hall. There can be a lengthy waiting list for males. There is also the issue of ego, because I have an income, from tutoring and mentoring, and share my meagre pay packet with him. And as well as all that, I can be somewhat domineering. Indeed, in our relationship it might be said that I'm the one who wears the pants. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

When he first moved in, he didn't realize that I'm forbidden to wear clothes anywhere on the premises. I admit that I left out that titbit, as a surprise. To be precise, however, nudity is not compulsory per se, but it's the unwritten law that females don't wear clothing inside Lakeside Hall. Regardless, I am a member (in fact the chairwoman) of the House Committee, so for me the nudity is de rigueur.

Inside the apartment I can wear anything I want. (Some women wear a bra in private to fight the long-term effects of the inexorable pull of gravity. I don't believe that's an issue until you hit middle age; breasts are built to be elastic. But I'm not generously endowed in that department, so I don't worry. On the other hand, I've been told by guys that there is nothing more sexy than a girl in a bra sans panties, sending seductively mixed signals of modesty and availability. I cannot judge.) In any case, my nudity is a gift to Matthew as much as it is an expression of my femininity and sexuality. As with any gift there is equal joy in the giving as in the receiving, and I get great pleasure from pleasing him. And that is what women who adopt the CMNF lifestyle sometimes seem to forget, or ignore -- the CM part.

From Matthew's point of view, it's more than just the visual delight of my naked body (for what it's worth) that is the turn-on. The one-sided nature of my nudity, the fact that I as a female am exposed while he the male remains clothed is a reminder to us both that, though I can act a little too bossy at times, he is the man of the house... or at least of the apartment. When I am stripped bare, he and I are equally and acutely aware of what I am and what I am not.

The upshot is that even though it's one-sided, the joy of nudity is mutual.

I shake myself out of my reverie and head back to the bathroom. After that, I get ready to face the day's heavy schedule. My sartorial decision-making is difficult -- the Balenciaga sandals, Cariuma sneakers or Espadrille flat-soles. I go for the Balenciagas and strap them on, and now I'm set to enter the world.

Just as I reach the door, from behind I feel a hand on my bare shoulder. Matthew's fingers run slowly down my back, the nails lightly grazing my skin. He fondles my derrière. With his other hand he brushes my hair from the back of my neck and begins to kiss. I pull away, grab my purse and phone off the console table by the door, and shoo him away. Three showers in one morning are too many. Anyway, I have to get moving. I've a busy day ahead.

(Matthew leaves the story here. We were together about a year and parted amicably, but I haven't heard from him since.)

Lakeside Hall appears deserted. The summer vacation has begun, and most residents who haven't already departed are sleeping in or still at breakfast. On the lawn at the rear a group is exercising. My destination is a brisk ten-minute jaunt across the campus. The sky is clear, the sun yet low in the sky. A cool breeze wafts across the campus. It raises tiny goosebumps on my skin. There is something deliciously sensuous about the tingly caress of a chill wind on your body.

I encounter a few joggers and walkers on the path. We exchange casual nods. Mine is the only totally naked body at this hour. One of the strolling women is topless, and one of the joggers is wearing a half-cup sports bra which leaves her nipples bare. I attract some glances, at my bottom half, but nothing like what I would have drawn just a year ago. The men pretend it means nothing to them. The females are less reserved. Their expressions are the by now familiar blend of embarrassment and curiosity, a modicum of scorn, a touch of arousal, a bit of envy.

As I get closer to the centre of the campus, the number of fully nude bodies increases. We are still in a minority, but only just; and as one week passes to the next there are many more of us. The turning point was SpringFest.

Each year the campus has celebrated the official end of winter at the spring equinox, with a long weekend of fun and games, exotic foods, wine and beer, and the shedding of winter wrappings. If the weather was warm enough, or rather not too cool, that used to portend ubiquitous bikinis. It had long been a tradition for female students, and many staff, to attend classes in the subsequent week or so in an absolute minimum of dress. Then last year, for the first time, bare breasts appeared, and this year nudity has become the fashion. Not in the classroom, though... yet.

So as avoid discrimination, males are not prohibited from stripping down; but there is a strict penis policy -- if you've got one keep it covered, if you don't then you have complete liberty.

Since SpringFest the dam has broken. Inhibitions and conventions have been swept away in a flood of fleshy freedom, and the landscape has changed for good. Of course, with the intervention of assignments and exams and the onset of the end-of-year vacation, the deluge might have abated; but in the new year, as the campus came back to life after the summer hibernation, so did the joy of nudity. All of this was due in no small part to the efforts of Charlotte Reynauld, the Empyreal Society and the front-line activists on campus, including myself.

As a member of the Lakeside House Committee I sponsored the proposal to allow female nudity on the premises. We had our first topless Mayday. (I didn't come up with the dreadful name, BreastFest. There were worse suggestions.) It was really not that big of a step from previous themes. Perhaps a little more alcohol was consumed. The atmosphere was intoxicating, but some of the women needed a spirit more potent than mere ambiance to loosen up. Eventually, however, we were all jigging and jiggling to music provided by an all-girl band called, I think, the Bouncy Babes... or maybe it was some awful word play like the Milk Duds or the Double Lattes. After that there was no need for a naked Mayday.

So it's in part my legacy that when I reach the Village, which is the main shopping and eating district, the nakedness increases. (The campus is divided physically into four precincts -- academic, commercial, recreational and residential.) The Village seems to be in a different time zone from the rest of the university because it's already busy. For even over the holiday period this quarter is never quiet.

The cafeteria where I have arranged my meeting is crowded, so it's fortunate that I booked a table well in advance. Waiting for me is a young man who springs to his feet when he sees me approaching. He's smartly groomed in tan slacks and a light blue shirt.

"Hi Nathan," I say, and put out my hand. He almost misses it because his line of sight is elsewhere, starting at the top of my breasts, wandering over my nipples, before descending my belly to settle between my thighs. I wait for him to finish. He cannot resist a licking of the lips. I'm quite sure he doesn't even know he's doing it.

The first time I experienced the gaze I was embarrassed, more flustered than flattered. Now I just accept it. It gives the guys a treat and for me it's a compliment. I've also perfected the "stance" -- hands behind your back, fingers loosely interlocked and clear of your buttocks; legs slightly apart, left knee slightly bent (a not uncommon pose, for a naked woman, that is oddly both demure and provocative); stomach pulled in and shoulders pushed back, very subtly, to emphasize your chest; head erect but eyes downcast. That last one is not to signify shame or submission. You avoid eye contact that might make your viewer feel awkward. You don't try to stare him down. Neither do you stare off into the distance, because that makes you appear haughty, or contrarily that you're trying to hide a sense of shame. These form part of the tacit rules of CMNF. There are many.

Nathan is only a second-year student. I say "only" because he's already shown an informed interest in an aspect of tropical cyclone research which accords with mine. I've just finished my third postgraduate year, analyzing trends in seasonal forecasting, studying atmospheric variability and predicting extreme weather events for risk and hazard mitigation. Up until now we've only communicated by phone and email. It seems he hadn't expected me to be naked.

The café furniture is elegantly crafted wrought iron, with foliate scrollwork tabletops and acanthus leaf chair backs; but the metal seat is ice-cold as my bare backside descends upon it, and its criss-cross pattern becomes irritating. There is no padding, and I sometimes think this is deliberate. Seating everywhere seems to be in some way textured -- studded, furrowed, dimpled, pimpled, pitted, woven, meshed. So even in the simple act of sitting down you are not able to forget or ignore that you are naked. The discomfort, if normally only slight, is a constant, tangible, tactile reminder. Or perhaps I'm overanalyzing.

We have breakfast -- orange juice, toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches. Nathan appears disappointed when it is delivered by a male server rather than the bare-skinned waitress. The young man gives me the customary inspection. It's not considered gauche to look; in fact it's deemed something of an insult if the males don't. This is hardly my area of expertise, but there protocols that the men generally adhere to. All female bodies should be allocated roughly the same look time, even if the most beautiful do get more attention. Obvious first-timers are given more tactful treatment. The lingering gaze is avoided; the lingering leer is taboo. In all cases, viewing should be non-judgemental. Any sort negative or derogatory comments are strictly out of line, but compliments also if they're explicitly sexual, and never directed to one woman in a group. In return, we on the receiving end have our own etiquette; for instance, you receive whatever attention you get with good grace, accepting it for what it is, a recognition of and tribute to your innate beauty and desirability as a female. You don't overreact, you don't try to hide yourself behind your hands or other objects, and you try to avoid overt expressions of unease or embarrassment, and never shame! Your nudity is meant to be enjoyed, by you and your viewer, not be a source of discomfort.

But Nathan's attitude is a little mystifying. Just by virtue of being on the campus he must come into contact with nudity all the time. My feeling is that it's because of who I am -- his mentor, naked because I'm a woman. That must do interesting things to a young man's sense of self. Wait till you meet Ros Warneke, I say without speaking.

We walk to the Academy of Sciences. The Institute of Meteorology, Oceanography and Geophysics is located on the third floor. There is no one at the reception desk, but the door to the conference room is open and Ros is just inside shaking hands with four people dressed in business suits, three men and a woman. Ros is wearing a black shift dress. As the group moves toward the lift, I find myself trying to hide from view behind Nathan. I think the woman saw me but averted her eyes. I cannot be the first nude female she's seen on campus; but nevertheless, for the first in a while I feel exposed.

Once the dignitaries have departed, Ros returns to her office, sees me with Nathan and waves to invite us to join her. "Research Council," she explains, nodding towards the departed escalator. "Take a seat," she says as she steps behind her desk. She slides her dress off her shoulders and down her body. It falls to the floor as she wiggles her hips. She's not wearing undies. She breathes a sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden has been lifted. She picks up her dress, folds it and stows it in a cabinet along with her shoes. It's a charming gesture that she removes from sight all evidence that she has been clothed. As she sits, the leather of her chair makes the squeaky, slightly icky slurping sound of skin sliding over hide.

I introduce Nathan. Since I will be finishing my research in just a few moths, I've recommended him as my successor. And while we're talking Jasmine comes in, sipping a cup of tea. She's an expert on mathematical modelling and has the classic absent-minded professor look, with hair in disarray and eyeglasses slightly askew. Her clothing would be wrinkled and ruffled, if she'd been wearing any. She's joined us to discuss Nathan's research activities and develop a program for his study under our guidance; but while he's flattered by my praise and Ros's attention and Jasmine's interest, he says hardly a word. He appears a little overawed, and I can't blame him. He's a callow undergraduate sitting in an office discussing his research with two associate professors (respected experts in their field) and a postgrad research "fellow", and he's the only one of us wearing clothes.

When the summer starts, nudity increases across the campus; but it's still a relative rarity amongst faculty members. Ros has embraced it. She's acquired a reputation among her associates for being very talented, hard-working and strong-willed, with a no-nonsense and occasionally hard-nosed approach to expectations of herself and those she works with. Yet she has an unconventional side to her nature that she needs at times to let loose and even show off. So for her, as it is for many of us, nudism, more specifically one-sided nudism, is not about the joy of being naked, at least not entirely; it's also about the message.

Unlike her male colleagues, whose gender is secondary to their rank and role (except insofar as they are not female), Ros when naked cannot help but be defined by her sex, more specifically by the fact that it is exposed and on display. Her colleagues, her subordinates and her students keep their clothes on, if they are male, and that's the point -- it's for the solitary reason that they are male, while she is naked because she's female. It has nothing to do with academic honours or status. Mark Twain supposedly wrote that "Naked people have little or no influence in society." In other words, clothes don't just display status, they confer it; whereas being denuded and on display expresses docility and obeisance. He probably didn't write it; but if he did he was wrong, at least here on this campus. But Ros's nudity is also not about (or just about) sexual -- as in carnal -- display. She is embracing and asserting her femininity, not just her sexuality.