The Effable Joy of Nudity Pt. 08

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

"And naked shines the Goddess when

She mounts her lion among men." (Robert Graves)

Unpacking took less than a minute. I had not brought much luggage, and what clothes I'd brought I wouldn't be needing for the next ten days. I took a long, refreshing shower. I was fatigued after the flight and a short nap would have been nice. But at least getting ready to go downstairs did not take long. It was quick and simple. I didn't have to worry about what to wear.

Yet my decision to be fully denuded led immediately to regret. This included being shoeless, and the marble tiles were icy-cold and slippery. But I loved how the cool draught from the air conditioning tingled on my skin and tickled the parts of my body it would in most venues not have reached.

I was one of the first of our group to return to the lobby, but it was crowded with other delegates. The latest arrivals came in from the portico and halted abruptly, like they were walking into a wall, as they encountered a large room full of naked women, and amongst them a few clothed males. We milled about and I found it interesting that on the whole the males appeared the more uncomfortable. Most remained standing about in isolation or in small clusters, whereas their feminine counterparts mingled, chatting and laughing... though perhaps for a mutual calming of nerves or to disguise anxiety. I recognized a couple of faces from my years living in Lakeside Hall. Like me they had moved on to new campuses, and we swapped stories until a euphonious voice rose above the din.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We are about to begin."

We had registered for the conference online, so this was the last part of the protocol. I think it would have been more sensible if this wasn't done all at once; but the process was efficient, as Catriona called out names and the six girls who had been our porteuses ushered us in an orderly file to an adjoining room. There was a large desk tended by two girls, and nearby were two cameras mounted on tripods. The photographers were a male and a female. Daniel and the other guys were put through quickly, with just a standard photo-ID portrait. The woman photographer dealt with all the males, and I thought it adorable how, naked herself, she dotingly primmed and tidied their clothes to make them more presentable.

When I stepped in front of the camera I was instructed to stand at attention by the male photographer. He took shots of my body full-length, from the front, side and rear, asking me politely to turn each time. I stood ramrod-straight, arms stiffly at my side, staring directly ahead, past and not into the lens. The man showed no more stimulation than his female colleague. In other words, he was stringently professional, or else he had been sensually satiated by the sight of so much female anatomy.

He checked his list.

"Thank you, Dr Ryan."

"Thank you," I said.

I went over to the desk where a printer was whirring. It promptly spat out a laminated certificate. There was I pictured for posterity in all my unadorned glory. I sighed. My expression was disturbingly vapid. The certificate listed my name, title and home institution. Across the top was the caption "Intermural Conference on Genderism Studies". Then, however, I blushed. In the images my nipples were erect and bright rose-red. Some souvenir! And it was only now that I became fully aware that I had been in a constant state of arousal since arriving on the campus. I realized that I would have to get used to the perduring flushed cheeks, the constantly outstanding nipples, the persistent twitching tickle in the loins. It was a feeling I hadn't had for a while. It was good to be back!

As well as a portfolio containing information and guide brochures, we each received the customary lanyard with ID. I was fascinated by how proficiently the girl handling the machine turned these out. She knew she had to keep the line moving. But I was also amused that whereas the males' were of the usual length, hanging to the waistline, the females' consisted of a very short strap that was almost a collar, so the badge dangled just below the neck. Cleavage must be left clear.

From the lobby we were directed outside and down the pathway to a building which had not existed the last time I was here. It was an auditorium, small but with more than enough tiered seating for the hundred and thirty of us. As we entered, a woman at the podium invited us to fill up from the front. It was Charlotte Reynauld. She had not changed over the years, was as spectacular as she'd always been. Behind her were three chairs, two of which were occupied by women, naked of course, one of whom looked vaguely familiar. The third was taken by a grim-faced man, no more than middle-aged but greying at the temples, dressed in a three-piece suit business suit complete with silk tie. He was watching Charlotte over the top of rimless spectacles. He might have been fixated on her bare derrière, but like the photographer he was probably by now blasé about the ubiquitous nudity. I could take some credit for that.

Daniel and I ended up together again, in the second row. As the other seats filled around us, it was obvious that some of the young women were new to nudity, at least in this form. As we came in, each female was given a packet of moist towelettes. The upholstery of the seats was a slick faux leather -- ideal for naked skin, easy to wipe clean of sweat, but cold at first contact and then quickly becoming warm and sticky. I heard a couple of gasps and giggles, and a couple of squeaks as backsides adjusted to unfamiliar sensations. It surprised me that so many of the women were ingénues. I just smiled as my flesh touched the seat; but it was a nice feeling.

I understood why Charlotte bade us to congregate at the front of the room -- so the neophytes would not disperse into isolated pockets at the back. Once everyone had gathered, she commenced with the usual introductions and made some announcements about timetables, meal arrangements and the like. She introduced the three people scheduled to speak at plenary sessions of the conference. The woman I'd indistinctly recognized was Professor Suzanne Willems, Dean of the Faculty of Social and Behavioural Sciences at the university. She had an elegant bearing but held her body stiffly and clutched the lectern tightly when she came forward to say a few words. The top of the stand was attached to a narrow post so it hid nothing of her body. I remembered that years, ago, during the "Strip For Charity" campaign, she had been one of the first staff members to volunteer; and she had supported the "Joy of Nudity" movement. She didn't appear shy at the time; but I'm sure she never predicted this outcome!

The third woman was also a professor, the director of a research institute at an interstate university. She was more comfortable being nude but did not speak today. The man, who seemed the most ill-at-ease on the stage despite being the only one of the four wearing clothes, was also a director, of the Social Policy Institute on campus. He stood, acknowledged the polite applause, and sat down again.

This was not going to be a long session, just an orientation, Charlotte promised. Then she launched into a lecture which made me recall that not everyone present was an seasoned nudist. Although it was addressed to us females, it was meant as a message to the males as well. To paraphrase: In the CMNF experience, the meaning of our nakedness lies not just in the display of our female anatomy. It is a symbol of our femininity and, more generally, of our femaleness. It is not about satisfying the male gaze, although that can be your motivation. It's not about submission to the male, although that may be what inspires you. It's about one's own experience as a female. You are not just sexually exposed, you are denuded of every adornment and every facet and insignia of externally focused personality. Clothing allows you to express your moods and aspirations; but it can also be restrictive, and it carries unfortunate symbolism, baggage if you will. Clothing both signifies and confers status, but it's artificial. Nudity means freedom to be your true self, and it conveys equality. So we are not reduced but rather enhanced, becoming the very essence of what we are (and in the presence of the clothed male, of what we are not).

She paused and looked around her audience. "You men, don't get any ideas. Keep your clothes on. You own the world. Let us have this!"

That got a cheer, from both sexes.

She continued. As women, we don't just display our bodies; we feel our nudity, in the most profoundly intimate way. So you may be shy, but never be timid. Don't look down or away when a man sees you. Don't try to cover yourself. Show yourself off. Be proud of your body. You don't have to flaunt it, but don't try to hide it. If men stare at you, it's because they like what they see. But remember, you aren't naked for them. You are naked for you. And if you're aroused, and you cannot hide it, don't be ashamed. It's a natural response. Every woman will understand. Men have the same response, but they can't judge you. They're able to conceal theirs.

"Maybe not entirely," she concluded. And everyone laughed as most of the men reflexively looked downwards. Beside me, Daniel was gripping the arms of his chair. I think he was glad he was wearing rather baggy trousers. Even so, his packet of brochures was placed strategically over his lap, which may or may not have been intentional. (No female did this, of course. Nudity doesn't mean simply not wearing clothes; it is about not covering up your intimate parts with anything.)

Charlotte reminded us, unnecessarily, that the CMNF "dress code" was in effect for the entire duration of the conference. It couldn't be enforced outside the bounds of Lakeside Hall; but one-sided nudity was nowadays the norm right across the campus. Everyone nodded with understanding and approval. But when she'd finished her lecture, Charlotte did something that horrified me. She called out my name and asked me to stand up. She presented a brief, overblown account of my role in promoting the Joy of Nudity and also for some reason listed my academic credentials. I resumed my seat to a loud ovation. Daniel audibly exhaled, as if in awe of my sudden celebrity.

Charlotte ended by thanking the residents of Lakeside Hall for hosting the conference. She explained to anyone who did not already know that this was the "birthplace" of the Joy of Nudity movement. She then confirmed what everybody knew but were happy to have repeated, that throughout the ten days of the conference there would be no official ceremonies or formal banquets. She made an awful joke about how at mealtimes the men wouldn't need dinner suits but the women should wear their birthday suits. Everyone dutifully groaned. We then filed out of the auditorium and back to Lakeside Hall to gather for pre-dinner drinks and hors d'œuvres in the lobby.

We mingled for a while, some of the women still getting used to being nude in such a public setting, the men to socializing with naked women. But everyone was more relaxed than before. Even so, the females who were not "regular" CMNFers were easy to spot, in the beginning at any rate, by their stoical expressions, by their posture and positioning and by the fidgety movements of their hands (not trying to conceal their "modesty" but rather to keep them free of once-private parts). But they quickly adapted.

None of us could be mistaken for beauty queens or chorus girls... well, maybe some. Few of us were supermodel-slim or triathlete-trim, although we were probably more fit than the average woman. That's no boast. Being naked in public is a wonderful incentive to try to stay in reasonable shape. Indeed, most of were glad we weren't as spectacular as the exquisitely gorgeous Sabrina or the elegantly statuesque Charlotte. We'd be happy for them to receive most of the attention. But we were all on view in our natural state; no one missed out. In any case, even when the men's eyes were focused elsewhere, we were still naked; and we did indeed shed our inhibitions with our clothing. The comfort of the crowd bestowed self-confidence. And the fact that a third of all of the people present kept their clothes on, by virtue of being male, endowed us with a sort of sisterly pride. The males didn't share such a bond, and for that I rather took pity on them... which was nonsense, I confess.

And as I've mentioned, the guys were, on the whole, the more nervous. Charlotte had to encourage them to circulate. And then it was amusing, and rather endearing, to watch them trying to engage in small talk with naked women, looking into their drinks or staring at a canapé to avoid awkward gawks.

Here I should point out that at no CMNF event have I witnessed the catty attitudes and behaviour with which women too often undermine each other. We embrace and celebrate individuality and diversity because nothing is concealed. What we all have in common are breasts and vaginas, and without the accoutrements of clothing it is this commonality which stands out, not the superficial differences. Of course, clothing, especially women's, has traditionally expressed personality, mood and values; but nudity, as Charlotte said, defines the essence of who you are, what you are and, in the CMNF context, what you're not.

(I should add that one of the women had had a mastectomy. She made no attempt to disguise the fact. Her femininity was unconditional; her nudity was uncompromising.)

And for that matter, I have found the men in the CMNF milieu to be, with few exceptions, well-mannered, even chivalrous -- towards each other as well. There are no inappropriate remarks, no sneering or smirking, not much leering, certainly no unwelcome advances or illicit touching; and unauthorized photography is forbidden. It then goes without saying that any form of harassment attracts immediate retaliation from other males. They enforce the protocols not just because don't want a good thing spoiled. They understand that it takes a good deal of self-belief and even courage for to expose yourself. They feel a genuine protectiveness towards us. And that's nice. It gives me the security and confidence to be vulnerable, to be publicly and joyfully naked. I feel my femininity so much more intensely because I'm valued and respected as a woman.

And the men share their own kind of bond. Their unofficial motto is: "When all women are naked, all men are brothers." I don't know if that really makes a lot of sense... but I'm not a man.

It was still fairly early, but most of us were tired. So dinner was light and simple -- salad and cold meats, followed by dessert of fruit pies, meringue tarts and piña colada trifle. We ate in the new dining hall. We were about seventy per cent female but Charlotte arranged it so that everyone sat next to someone of the opposite sex. To accommodate the relative numbers, each male had a woman sitting on both sides, and each woman a man on one side. She also made sure that strangers were mixed together. I had a pleasant conversation with Joshua, a guy of about Daniel's age and temperament. Like Daniel he was still somewhat incredulous about what he was experiencing. Back home he was studying sociology and "somehow" ended up in genderism research. He seemed a bit embarrassed to be involved in "women's studies" and still somewhat disbelieving that it had led here. He turned his head each way as if to acknowledge the reality of the nude women sitting on both sides. On my left, Donna said she was the president of her university's fetish club. Its activities were quite tame, she asserted, albeit with more bondage. She was an aficionada of CMNF (which she called, quite rightly, NFCM) and scoffed at the idea that it was a symbol or expression of submission to the male. That was an argument I'd had to make many times in the past. In fact, she said she was a dominant, and she her one-sided nudity was an assertion of her power over men. I'm not so sure about that, but we all follow our own path to paradise.

Charlotte spent most of her time supervising the proceedings, quite unnecessarily. Everything went smoothly. The hors d'œuvres and the meal were served by staff recruited from the Lakeside student residents. The waiters wore smart slacks and neat white shirts. The waitresses wore heels. We were entertained by an all-girl string quartet such as had performed at Charlotte's CMNF party all those years ago. For some artistic reason their nipples and areolas had been rouged; and because the one with the cello had her thighs spread apart, we could see that her pubic hair had been dyed pink; so I assume that the others' were as well. I should also mention that they played blindfolded. Again no reason was given (it was probably one of Charlotte's furbelows), but none of them ever missed a note.

As we went upstairs to bed, I could see that some of the guests had already paired off. Even if I'd been so inclined, I was too tired to think of anything but a good night's sleep.

All bathrooms at Lakeside are communal, and although I'm an early riser I emerged from my room into a bustling hallway. There was no segregation of the sexes (except for bathroom allocation); and I got the impression that quite a few of the guests had spent the night in rooms other than those to which they'd been assigned. But the integration created a few funny moments. Like when a girl would come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body, as she would in her own dormitory. Someone would grin or shake their head, and she would sheepishly remove her covering.

Many of the women went for a stroll about the campus, not just to get some exercise or clear their heads but to test-run their newfound freedom. I decided instead to check out the kitchen. I had spend many hours there in my student days; but I was normally banned from food preparation. My culinary skills have always been legendarily bad. Someone -- a sympathetic friend, not an enemy -- claimed that I can't boil water without a recipe, cannot slice bread without burning it. A fair assessment.

The kitchen is adjacent to the dining hall, and a couple of dozen male and female staff, Lakeside residents of course, were busy laying out a breakfast buffet. The ovens and stovetops were being tended by the only females wearing any sort of clothing, a skimpy apron which offered some protection from oil and grease spatter and splatter. The indefatigable Charlotte had taken on the role of cheffe de cuisine, and each time she stepped out of firing range she immediately ripped the apron from her torso. During the short time I was observing, she put it on and took it off a dozen times. That's commitment!

The funny thing was that the young men on duty appeared to ignore the nudity of their fellow staff members but nevertheless scrutinized my body and those of a couple of other female guests. That tells me that the male fascination with female nudity is not just about its visual appeal (just as guys are often more turned on by a striptease than by the end product). The males seemed interested in how women unfamiliar to them and to the culture of CMNF handled it. So perhaps, despite what I implied in what I've already written, men really do care about CMNF from the female's point of view.

My normal breakfast consists of a piece of fruit and a dose of caffeine. The morning's scheduled activity was a trek around the campus to give the visitors a glimpse of look at the CMNF lifestyle. So knowing I would need the fuel I partook of a full meal... well, full to me, anyway. About a hundred of us had opted for the excursion and we walked in groups of about a dozen. But before setting out we were issued with mini-backpacks. These contained hiking essentials such as a bottle of water, an energy bar, a packet of wet wipes. For us women they were also useful for carrying the things men had pockets for, such as handkerchief, wallet, phone. And the straps were adjusted, for us of the unclothed sex, so the bag rode high on the back, almost between the shoulder blades, to keep the derrière exposed to public view.