The Joy of Nudity CMNF-style Pt. 02

"Vive la différence!" (Anatole France, attributed)

For me, there is no more potent or sensual expression of the wonderful duality of male and female than when I am naked and my man is fully clothed. If people call that kinky, I will wear it (so to speak).

I don't enjoy nudity per se, in other words for its own sake. I don't dislike it, just don't get a big kick out of it. I would not describe myself as an exhibitionist. I have never been fully naked in full public view. What I enjoy is my one-sided nudity with Rob. But although it's nice to give him pleasure, it is mainly for my own delection. I get turned on being naked in his presence, and the feeling is intensified by his clothing. I enjoy the touch of his shirt and trousers against my bare skin and sensitized girlie bits.

What I'm saying is that the CMNF is my choice, my decision, my agency. I am giving Rob the gift of my naked body. It's unconditional. It's one-sided. It's not contractual. I don't expect anything in return except to see and feel his pleasure. That doesn't diminish me. It is a proud affirmation of my womanhood and our mutual bond of love and respect. So I have no problem stating that one-sided nudity has been a way to enrich my relationship with Rob.

Yet one of the things about CMNF that I savor is the delightful disparity. When one of you is fully on display, intimately exposed, while the other isn't, there's an inequality that I find arousing, like how an indignation junkie or a heavy exerciser feels euphoria. It releases the flow of endorphins... and dopamine and adrenaline and serotonin. (Neurochemistry is wild!)

Let me explain.

I used to hate doing housework. It's not that I'm lazy or I thought it beneath my station. It's that I found domestic chores to be mind-numbingly boring. My brain is in perpetual high gear, and the dreary repetition would drive me close to insanity. The thankless drudgery is never done with. It drains your energy and consumes hours that could (in my opinion) be better spent. The work is never interesting and rarely challenging. No matter how good a job you do, it has to be repeated, over and over again, without variation. And it doesn't help that I lack the necessary skills, care and patience. So, being obsessive about order and cleanliness, and too poor to afford professional help (a cleaner that is, not a psychologist), I forced myself to do it. But my loathing was such that, for example, I resisted having people over as guests, even my family, because I dreaded the clean-up.

Have I made my point? Yet now I love it. So what changed? You guessed it!

Where I have been more fortunate than many women is that Rob has willingly pitched in. In the bad old days he enjoyed it no more than I did, but complained less (or did so in manly silence). Now we look forward to our Saturday morning spruce-up, and spring-cleaning has become an all-season routine. So allow me to describe a typical housekeeping session.

I crawl out of bed just after sunrise, as I do every morning. (When I moved in with Rob, that took some adjustment. Previously I had stayed up late and woke up late.) I normally sleep naked these days, so without a pause it's off to the bathroom and then straight to the kitchen. Still blinking back the break-of-day blur, I make my first of many cups of caffeine for the day and my usual breakfast of banana on toast. Pallid sunlight filters weakly through the curtains. My skin offers no protection against the chill in the air, and without my fluffy slippers my feet curl on the cold tiles. I don't mind, because, on cue, Rob appears in the doorway, sniffing the aroma of brewing coffee and browning bread. He comes up behind me and in for a cuddle. Wrapped in his arms, with the fleecy caress of his robe on my back, I find my drowsiness disappears. Rob helps out with warm hands that stroke my neck, massage my breasts, rub my belly.

"That better, sweetie?" he asks.

"Getting there," I reply. "Just a little more..."

The snuggles over, Rob starts to fry his eggs, tomato and bacon. I blanch at the thought of starting the day on a heavy stomach. And I stay well clear of the radiant heat and the sizzling pan spitting oil. (There's an apron waiting on a hook nearby, but it won't be needed.)

We sit on the patio to eat. The strengthening sunlight smooths out my goosebumps. Then we get straight into our chores. There's no strict schedule. Today we start in the living room, with me doing the vacuuming and dusting, Rob cleaning the blinds. It's emancipating, in a way, to be working in the nude. Because we are so used to wearing clothes that it's easy to forget that nakedness is our natural state. Thus, to free your body of clothing's constrictions gives a refreshing experience of release. So much so that when our chores are completed it feels strange to get dressed. So unless we're going out I don't.

Rob, of course, is fully clothed. I don't mean he's in a tuxedo, rather shorts and T-shirt. Every so often he stops to look at me, in appreciation and (I like to think) admiration. He's seen enough of me naked by now that it isn't a novelty; but the sight of me toiling in the buff still turns him on. Having him look at me that way does the same for me.

And part of the appeal is the delicious inequality. We are both working hard, doing similar jobs, but one of us has the added role of being visually pleasing to the other; and it's me who's the decorative one because I'm the woman. I'm not saying this is bad, or that I don't find Rob attractive... but I believe that the male body looks better covered, some parts in particular.

(Maybe I'm prejudiced; but consider the male appendage. "Whereas a divine being could be imagined creating most other parts of the outer human, the penis looks like the work of squabbling interns covering for God on a busy afternoon. The straight bit doesn't go with the round bits. It looks pathetic when flaccid. When aroused it breaks up the line of the body." A man wrote that — Donald Clarke, who was arguing for more male nudity on TV and in movies. So I have nothing personal against penises. I wouldn't want one, mind you, but they do have their uses. I was going to write "They have their place" but that might incite sniggering.)

There's a chance, albeit slim, that a visitor will come along, veer off the path, peek through the window and see me in my unrobed splendor. We normally keep the blinds shut for our CMNF sessions, but while Rob is cleaning them they're open to the world. It's one of the risks I happily take that reinforces the imparity which makes my nudity more than just not wearing clothes.

By lunchtime we are just about finished. I'm in the kitchen, on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Rob comes in from sweeping the patio, crouches behind me and begins fondling my backside, kneading the flesh and parting the cheeks. I wonder if I should say no or brace for entry. It's one of the exigencies of being naked. You're alluring and you're accessible. But he's just being silly. And as he bounds to his feet I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed. I curse him and he laughs.

After lunch I decide to stay naked for the rest of the day. We're not going out, will both be spending the afternoon in the study. I'm preparing for a tutorial session on singularity theorems and geodesically incomplete spacetimes (more fun than it sounds), and Rob is assisting. So there's no reason for me to remain nude... except why not? The leather chair, our plushest piece of furniture in the house, is luxurious against my bare skin. Rob is seated beside me, and every so often my breast will brush against his shirt, my thigh against his trouser leg. Even after all this time, and despite my concentration, it makes me tingle.

However, by late afternoon the temperature has fallen, and since we don't have heating appliances (they give me a headache), it's time to cover up. And actually, it's Rob who says "Aren't you getting cold?" I'm so absorbed in my work that I haven't noticed that I'm starting to shiver.

So who would have imagined, not really so long ago, that I would look forward to my Saturday morning chores?

"Vanity dies on nature trails." (We Dream of Travel blog)

Rob and I have not kept our CMNF lifestyle a secret from our friends and family. Indeed, when I explained the experience to my mother, she wished that she and Dad were a few years younger. I told her that age is not a barrier, that she is still very attractive. But she ruefully, wistfully shook her head.

Now I should here mention that I have a brother. He's two and a half years younger and I still call him my Baby Bro, even though he's nearly twice my size. We have always maintained an intense, albeit good-natured, sibling rivalry. I've had to fight a never-ending war to shore up my superiority, and he's waged a relentless campaign to undermine it. So when he learned of my affinity for au naturel he was intrigued that I would show what he saw as vulnerability. His curiosity was piqued, though not from a desire to behold his sister naked (because ew!). Instead I could see in my baleful Baby Bro's face that he was concocting a plan to introduce his girlfriend to the concept. I have not inquired about the outcome.

As for my friends, most regard it as a rather quaint crinkle in my personality; but they're not judgmental. As for beyond my social circle, I've never aspired to join a nudist or naturist club. I know about CMNF and CFNM communities, but so far as I'm concerned one-sided nudity is a private thing between Rob and me. However, there was one time when I had an accomplice... or I was hers.

It was Rob who introduced me to Charlotte, an associate professor at the university. Her husband James is a "struggling artist" (I'm being generous) and she is the breadwinner. They've never had children but I don't know the story. (Not everyone wants children!) Charlotte and I are similar in that we are both intelligent, articulate, assertive, strong-minded, high-achieving women. Physically, however, we could hardly be more different. She is statuesque, taut-muscled but curvaceous, glamorous and all-round gorgeous.

How Rob came to know Charlotte and James is a convoluted tale. The important detail is that they invited us to dinner and described their lifestyle. Once or twice a week formidable Charlotte transforms into a "love, honor and obey" wife. For her there is something very satisfying about arriving home tired after a hard day's work and putting on skimpy lingerie to cook the dinner and do her other chores, to wait on her man and then be expected to serve him in the bedroom, or in the living room, or in the bathroom. It's about relieving herself of stress and inhibition, to become less self-absorbed and more attentive to James's needs. She portrayed her submission to him as liberating. On those occasions she allows fantasy to take over and her husband to take control.

So as you'd expect Charlotte is an aficionada of CMNF. But we only shared the one episode. We went on a hike together. It took about eight hours. As we'd be keeping mainly to the beach, I had my bikini on under my hiking outfit of khaki shorts and tank top. But Charlotte was wearing just her bikini (plus the de rigueur accessories of boots and cap, sunscreen and insect repellent). Neither she nor James nor Rob said a word, but my concupiscent consort gave me a wink and a nod which took the place of speech. With a shrug and a practised pout, I pulled down my shorts and handed them to Rob, who stowed them in my backpack.

We started our trek, and it was not long before we went to the next stage. We were on the crest of a ridge overlooking the beach. Charlotte took a swallow from her water bottle and then drew off her top. I marveled at the skill with which she unhooked it while keeping on her rucksack and without help from James. I took my cue, but had to detach my pack to remove my shirt and bra. It then took another half-hour to descend to the beach, at which point Charlotte halted again. Off came her pants. Off came mine (both layers). During our divestment we didn't make a fuss, turn it into a performance or even speak about it. It was so matter-of-fact that at first it didn't even feel erotic. On the beach it felt almost natural... except that James and Rob were still in their clothes.

When we started moving again, however, Charlotte did put on something of a show. She carried her pack high on her back, and she swung her hips as she walked, more so than normal or natural. Her bare derrière wiggled provocatively for the three of us to gaze at in awe. Even I felt the spark of arousal. Yet when I tried to do likewise I fear it just made me look drunk. Still, it was a delight to see how much the woman reveled in her nudity. Her nipples remained erect the entire time. It was reassuring to me that the feeling doesn't have to become stale.

Her mood was infectious.

Aside from the cerebral pleasure of being naked, the warm sunlight and the cool breeze on parts of one's body not normally exposed to the outdoors creates a wonderful feeling of healthy, unrestrained, sensual bliss. I almost pitied the men. They could have stripped down as well, but that wasn't the name of the game. They were now committed to the one-sided nudity which kept them covered. And after we'd all been for a dip in the ocean, they regretted not bringing towels and had to march on in wet clothes. Meanwhile, Charlotte and I just strode out of the water, replaced our boots, caps, sunglasses and backpacks, and started to walk.

Nonetheless, hiking naked has its issues. It's a low-impact activity, but unsupported breasts won't keep still over uneven ground. However, this felt nice because at the pace at which we were moving it was more a slow, rhythmic swaying than bothersome bouncing and jiggling. The pack's shoulder straps compress the sides of your boobs so they poke out a little, which also has a nice effect, if that's what you're after. Charlotte's spectacular orbs needed no assistance, but mine can always do with some enhancement... if that's what you're after. The harness was well-padded, as on all good kit, so this wasn't a problem for unprotected shoulders. On the other hand, the hip belt dug into my flesh, which I dealt with by inserting my gloves (that I carry in my pack for when I'm using trekking poles) between the belt and my body.

More of a dilemma could have been itching and abrasion on raw skin from the "airmesh" lining on the back panel. Fortunately (or rather, prudently) my pack has a foam-cushioned frame. The other part which needed attention was the chest strap. I've always worn it "underboob", for no particular reason. But because it was not padded and would ride up and chafe my breasts, I buckled it high on my torso.

The walk itself was not particularly difficult. We stayed off the dry sand when and where possible. At various stages, to avoid large rock formations too steep and slippery to tackle, we had to veer inland and follow a narrow path over dunes covered in chest-high coastal heath — a scrubby, salt-scalded but vibrant panoply of scarlet epacris, pink boronia, white-blossomed myrtle, green and gold acacia and banksia, blue-green eucalyptus. It's a fragile environment but the plants are hardy and their leaves can be razor-sharp and prickly. In the densest parts, an occasional errant branch or frond intruded onto the path and swished my exposed arms and legs. Only slightly more uncovered than when I set out, I felt extra-defenseless against the elements. Yet it was oddly exhilarating and intoxicating, to be so totally exposed. I applied extra dollops of insect repellent and sunblock lotion over my tenderest bits; but perspiration didn't bother me. With no fabric to soak the sweat and stay damp, my skin dried and my body cooled quickly. Still, it felt funny to have rivulets of sweat trickle down my belly and into the soft folds between my thighs, crystallizing as tiny silver beads on my pubic hair.

I should confess here to some vanity. I had trimmed my pubes. Charlotte's was more luxuriant, but she's a champagne blonde at both ends so it didn't really show. I've never been a fan of going completely smooth down below, but when we confronted strangers I was glad that I had tidied up the shrubbery.

The beach and hinterland were almost completely deserted. It was only in the early afternoon that we encountered other people. We had just finished our packed lunches and were about to head inland when we met a group of half a dozen young guys and girls. We stopped to chat, and none of them could resist staring at Charlotte and me. I think what discomposed them was not our nudity but how casual we were about it. The women even seemed a little embarrassed, which I attribute to the CMNF aspect.

To be honest, though, I had to restrain my hands which kept creeping towards my crotch. Charlotte, on the other hand, was unabashedly proud of her state. She received most of the attention, which I didn't begrudge. She's much the more voluptuous of us, and with her imperious posture she made being stark naked a display of haute couture. She thrust out her chest and pelvis, and I'm not sure she even realized she was doing it. She was old enough, almost, to be her new fans' mother, but her near-perfect body and sublime self-confidence mesmerized them.

As we parted, I saw glints in the eyes of the three young men. They exchanged meaningful glances, and I wondered how long it would be before their girlfriends got the message. However, this could have been my imagination.

Once we'd completed the circuit and returned to our cars, the sun was low in the sky. Charlotte and I had been hiking in the nude for almost seven hours. It was a bummer to have to cover up for the drive home. And there was to be no repeat performance. Soon afterwards Charlotte took up an appointment at another university and she and James moved interstate. That was disappointing. I would have enjoyed exploring their lifestyle further, sharing more experiences. I expect that we will reunite one day; but in the meantime I shall remember with great fondness being denuded in the dunes.