The Joy of Nudity CMNF-style Pt. 05

"Woman has a singular power which consists of the reality of strength and the appearance of weakness." (Victor Hugo, Post-Scriptum de ma Vie)

We females get called the weaker sex, and I suppose in some ways we are; and I can live with that. I am quite comfortable with the idea that, being small and a little on the skinny side, I am physically weak. However, the CMNF experience can turn that platitude on its head. It requires a degree of mental toughness and some physical endurance.

I have called my nudity a gift to Rob. And it really is one-sided. When your personal wants and needs and desires merge with those of your partner, you don't need to keep score. But the gift does cost me, the giver, something. And the price you pay for anything is a measure of your commitment. So there are times when I'm feeling discomfort and don't show it, because I want the gift to be unconditional. But at other times I think it is important that Rob knows what I am putting up with. But I'm not suffering for his sole benefit, because it's fun. I wouldn't do it if I didn't enjoy it. I'm not a saint and I'm not a slave.

We have our own house now, in a fairly secluded location with lots of trees and shrubbery screening us from the road and neighbors. In addition to regular housekeeping we devote one weekend each month to renovation. Some of the work is quite arduous like tearing up old floorboards, some is tedious like painting, and some is messy like digging in the garden. I do my share of the hard work. If mine really is the weaker sex, I don't take advantage of it. Yet there is an imbalance in our joint effort because (excuse me if this is getting repetitious) I work naked. My man is fully and comfortably clothed, and protected. In other words, Rob is working, while I am working and also being visually decorative, sacrificing convenience and comfort in the process. And I am no doubt a sight to behold, more goofy than sexy, in my heavy-duty work boots and gloves, oversized goggles and floppy straw hat with nothing on in between except dirt, dust and paint spatters. (At the end of the day, Rob nobly volunteers to assist me in washing off the grime.)

We're at the point where Rob doesn't take much notice. But every so often he will smile; and when I ask what's so amusing he tells me how cute I look.

"My dirty little girl," he calls me.

So does he really get turned on by my self-imposed adversity? I suspect he does, but I don't ask him. Since I'm the one paying the price (however willingly), this must be about what I want. And even if he does, it's not that he's sadistic; it's more that my goosebumps, for instance, are symbolic of my willingness to go outside my comfort zone for his and my pleasure. I'm the one making the sacrifice. But I enjoy it, because CMNF is not just being naked, it's about feeling naked. I don't feel as self-conscious as I used to, so a little extra physical stimulation, inconvenience, even discomfort, replenishes the experience.

In other words, my one-sided nudity requires strength — of will and sometimes of body. In this respect, I like the term "girl power". It doesn't mean exerting power over others. It means having the determination, the self-confidence and self-esteem to define one's own course in life and one's own lifestyle. It means having and exercising inner strength. Those are the qualities needed in CMNF, to pull it off... or more specifically, take it off. (I was about to say it takes balls, but in CMNF that is obviously not an issue. Anyway, what's the big deal with balls? I don't have them, I don't need them and I certainly don't want them!) It's also not about having a perfect body (I'm short and somewhat on the skinny side), but rather the self-assurance, and to an extent bravado, to pull it off.

As I've already divulged, most nights I go to bed with nothing on. It's a lovely feeling, to be naked under the sheets and up against Rob's body. And I guess it is handy for having sex, although the second or two it saves is hardly a major bonus. I think it's more symbolic. It's me saying "I'm always ready and I'm yours, you can have me, whenever you want." And I have now reached the point where I rarely have on clothes around the house, when Rob and I are alone. The novelty has not worn off, it hasn't become blandly habitual or a vapid, jaded ritual.

In fact, the ordinariness adds piquancy to my nudity. I still feel a little embarrassed and vulnerable, as well as aroused, when I stand naked before him (when he is clothed). But that's the point. When I go about my everyday business, like doing household chores or just relaxing with a book or watching television, my womanhood is on display. It's not just a part of my daily life, it defines it in the sense that Rob's manhood is defined not so much by his clothing as by my lack of it. That asymmetry is my way of reaffirming and celebrating, for myself and to him, my femininity, that I love being what I am, a woman, my way of acknowledging and appreciating what he is and I am not.

I've referred to the symbolic aspect; and this is the key. My nudity is not just the display of my body for Rob but a mark of my affection and devotion. It is a joy to me to share in Rob's pleasure, and it's not just the visual which turns him on. It is my way of honoring him as my man, but also of experiencing my womanhood — by which I mean not just being a woman but feeling like a woman.

"Man, I feel like a woman!" proclaimed Shania Twain. I have always loved that song! In the Robert Palmer videos that she's spoofing, it's the women who are dressed sexy. Shania doesn't do a role-reversal, because in her video, the male models wear more clothing than she does, especially after she strips down. She may be the woman in charge, but she's still the woman, and she asserts herself through her skimpy clothes... "Go totally crazy, forget I'm a lady. Men's shirts, short skirts. Really go wild. Yeah, doing it in style."

(I had a long exposition prepared at this point, about the differences between CMNF and CFNM, which I believe have an entirely different sexual and social dynamic; but I think I have pontificated too much already.)

Rob and I still work side by side in a university department and I am still his "superior" - not exactly his boss, but I have a higher ranking. Sometimes I do have to give him orders (which I diplomatically call "instructions".) Although he doesn't have serious ego problems, it can't be easy for any guy to have to take orders from his girlfriend/wife at work. So when we come home in the evening and I take off my clothes, it helps restore ("redress" if you will!) the balance. It's not about letting him know who's boss, because I am still very assertive. It's my acknowledgement that he is the man of the house — he wears the pants, and all the other clothing as well. It's a reminder to us both that my body belongs as much to him as it is mine.

But if our workplace roles were reversed, if Rob was my superior at work, I'm sure he wouldn't be taking off all his clothes when he gets home in the evening.

Rob is conservative when it comes to revealing his own body. But it's not a sexist double standard that he gets such pleasure out of mine, because he knows that I get pleasure out of pleasing him. Although the nudity is one-sided, the pleasure is shared. We're both happy. And I openly admit that I don't get nearly as titillated seeing Rob naked as vice versa. I'm not saying I won't look at men's bodies, but I do think the female form is by far the more aesthetic. Plus it's a well-known (not necessarily correct) fact that men are more disposed to visual stimulation, women to the tactile and emotional. For while I don't really go for the whole "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus" idea, one of the key differences between the sexes is that women are more outwardly focused, relationship-oriented and sensitive to how others view them. When men do dress to impress, they derive good feelings from whatever image they have chosen to project. Women derive satisfaction and fulfillment more from evoking good feelings in others. It's not pandering. It's being true to ourselves, in expressing our own sexual, feminine identity.

"Here endeth the lesson." (Book of Common Prayer )

So I shall end this chronicle of my quirks in the present tense. It's nine o'clock at night. As I type these words I am seated in my big, cosy, leather office chair, and I'm naked. It's cold and rainy outside. My skin tingles, from the chill in the air, from the slick touch of the upholstery on my bare back, bottom and thighs, from the voice of my wonderful husband, who has just come in with a mug of steaming cocoa. I take a sip, and when I put it down he stands behind me and runs his fingers through my hair. He kisses and strokes my neck, massages my shoulders, caresses my breasts. His hands are like ice.

"That was a shiver," he says. "Put something on or come to bed."

"I'm finishing up now." I continue to type.

"What are you doing?" He checks the words on the screen. "Okay... Wait, are you writing this down? This is very weird!"

"So nothing new then," I reply. "Anyway, I'm done now. Let me save the file."

POSTSCRIPT: Though adjourned to the bedroom, my evening was far from over. But that's another story.