The Joy of Nudity, Pt. 01

This is a revamp, hopefully improved, of a series I have published previously. The stories are based on my real-life experiences; but I have, for narrative purposes, combined some of the events and embroidered some details. And while the result may not be as exotic as straight-out fiction, there is a certain virtue in verisimilitude.

Before starting, I should point out that I think "CMNF" ("clothed male naked female", in case you're new to this) is an ungainly expression. Other common terms are "one-sided nudity" and, if you're partial to magniloquence, "asymmetrical nudity". However, CMNF really should NFCM, since the focus is on, or should be on, the nude female. But I won't quibble over this.

I should also mention at this point that Rob (at the time of this first story my boyfriend, now my husband) had of course seen me naked; but I don't count these as true CMNF. If we're going to bed and I happen to get my gear off first, it's not really CMNF. If I'm in the shower and he intrudes, by accident or by design, that isn't CMNF. When, in a frisky mood, I perform a striptease for Rob, or if in the heat of passion he rips off my clothes, those are not quite within the definition either. Which is not to say that these things aren't an incredibly sexy turn-on for both of us; but they are not what I would call CMNF. I could go on, but I think I've made my point. So without further ado...

I have never been a fan of birthdays, mine or anyone else's. I'm not cynical; I just don't understand all the fuss. Is it a celebration that we've managed to survive another year, or a magical rite to help get us through the next? But on my birthday a few months after we had moved in together, I could tell that Rob wanted to do something special. Neither of us are fond of parties (or, at least, of hosting them); he has never been comfortable in upmarket restaurants; and we had insufficient funds for a weekend away at a deluxe resort. So I proposed we indulge ourselves in a gourmet dinner, to be delivered to our door.

(Ordering in was expedient. Neither of us wanted to risk ruining this special meal by actually making it. While Rob is an indifferent chef, I am the worst. A traumatized dinner guest once applied to have my dinners declared toxic waste by the Department of the Environment... so the story goes.)

Rob and I have different perspectives on what transpired that night. He's a lovely guy, but he retains the ingrained masculine conceit that a woman derives her principal pleasure from pleasing her partner. And to this day he believes I was making amends for my many previous indiscretions.

I should explain.

We first met in the university's physics department where we were both doing research. Although of the same age (I'm a few weeks the younger), as a compulsive-obsessive eager beaver without hobbies or similar diversions, I won faster promotion so I was technically his superior -- not exactly his boss, but with a higher ranking and sometimes having a supervisory role. Occasionally I'd have to give him orders (which I diplomatically called "instructions"). And although he doesn't have serious ego problems, it can't be easy for any guy to have to take commands from his girlfriend/wife at work.

Also, when we started going out I already possessed a formidable reputation amongst the faculty, friends and family for being very assertive with a short temper. On our first serious date I got mad at Rob for presumptuously paying for dinner without my consent... the gallant cad! On the second I got into an argument with the manager that almost had us kicked out of the restaurant. But instead of being scared off, insouciant Rob was entranced by his pocket-sized harridan.

Perhaps because of my combative nature and the problems it can cause, he has always been overly protective. However, in his defence, I do attract such sentiments (until people get to know the real me). I'm what you'd call petite, although I think I have adequate curves and nice enough legs, along with a pixyish face, to consider myself reasonably attractive. But my hair is a lank straw-blond, normally razor-cut in a shaggy style which, along with some shabby clothing choices, makes me look awkward and immature (and has driven my super-elegant mother to the edge of despair). I have a high-pitched voice which rises to a shrill squeak when I'm excited or angry. To this day I get carded (for innocent readers, that's asked for proof of age) by suspicious bar attendants.

I had just begun to neutralize Rob's protective instinct when I was stricken by a bout of severe bronchitis. It was my own fault, really. As mentioned, one of my quirky qualities is that I belong to that marginally maladjusted subset of society known as the overachiever. My illness was therefore due in large part to exhaustion caused by overwork. Rob started treating me like an invalid -- even worse, like a sickly little sister. And that's when I decided that I would do something to reassert my status as a fully functioning girlfriend.

Now I have never thought of myself as any more or less sexualized than the average healthy adult female. I've always made an effort to please my man, in and beyond the bedroom, but not at the expense of my own pleasure. As implied, I don't dress up very often. I prefer jeans and sneakers to dresses and heels, but have room for both ensembles in my closet. I don't often do glamour, I wear only basic make-up and my hair, as mentioned, tends to the unkempt; but I have my girlie moments. I try to keep my body in good shape with daily exercise and a healthy diet. I've been told I rock a bikini (and I hope that means what I think it does). When I'm looked upon with approving eyes I enjoy the attention. I'm happy to be seen as desirable, though I won't be objectified. I am confidently assertive of my autonomy. Whatever lifestyle I follow is mine alone to choose.

Anyway, when the day came I left work early, racing home tired and frustrated. It was a drizzly December afternoon, and I was delayed by a dreary staff meeting which followed an excruciating hour of attempting to teach scalar, vector and tensor fields to a class of fidgety physics undergrads. I was determined to beat Rob back to our house so I could prepare for the evening I had planned. He was clueless as to what was in the works.

I perked up when he came in. I had put on a new, black negligée, lacy, frilly and tiny, to greet him at the door. He was startled speechless (since even to bed I nearly always wore PJs); and after a perfunctory kiss I told him to change into his best (indeed only) suit while I poured the wine and selected the perfect ambience music. He emerged from the bedroom looking stiff and uneasy, but I quickly soothed his discomposure by executing some sexy pirouettes in the living room. As the chiffon swirled, floating on the fragrant air of a scented candle, grazing my thighs like a gentle lover's kiss, even if I had gone no further I would have been fully fulfilled.

When the food arrived I felt flirty enough to answer the doorbell in my déshabillé state; but Rob hustled me out of sight. I had done the ordering and I think he was slightly annoyed by the cost; but he graciously never showed it.

Our house has a small patio, shielded from the neighbors' view by a high fence and dense foliage. Here I'd set up a table with all the accoutrements for intimate dining -- a decorative flambeau, a simple but elegant floral arrangement and (borrowed from my mother) expensive silverware, fine crockery and crystal glasses. I had even designed and printed a menu. Fortunately the rain had stopped. We were under cover, but the air was cool and damp. I told Rob to sit while I played the maîtresse d' (that's the sophisticated term for waitress).

I served the meal while he tried to relax. When I brought out the entrées still in my skimpies, he gave me a comically quizzical look. He was thinking, no doubt, "Whose birthday is this?" And as I took my seat I put on my most coquettish expression and slipped the straps of my little nightie off my shoulders. So seeing how much I revelled in my performance, he loosened up to enjoy the sautéed sea scallops, the spicy dumplings and the piquant view. Yet my display of décolletage was only the beginning. Once I had laid out the main course, before I sat and acting on impulse, I pushed my panties down my thighs and drew back my negligée to plant my bare backside on the chair.

The upholstery was unexpectedly cold; the heat from my body had dissipated quicker than I'd anticipated. I resisted the urge to spring back up again, but could not suppress a shudder nor stifle an "Ooh!" I must have blushed. Rob smiled and nodded. The gesture turned him on, but it was when he saw my face that he understood that this really was my birthday treat.

It was a sublime experience, enriched by the breeze which drifted across the rooftops, wafting through the yard, flickering the flambeau's flames and caressing my skin. My nipples responded, excited by the cool air and the ticklish touch of their fluttering gossamer veil. Exquisitely aroused, I pulled the top of my negligée down to my waist. I shivered, not just from the chill. It was a weird sensation, as if this were the first time Rob had seen me so unadorned. He must have been having the same thoughts, because he reached over his bœuf à la bourguignon to fondle my breasts. His hand lingered. It was pleasantly warm, but he squeezed and tweaked and twiddled until I gasped.

He pulled back contritely.

"Why did you stop?" I growled.

"The food's getting cold," he replied.

"I'm getting hot," I purred.

"You already are," he said.

When we had finished our pièces de bœuf, as I stood up to remove the plates, feeling intrepid I tried to hold my knickers between my knees while I shuffled between veranda and kitchen. But after a few timid steps I allowed them to fall and left them behind. Returning to the table, I found them draped over the half-empty wine bottle.

The dessert menu listed two items, sweet and tart. The first item consisted of candied fresh ginger and chocolate mousse, with lime-blossom tea. The second was, naturally, me au naturel. I left the last of my clothing in the kitchen as I brought out the bowls. Clad only in my goosebumps, I trembled a little, and coughed a couple of times. Rob was concerned. He clearly felt guilty, warm and cosy in his clothing. He suggested that we move inside; but I didn't want to spoil the mood. Anyway, the embrace of the night air was as delicious as the dessert.

Yet I don't recall a lot about my dining sans attire. It was as much surreal as sensual or seductive. My mood was an unsettling blend of dreamy and intense. My most vivid recollection is of the smells -- the candles' subtle perfume, the fragrance of the flowers, the bouquet of the wine, the aromas from the food. That's because, as one knows, olfactory sensations trigger the most vibrant memories and emotions.

Rob behaved as nonchalantly as he could. We endeavored to carry on mundane conversation. I tried at times to be playful -- hence my attempt to walk with my knickers around my knees -- and at other times to be steamy and provocative. Mostly I felt self-conscious, promiscuous, even embarrassed. For it wasn't just the nudity, it was the one-sided aspect -- him in his suit and tie, me in my birthday suit completely exposed to his tender gaze and to the crisp evening air. This was one of the most erotic episodes in my life. It caused my lips to quiver, my nipples to swell, my skin to tingle. I felt the familiar, urgent tickle below my belly, and I could not suppress a dulcet moan and a guttural groan.

"Happy birthday, sweetie" Rob said, as he picked me up and carried me inside, to the bedroom. "We'll clear up in the morning."

My night of delight was far from over. Nor was my exploration of CMNF.

Rob and I made our CMNF dinners a semi-regular custom. Although we never became jaded with the one-sided nudity, after a while I decided to embellish the experience. It was another night feast on the patio. Once again there was rain, but it was a warm autumn evening, so my exposure to the elements did not become a test of tenacity.

I had laid out the entire meal including dessert on the table. It was part of my plan. Just before we sat I handed to Rob my purple scarf. He looked at it with a curious expression, until I turned away from him. Getting the message, he tied the silk around my head, over my eyes. He pulled the ends tightly to secure the knot, and when I flinched he started to whisper an apology; but I stroked his right thigh and he kissed me on the neck. He ran his hands over my shoulders and down to my breasts. I kept my arms at my side and pinched the material of his trouser legs. Cotton twill never felt so sexy. I eased my body backwards until my bare derrière nestled snugly in his crotch. The feeling of flesh on fabric aroused me so much that I began to puff and pant.

I regretted immediately my lack of self-control, because Rob pulled away.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

I did not answer but turned to face him and moved in again until my nipples touched his shirt and I felt his breath blowing wisps of my hair across the top of my blindfold. I didn't go closer for a full embrace, because I knew that if I surrendered to my passion, the pea and mint soup and baked camembert pasta alfredo would go cold. So I drew away from him and used one hand to find the edge of the table. Knowing how clumsy his little beloved can be, Rob took hold of my arms to guide me to my chair. I squirmed as I lowered myself onto it. An errant gust of wind had blown a mist of rain onto the seat. It was cold and clammy under my butt and thighs. It felt good.

Rob did not sit immediately. I heard a brushing sound and realized he was wiping the moisture off his own seat.

"Chicken," I said to myself. But that was being unfair. Soggy trousers are more uncomfortable than wet skin. Anyway, the breeze had died away and the rainfall had subsided to a light drizzle, so neither became a problem.

This was not the first time I had dined sans vue or, if you will, dans le noir ("sightless", or "in the dark"; in either case the French makes it even more romantic and sensual). Indeed, in a foretaste of CMNF, I was the only one blindfolded each time. But being dénudé as well was this evening's special treat. Indeed, there was something vaguely symbolic in the fact that the only thing I wore from head to foot during our dinner was the scarf that covered my eyes.

I tried to feed myself but made a mess of the entrée, dribbling the soup down my front. So Rob took on the task of hand-feeding me all three courses, and helping me drink my wine after my flailing hand almost sent the glass flying. (Have I mentioned I'm clumsy?)

Dining blindfolded is an exotic culinary experience and can be an intensely erotic one. Being deprived of one receptor stimulates the others. Stripped of your normal visual cues, your senses of taste and smell are enriched, and that heightens your sensitivity, your awareness, your appreciation of flavours, aromas and textures. And when your food is being served to you by your sighted partner, you cannot be exactly sure what is going into your mouth until you taste it. So the cuisine slowly reveals itself in your nose and on your palate. Each morsel becomes an exploration, each sip an adventure. Our dessert consisted of chocolate-coated strawberries, and I didn't know with each if it would be light or dark, white or ruby, sweet, bittersweet or spicy.

So your lack of sight and reliance on your partner don't limit your experience but rather enhance it. And being naked as well as sightless doubled my dose of sensory arousal, and my dependence on Rob added to the intimacy. He teased, titillated and tantalized me, passing the wine glass under my nose to sniff the bouquet, grazing a morsel of food alluringly against my lips. Playing about, we ended up making more mess than if I had been left to my own devices. At the end of the meal my man gallantly licked the detritus of all three courses, plus daubs of wine, off my chest. I couldn't see, but an awful lot must have accumulated on my nipples!

We talked, of course, and that was a challenge in itself, though in its own way very romantic. The blindfold makes interaction difficult. You realize how you rely almost as much on visual cues and clues, facial expressions and so-called body language, as on spoken words. Your partner's vocal tones and inflections, and your own intuition, become the key to communication. So the blindfold doesn't have to be a barrier; it can bring you closer together. In the darkness you feel disconnected from the world beyond your reach, and his, while the space between the two of you seems to shrink down to nothing.

Nevertheless, it's the one-sided nudity that expands the dimensions in which you interact. The best analogy I can think of is a magnet. My nakedness is the negative polarity, Rob's clothing the positive; the opposites attract and complement each other. I know this is a far from perfect metaphor, but it's the best I can do for now.