This is a direct response to the story by Gaius Tacitus. However, I have changed some of the details... but not to revise or improve his story (which is perfect). The reason is that I don’t want to pre-empt any follow-up instalments that he may have in mind. (In my now defunct Erythea group, I had a nicely elaborate scenario plotted out in detail; but another member continued my thread in a direction I hadn’t intended. It was still a good story, but no longer my own.) Just for the fun of it, I have added a connection to Palmyra, famed for its unique “nude law.”
When I first arrived at the University of Queensland, I felt lost and alone. It’s a lot bigger than my alma mater. Yet after just a couple of days of wandering about in semi-confusion, I managed to find my way around the place without getting lost (too often), making it to my lectures on time (mostly) and settling into temporary digs in a small boarding house just a few minutes’ walk away. By the end of my first week, once I was accommodated to the rhythms of life on the new campus, everything seemed familiar and friendly.
Most of the two dozen inhabitants of the hostel where I stayed were, like me, postgrad students from out of town, awaiting admission to one of the residential colleges or looking for cheaper or more salubrious lodgings in the surrounding suburbs. Though far from luxurious, the place was reasonably comfortable. While there I made a few acquaintances and a couple of friends. One of the latter was my next-door roommate, a gangly, carrot-topped, dishevelled character with a perpetual grin named Barry – “Call me Baz... all me mates do.”
Baz was fun to be around, laid-back enough to be virtually horizontal – which indeed he was much of the time. He knew all the best pubs on and off campus and the whereabouts of all the coolest parties, and he did not want for female companionship – which never stopped him trying to get into my pants (without success, of course). He was one of the few undergrads in the house. Though oftentimes lazy and supercilious, Baz was not stupid. In fact he had a scholarly nature that he tried desperately to conceal but which surfaced in the most implausible circumstances, like under inebriation. How many guys can sing a ten-verse drinking song while smashed... in Latin? (“In caelum cerevisiae est nullum. Itaque hic bibemus illum!” “In heaven there is no beer. That’s why we drink it here!”)
The polar opposite of Baz was Kate, a small, pretty girl of my age with intense grey-green eyes, mahogany-streaked, honey-blond hair that she wore in a shaggy razor-cut style, and an almost permanent pout. She had a waspish temper but also an impish sense of humour. Much like Baz, she could be very pleasant company when not taken too seriously.
On our first full weekend in the house, we held a beach barbeque in the yard. Naturally there was no actual beach, or even a proper swimming pool, so chief organizer Baz arranged for a small plastic wading pool and the delivery of a monstrous pile of sand. His motivation became obvious when we read the flyer he’d prepared: “For the gents, Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda/cargo shorts are recommended. For the ladies, bikinis are mandatory.”
There was no way he could enforce such a rule and hope to keep his manhood intact, but it was a balmy summer evening and we were in a righteous party mood. So I put on my tangerine-lime string bikini and hibiscus-pattern miniskirt wrap. Kate, normally to be seen in tatty jeans and oversized sweater, looked so stunning in her tiny two-piece of hot pink and iridescent blue that I felt a little jealous of the attention she received. We drank and danced into the night, and as the alcohol flowed and the inhibitions relaxed, the girls began to divest themselves of their tops. They might have gone all the way, but we were pretty well exposed to public view, and even our self-appointed host Baz decided that would be going a bit too far.
Although I didn’t drink much, I quickly became intoxicated by the heady atmosphere. Before too long, my bare breasts were swaying to the music and jiggling to the dance. Kate, however, needed a spirit more potent than mere ambiance to loosen her up, but eventually she too was bouncing and boogying, merrily topless. In the morning, I expected her to be showing some remorse, but her only regret stemmed from a thumping hangover.
I didn’t see much of Baz or Kate on weekdays. He was studying law, and she was enrolled in the postgraduate school for human movement science. The latter struck me as odd, since Kate was not the sporty type; but she was involved in developing community health programs. My own field is sociology – I had come to UniQue to study at the Institute for Social Science Research. But that is, of course, only part of the story.
My mother was born on the West Indian island of Palmyra. Her parents were British expatriates, part of the big influx of entrepreneurs, technicians and professionals (doctors, lawyers and so on) which accompanied the business boom of the early 1960s. She met my dad, a hydrologist (specializing in water storage and delivery systems), when he was there with a team of civil engineering consultants. They married and she moved with him to Australia. Ever since, they had never talked much about Palmyra, to me or my brother Alex. After I was born, they had stopped going back for visits, except when my grandparents died. Both times my mother went home alone.
Palmyra is, of course, notable for its famous – or infamous – nude law. In the words of its own publicity: “It is a libertarian society with few rules or restraints, except one. To honour the natural beauty of the female body, women are forbidden to wear clothes.” Sometime I will write of my experience of Palmyra, when my family went to visit my mother’s birthplace. For the present, I will simply say that my sojourn there had a profound impact on my understanding of my heritage and my appreciation of the concept of CMNF.
This is the main reason I decided to study anthropology, and why I now applied for one of the three postgraduate scholarships made available each year for Professor Shaw’s course at Queensland Uni. The vetting process was rigorous, with several hundred applications to be considered. Since I was unable to travel to the all-important interview because of my honours coursework commitments, a videoconference was set up. Professor Joanne Warner, my thesis supervisor, arranged to have one of the seminar rooms booked for a couple of hours. She was very supportive and helpful, despite some reservations about the nature of my impending studies. However, as an anthropologist she wasn’t judgemental. In fact, she was rather curious and made me promise to keep her up to date on the progress of my research.
The interview panel consisted of three persons. They were sitting in high-backed leather chairs behind a large oak desk, Professor Shaw in the middle, flanked by her two associates. She introduced them as Associate Professors Harvey Tanner, deputy chair of the department, and Maria Rescia, the newly appointed coordinator of postgraduate studies. Penelope Shaw was smaller and more youthful than I had pictured her, pleasant-faced with hazel eyes and light auburn hair that she wore in a bob-cut which made her look even younger than her mid- to late twenties. Harvey Tanner was a somewhat grim-faced fellow ten or fifteen years older than his head of department, prematurely greying at the temples. Maria Rescia was a striking woman in her thirties, with an autumn complexion, dark incisive eyes and henna red hair streaked with golden highlights.
Professor Tanner was wearing an expensive business suit complete with silk tie. He appeared slightly ill at ease, as if he wasn’t used to being so dressed up. What did not seem to bother him, or he didn’t show it, was that the two women seated to his left were naked. At least what I could see of them above the desk top, from the waist up, was bare, so I assumed there was nothing below. They had on light make-up, although Professor Rescia’s nipples and areolas appeared to be rouged. She also wore around her neck an elegant silver and black choker. They showed no sign of self-consciousness in the company of their clothed male colleague, but I detected a tinge of discomfort they felt in the presence of a stranger, albeit on a computer screen. It must have been more awkward when they interviewed a male applicant.
It was probably not necessary for the two women to conduct the interview in the nude. I think it was mostly for the benefit of us, the candidates. For females like myself, it is a pertinent reminder of what the CMNF studies course will be requiring of us – total commitment to the ethos of the department and the philosophical underpinnings of the discipline. For the males, it is part of the adjustment process – get them used to the sight of naked females straight away, so they can focus on their studies instead of on the anatomy.
The interview itself was nothing out of the ordinary. My academic credentials were explored, my personality probed, my interests and aspirations discussed. They, of course, knew of my Palmyrene background, but it was not brought up except in passing. I assume they didn’t want me to have an unfair advantage over the other candidates, which was fine by me. I am happy and confident enough in my capabilities to be assessed on my own merits. They also mentioned my psychological profile, which I had completed as part of the preliminary procedures. This was, I suspect, designed to weed out girls motivated by pure exhibitionism and similar types; and I imagine there is a similar questionnaire for males to cull voyeurs and the like from the list.
Towards the end of the session, Professor Shaw gave me a somewhat stern look. She pushed her pen and pad to one side, as if to let me know that the oral part of the interview was over. She told me to stand up and move back from the table until I was standing in the middle of the room. She instructed me to take off my clothes.
I was expecting this, which is why I had put on my best undies that morning. At first I did not feel at all discomfited, and not just because I had gone through this before, on Palmyra. It was all very clinical, and I quickly realized that they were not appraising my body but rather my attitude. Professor Tanner hardly bothered to look up from his notes, and in an odd way I felt affronted. Was my exposed body so uninspiring?
I was ordered to sit back down again. The cool, slick touch of the vinyl upholstery under my bare backside caused me to shudder and I only just suppressed an “Ooh!” Tanner smiled – ever so slightly – for the first time, and at that I must have blushed, because the two women grinned as well. And as if things couldn’t get more embarrassing, I was asked to call Professor Warner into the room. Fortunately there was an intercom on the desk. I did not fancy a jaunt down the corridor in my present state of undress.
When Jo entered the room, she did a quick and comical double-take. She stared at my neat little pile of discarded clothing on one of the chairs, then at me sitting there starkers. Only then did she glance at the screen and see the man in his neatly pressed suit and the two women in their birthday suits. But apart from that she took it all in with remarkable insouciance. She gave me a very good reference. When Professor Shaw allowed herself another smile and a discreet nod of the head, I knew I was well nigh a certainty. Next stop... the Department of CMNF Studies, Institute for Social Science Research, University of Queensland.
The orientation lecture was scheduled for Thursday morning. The Institute is based in a low, salmon-pink sandstone building surrounded by carefully manicured lawns and nestled in a grove of trees beside the lake (what locals call the big duck pond). The edifice still has the crisp, clean lustre of new construction. As part of the endowment for the CMNF Studies department, the anonymous patron provided the funds for a relocation to a more discrete setting on campus. (I have since discovered that the mysterious benefactor is a Palmyran businesswoman now living in Australia. She resides in Melbourne but chose the University of Queensland as the venue because of the more salubrious climate.)
Adjacent to the main building is an annexe housing a small auditorium, and it was outside here that we assembled. I did a quick head count – there were forty-one of us altogether, seventeen males and twenty-four females. We ranged in age from substantially younger than my 21 years – no doubt first-year undergrads – to a well dressed, exquisitely groomed, extremely attractive woman in her late thirties. Everyone was feeling the inevitable first-day jitters, but I found it interesting that the more anxious-looking sex were the males, who were restless and fidgety. Most remained standing about in isolation, whereas their feminine counterparts were gathered in small clusters, chatting and laughing.
I was about to insinuate myself into one of the groups when we were called to attention by a woman whose voice I immediately recognized. It was Maria Rescia, the postgraduate coordinator. She was looking stylish in a smart grey blazer, white ruffled blouse and short black skirt; and it amused me that, since I had talked to her only on the telephone since our videoconference, this was the first time I had seen her with her clothes on.
She waved a hand to usher us inside the building, but in the foyer she called out “Ladies to the right, please.”
Next to me a barely audible female voice said “Uh-oh!” and I heard a couple of nervous giggles, as we were directed towards a doorway guarded by a young woman dressed similar to Professor Rescia. That struck me as odd – surely it couldn’t be a uniform. Why on earth would this, of all university departments, have a staff uniform, particularly for female members? I decided that the ensembles were only superficially alike.
I looked back over my shoulder to see the men moving directly into the auditorium. Every single one of them glanced towards us a few times while trying to act completely nonchalant. I was one of the last to leave the lobby and my eyes met Rescia’s. She recognized me and we nodded acknowledgement. However, she stayed at the back of the room while the proceedings were directed by her assistant, who appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was blonde, athletic, pleasant-looking rather than beautiful. She spoke with a mild accent, too subtle for me to identify. But she didn’t waste words. There was no formal introduction, just “Hi, I’m Vanessa.” There was no speech or lecture, only “It’s important that we get straight into the practice of what we study here, so I want you to remove all of your clothing.”
We all knew this moment would come, albeit maybe not so soon. There were no murmurs of dismay or apprehension, but in the confines of the small room the sound of quickening breaths was very obvious. In fact, it was so cramped that we couldn’t undress without continually touching each other, which actually made it a very sensual experience. Vanessa began removing her clothes as well, and behind me Professor Rescia was following suit (by taking off her suit).
We came in various shapes and sizes. While there were some lovely specimens among us, few of us would make the grade as supermodels. However, one young woman, who looked about my age, was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Her name, I learnt, was Rachel, a tall brunette with dark sparkling eyes and ruby red lips. She had a stunning body, perfect breasts, amazing legs, flawless skin. She looked a little nervous and appeared to be hesitant about stripping naked, at least until the rest of us were partially undressed. On the other hand, the girl next to me, aged around nineteen or twenty, was... well, I wouldn’t say chubby, but she was amply proportioned and hadn’t lost her baby fat. She had cropped hair, a cute turned-up nose and crystal blue eyes. And she was totally unself-conscious about her nudity. While some others made jokes or engaged in idle chatter to cover up or suppress their unease, she was babbling on to her neighbour about the concert she had attended the previous night. As far as she seemed to be concerned, we could have been in the dressing room getting changed for a school swimming carnival. But she added some much-needed levity to the occasion.
There was a bench along one wall where we deposited our clothes. I noticed that every one of us, including Maria, Vanessa and the chatty one, lovingly folded and carefully placed each item, arranging and smoothing out bras and panties on top of the neat piles.
“Shoes as well, please,” Vanessa instructed, as she began peeling an expensive silk stocking down her thigh. “Plus any jewellery that can be removed.”
That was significant, for without us realizing it (at the time), she was teaching us our first lesson. 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 just about satisfying the so-called male gaze, indeed not principally that. It’s about our own experience as females. By being not just sexually exposed but completely denuded of every adornment and every facet and insignia of externally focused personality, we are reduced to the very essence of what we are (and in the presence of the clothed male, of what we are not). In this way we don’t just display our bodies; we feel our nudity, in the most profoundly intimate way.
Vanessa gave us some final instruction, making it plain that we were about to rejoin the males. “Don’t look down or away; be proud of your body. If the guys stare at you, it’s because they like what they see. But remember, you aren’t naked for them. You are naked for you...”
For a second I was worried that she was going to launch into some sort of self-affirming, woman-power, I belong to me, whatever, but she continued, “Be honest, girls, we love it when we give the boys a rise, literally.” She then admonished, “Try to avoid covering up with your hands. It’s an automatic reflex, but it’s not being shy, it’s an expression of shame; and you have nothing to be ashamed of. So show yourself off. You don’t have to flaunt it, but don’t try to hide it.” And as if to demonstrate, Professor Rescia, whose luxuriant red hair cascaded past her shoulders, gathered and rolled it into a loose bun to keep it from veiling any part of her torso.
When she opened the door that led back into the foyer, we all looked around at one another. We weren’t assessing each other, or making sure we were all equally naked. We were just seeking a sort of affirmation and reassurance, comfort in numbers. I think that most of us were, like me, glad we weren’t as gorgeous as Rachel, who would undoubtedly get the bulk of the attention. But as Vanessa said, we would all be on view; and even when men’s eyes were not focused on us, we would still be in the presence of clothed males, and therefore still feeling the full sensual and emotional experience of our one-sided nudity.
It was a weird experience, crossing the lobby completely naked. The faux marble tiles were icy cold and slippery under my bare feet, and the gentle draught from the air conditioning tingled on my skin and tickled those parts of my body that it would not normally reach.
As we entered the auditorium, Harvey Tanner was addressing the male students from a lectern at the front of the stage, glaring sternly over the tops of rimless spectacles. Behind him to one side were three chairs in a row, and sitting at the near end was Professor Shaw. She was of course naked, left leg crossed over the right, hands folded demurely on her knee, absorbed in listening to her deputy’s address. In a room of fully dressed men, she looked tiny, vulnerable and exquisitely feminine. It seemed almost a parody of how we normally view social and professional relationships that she was the senior, most important person present. It reminded me, and the rest of us, that in the CMNF philosophy and lifestyle, rank, wealth, education, power – be it political, economic, physical or intellectual – and all the other ways we have of defining and assigning status count for nothing when it comes to who has the right to wear clothing and who does not. (And it is a right, even a privilege, because in the end, regardless of whether or not you, as a woman, choose to be naked, or that you consent to your nudity, it is an act of submission, of the female to the male – to the male gaze, or to male authority, or to the male sense of honour and dignity, or to the male ego.)
When he saw us begin to file in, the speaker turned to his boss and she nodded. Meanwhile all other heads turned to watch us descend the steps. Vanessa led the way and took us to a block of seats directly adjacent to the men. Three tiers were occupied, and three of us would need to sit next to a male. I saw that one of these was going to be Rachel and that she hesitated. It was rather touching that the most beautiful girl in the room was one of the most shy. Her magnificent breasts were gently heaving and, to her discernible embarrassment, her nipples were reacting to the intensity of her experience. So I slipped in front of her and took the seat instead. As I did so, I felt her hand pat me gratefully on the shoulder. The guy on my left was not much more than a boy, with sandy hair, a freckled face and innocent eyes that stared rigidly ahead as soon as I lowered myself into the seat.
Some of the girls fussily brushed the upholstery before seating themselves, but I could see that mine at least was clean enough. For a few moments there was an uneasy silence, broken when a squeaky voice exclaimed, “Ooh, the seat’s cold!”
Everyone laughed, appreciating the release of tension.
Vanessa and a male colleague distributed information kits in large manila folders. The boy beside me placed his strategically over his lap, which may or may not have been intentional. For fun (but also to make the point that I shouldn’t feel ashamed of my nudity), I deliberately put mine where it would not cover my lady parts; and when I glanced down I saw that Rachel had done the same. Good for her!
