It’s around nine o’clock when Rachel and I finish up, with enough time before the next item on my schedule to go for coffee in the downstairs lounge. James wants to join us, and while he gets changed, Rachel packs her day clothes into a shoulder bag. She picks up her shoes, considers them for a moment, and then puts them into the bag as well.
About a dozen people are in the lounge. In the corner are the lesbian couple, Jane and Sophie, and a guy and girl. The girl, obviously a guest, is the only female in the place who’s wearing clothes, and it’s rather amusing, and ironic, that’s she’s the one who’s looking uncomfortable. There’s also a fascinating interaction within the foursome. The male’s line of sight keeps flitting back and forward between the bodies of the two nude women and then, somewhat guiltily, towards his (I presume) girlfriend. Jane keeps glancing at her as well, indicating that there may be some attraction, but never at her partner except to make eye contact. In contrast to, for example, how James is always looking at Rachel and wears a constant “How lucky am I?” expression, Jane and Sophie appear serenely au fait with each other’s nudity. Perhaps it’s because they are both naked; or maybe, in Manet House at least, the Lingering Gaze is an exclusively male phenomenon. Of course, I only watch for a second or two, not wishing to be intrusive.
James and I get the coffee. The young man behind the serving counter gives me the customary inspection. This is virtually expected of the males, and the duration of the Gaze varies according to subject – for residents and habitués such as myself a brief but nevertheless comprehensive once-over, for infrequent visitors a more thorough and leisurely scan, and for eminent persons anywhere up to ten seconds. Which doesn’t sound very long, unless you’re the one standing there stripped bare, having every square centimetre of your body scrutinized.
There are unwritten protocols which are generally adhered to, at least in theory. All bodies in the same class (resident, guest, VIP) should be allocated the same look time (although in practice stunners like Rachel get more attention). First-timers (known – who would have guessed? – as virgins) are given more subtle treatment (although the consent implied in their agreeing to undress means they are not exempted). The Gaze ought to be tactful – it’s not the Lingering Leer – and it should be non-judgemental, any negative or derogatory comments being strictly out of line (and compliments too, unless addressed to all women present). In return, we on the receiving end have our own etiquette – for instance, you receive the Gaze with good grace and accept it for what it is, a recognition of and tribute to your innate beauty and desirability as a female. You don’t react, you don’t try to hide yourself behind your hands or other objects, and you don’t show either pleasure or unease; indeed, you don’t acknowledge the Gaze at all it unless it’s from a friend or close acquaintance. Your nudity is meant to be enjoyed, not cause discomfort. (I should add that the Gaze is a rarity in the corridors, classrooms and offices of the CMNFS department; in fact, there it’s seen as an unprofessional newbie gaffe.)
Not surprisingly, the longest Gaze of all is reserved for Professor Shaw when she comes into the residence. The first time I saw this, I was a member of an official party. As a second-year postgrad, I had been elected (or more precisely conscripted) to the faculty board, which also bestowed upon me a non-voting seat on the Manet house committee. Its inaugural session for the year was attended by the senior personnel in the CMNFS department, Professors Shaw, Rescia and Tanner. By now I was on first-name terms with Professor Penelope, and she turned out to be perky, playful Penny, in contrast to the redoubtable Rescia and truculent Tanner (... okay, while the woman is definitely formidable, he’s not really so harsh, but I’m going with the alliteration). Penny has a wicked, offbeat sense of humour and a pronounced mischievous streak, which baffles her colleagues and students at times but which I totally understand. (Heck, we could almost be the same person!)
We arrived at Manet House at the same time, Professors Shaw and Tanner, myself and Robert, my fellow postgrad rep. We were greeted at the entrance by two of the committee members, Charles and Rebecca. She was wearing just a short silk or satin robe, and perhaps at this point I should say something about the exterior dress code. In theory, female residents can leave the house naked. The campus is a very tolerant place; but nonetheless the watchword is discretion. For instance, each September the university marks the end of winter with a ten-day celebration known as SpringFest. It’s traditional for female students (and many staff) to attend classes in an absolute minimum of dress – in fact, bikinis are almost universal (which itself has served as a rejoinder to critics of CMNF studies. The male-female clothing dimorphism which defines CMNF is already in evidence, albeit in a less overt form, during SpringFest). Last year, it was proposed that Manet House “go public”, and that the CMNFS department have an open day. The idea was vetoed by prudent Penny, this being one of the few occasions when she has used her authority to override a proposal still under consideration. It probably would have been voted down anyway. We all understand that society is not yet ready for full disclosure (in the literal sense of the word).
The regrettable fact is that our incipient fame has attracted some negative attention, sensationalist publicity and an unsavoury element. It is not uncommon to see people – mainly but not entirely males – lurking outside the house and even trying to gain admission to the closed off CMNFS department. For the most part they are not so much creepy as inquisitive, but it can be unnerving. And it’s a rather sad commentary on human nature that I feel safer inside, when I’m completely naked, than I do when entering or leaving fully clothed.
This is also a good opportunity to bring up one other issue. When the CMNFS department and Manet House first opened, both inevitably drew flak from two sources, moralists and feminists. Yet it’s interesting that since then, whereas the self-appointed guardians of morality and conventional standards remain firmly opposed, the feminist resistance has subsided. While many women (and some men) understandably have qualms about the one-sided nature of our nudity, they acknowledge that it is consensual and accept that it is self-affirming (but reject that it is empowering – which is okay because I am not so sure of that myself). For this, indeed, I can take some credit, via an article I wrote for the university newspaper with the provocative (albeit cumbersome) title, “Between Playboy and the Ayatollah – CMNF as fin de cycle in the liberation of female sexuality.” The most endearing reception came from the fearsomely feminist student vice-president who demanded (with tongue planted firmly in cheek, of course) that the department be renamed NFCM. Actually that makes a lot of sense – it focuses the priority where it belongs, on the naked female.
Anyway, returning from the digression to the flashback... As we were ushered into the vestibule, Penny and I were sternly directed by Charles to the undressing room. This is a quaint ritual that some of the rostered doormen, particularly the younger ones, also like to perform, especially for the benefit of older females like myself and VIPs like the Professor. Somehow the charade that we are reluctant to strip off and that they can order us to do so inflates their sense of self-importance. While Rebecca, who had already divested herself of her robe, rolled her eyes, Penny didn’t react except for a little smile as she veered leftwards through the doorway.
As I followed her, Harvey Tanner and Robert proceeded into the lobby. I do sometimes wonder what it’s like to be the man in that situation, being welcomed into the house with clothing intact, while his female colleagues are diverted in order to strip naked. Does he feel superior? Thankful to be the clothed male and not the nude female? Fortunate? Honoured? Or just aroused? The thing is that because it’s such a delicious experience for me, I find it difficult to understand what is the main attraction from the male perspective – beyond the visual pleasure of a woman’s naked body. After all, I have seen men naked and so I can appreciate the appeal on that level. But the CMNF dynamic is different, as we know. The man can only see my nudity and intellectualize the concept of one-sidedness; whereas I feel these things. Even fully clothed, I get tingly whenever I become conscious of the fabric against my skin, like when the hem of my skirt brushes across my knees or my brassiere tightens on my chest when I take a deep breath. You develop an acute awareness of your body which is made more profound by the fact that you bare it for the pleasure of others, even more so by the fact that in our situation it is required of you, and most of all that males, by the sole virtue of being male, do not have the same obligation or make the same commitment. And as trite as this might sound... because the body that you must bare is female, you remain at all times, even when dressed, fully aware of your womanhood and your femininity. And it may seem strange coming from someone is on the right-hand side of the CMNF formula, but I feel rather sorry for the male who can only witness and not experience it.
Guys like James are grateful for the privilege of having their womenfolk stripped naked, but we are gratified too, for having the opportunity to get pleasure from being pleasing. So even though the nudity is one-sided, the joy is mutual. In that sense, CMNF is a gift from the female to the male, but there is as much, and maybe more, pleasure in the giving as in the receiving.
Since I was wearing just a sundress, knickers and sandals, I took only a minute to remove them and place them in the locker. Penny, who was scheduled to attend an interfaculty conference later that day, was conservatively dressed in a business suit of skirt, jacket and blouse. Underneath, however, she went sexy with stockings with a suspender belt; but I had to laugh when I saw that she had on adorable white cotton briefs decorated with pictures of Dora the Explorer. She gave me a quizzical look as she peeled them off, then grinned when she realized why I found it funny.
“Well, no one will know what I have on under my skirt,” she said, and it took me a moment to grasp how ludicrous that statement was (meant to be).
Penny and I are similar in construction as well as personality. She is small in stature and slightly built, with petite breasts, a narrow pelvis and a light brush of pubic hair. She has a scar that runs across her cleft, for about three centimetres towards her left hip. It’s almost invisible but for the subtle discolouration on her labia and a tiny track where the hair won’t grow. I wonder what accident or operation produced it. She has near-flawless skin and her bottom is smooth and tight. There is a mark on one of her buttocks which is either a cute little dimple or another scar. Actually, from the rear she shows a slim, rather boyish figure, and it’s only when she’s facing you that you can see she’s all woman.
She has let her hair (on the head that is) grow out since the first time I saw her, but it’s rather unkempt – not a mess, but rather a sign of comfort and confidence in one’s appearance. She is pretty, not stunning like Rachel or striking like Maria Rescia, with a sort of pixie face which becomes animated when she’s angry or upset, but oddly placid when she’s happy or excited. She seems to be the type who needs to show her displeasure but prefers to keep her cheerful moods to herself. Really, she’s quite introverted for a woman who has pioneered the formal study of the CMNF experience and lifestyle.
Unlike Rachel, for example, Penny has two personas, one clothed, the other naked – actually three, depending on whether she is nude in the presence of a male. Thus, she embodies to perfection the delightful contradictions inherent in CMNF. Wearing clothes, she is assertive and even at times domineering, a perfectionist who is a hard but sympathetic taskmaster. I guess I’m idealizing her, but it’s easy to miss the faults when you look up to someone and see your own reflection. Yet having shed her clothing, she switches to another mode. In the presence of males, she assumes the Stance naturally and easily. Although she’s rather cryptic about her own motivations, all of her published papers and lectures being starkly academic in tone, her approach is essentially from a “post-feminist” perspective – CMNF as an expression and indeed an assertion of female identity and sexuality.
Hanging on a wall in the lobby is a photograph taken during the Manet House dedication ceremony, of her with Harvey Tanner and several high-ranking male dignitaries of the university. The men appear all very sober, sombre and laden with gravitas in their grey business suits; and amongst them stands this diminutive, naked woman, looking so open and vulnerable and sexy and breathtakingly feminine.. and so natural. The very last reaction you would feel seeing it is that there is anything lewd or immoral or sexist about it. It is a picture of femininity in its ultimate form, in every sense the diametrical opposite of the male. She dominates the scene, but one’s attention is drawn not so much to her nude body as to her nudity per se. It’s a subtle but important distinction – the essence of CMNF is not the presence of bare skin but rather the absence of clothing.
The fact that she was naked at all when the photo was taken generated something of a controversy at the time. When the CMNFS unit was established, one of the preconditions for the endowment was that the philosophy be observed in practice as well as in the preaching, and that made sense – just as the scientific method is de rigueur in the science department and physical fitness in the health and PE department. On the other hand, some people felt that female nudity could create a problem in the less structured and disciplined environment of the student residence. Yet it was the foundation house committee, mostly female in composition, which not only approved nudity but made it mandatory. During my family’s visit to the island of Palmyra, I discovered the same thing about its famous nude law – that it is endorsed and maintained by an overwhelming majority of women.
So when Professor Penny and I came out of the undressing room and entered the house proper, we crossed the threshold into a place where conventional mores and symbols of status are inverted or subverted. Unlike Harvey Tanner, her deputy, or Robert, my colleague, whose gender is secondary to their rank and role (except insofar as they are not female), we became defined by our sex, more specifically by the fact that it was exposed and on display. Again, the concept is more subtle than one might first appreciate. Outside the house, Penny and I were clad, respectively, in a miniskirt and a skimpy sundress, in contrast to the men’s coats and trousers, so it’s not like we were “unisex”. But there’s a world of difference between showing a bit of leg and showing literally everything, more when it’s mandatory, even more when your colleagues and subordinates keep their clothes on, and most of all for the solitary reason that you are female and they are male.
Even after my Palmyran rite of passage, the first CMNFS classes I attended were a peculiar experience. In the early days, the sexes tended to sit apart, but as we became more familiar with our nudity and better acquainted with the males, we began to mingle. Yet again, there is a big difference between taking off your clothes in a sexual or aesthetic context and being casually naked in an everyday situation, much more so in an academic setting such as a lecture or seminar. Because the guy sitting next to you is fully clothed, you remain intensely aware of your nudity. And the fact that nearly two-thirds of the people in the room are female adds an extra layer of awareness. Being outnumbered by almost two to one but the ones who get to see the other sex naked, the males enjoy an inevitable sense of privilege, which I hesitate to describe as smug but is definitely self-satisfied. As a rough analogy, I remember the Christmas dinners at my grandparents’ house when I was a girl. They were a very old-fashioned couple, and we females were consigned to the kitchen all day preparing the feast, then serving up and cleaning up, while the males got to relax and enjoy the fruits of our toil. I recall that same self-satisfaction on the face of my little brother – the sense of entitlement that comes with being born with a penis. (I’m not saying that all males feel that way, but let’s face it guys, how many of you have not sat back complacently as your womenfolk did the work?) The difference, of course, is that, once you get over the initial shyness, stripping bare is a lot more fun than labouring in the kitchen; but what I’m referring to is the attitude and demeanour of the males. And for that I can hardly fault them – for who can blame any red-blooded heterosexual male for feeling privileged in those circumstances?
However, the really interesting dynamic manifests itself when the teacher is a woman, especially if it’s Shaw or Rescia standing on the dais. The contrast between clothed males and naked females is enhanced dramatically when the person in authority is one of the latter. Though superior in status, she is the one who remains exposed and vulnerable. I felt that the first time I delivered a lecture to the first-years, fulfilling one of my postgrad duties. By then the fresh-faced boys had encountered enough naked female bodies that the sight had become almost (but never quite) passé, and the girls had become almost (but never quite) habituated to their nudity. I suffer not at all from stage fright, and yet it was more than a little unnerving to stand on the podium, only partially concealed behind the lectern, trying to look authoritative and sound scholarly, with two dozen pairs of eyes focused directly and unapologetically on my naked body. It still is, but now I get a certain enjoyment out of it. (For women who haven’t had a CMNF experience, it’s like when the wind lifts your skirt and you flash your knickers at passers-by – it’s embarrassing but you feel a certain coy pleasure when it happens.)
Well, it seems that I have wandered far off my original topic, so I now return to A Day in the Life...
While James and I fetch the coffee, we’ve left Rachel to handle the seating arrangements, and she’s pulled up three chairs to join Martin and Michelle. They form the most interesting pairing in the entire house. They are not only brother and sister but twins. They are fair-skinned and blue-eyed, but while he is a blonde, her hair is jet black. Because they otherwise look so very much alike, I assume she’s dyed it. They are both slightly built with finely chiselled features and delicate hands. That’s as much as I can say of Martin, because he’s dressed in neat pleated trousers, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a tie. He looks so dapper, something almost as rare in Manet House as a covered feminine derrière. As for his twin sister, she has small but nicely formed breasts, the tips coloured such a rich rose pink that I’m sure they’re rouged. She has a pierced navel and a small butterfly tattoo adorning her pubic mound. Yes, we do check each other out – I’m sure she’s doing the same with me. If you can’t compare other girls’ clothes, you scrutinize their bodies instead.
Martin and Michelle have never really explained how or why they adopted the CMNF philosophy and lifestyle. Still, they present another fascinating perspective. Here are two individuals in every way and in every sense equal except in gender; and yet that distinction separates them completely. As a result, theirs is possibly the clearest of all manifestations of CMNF – the difference between them is defined, revealed and symbolized by what is kept hidden for one and what is put on display by the other. As the one born male, his body is covered, his masculinity identified by what is kept private; whereas being the one born female, her body is exposed, her femininity put on public show.
Martin and Michelle share a room, which makes some sense in Manet House. Having been forced on occasion to occupy a bedroom with my little brother, before our visit to Palmyra I had devised a set of protocols to ensure mutual privacy. But once he became accustomed to seeing me naked, and I became inured to having him perv on me, those inhibitions disappeared. And while I had no desire to see my brother sans attire, the rules did become simpler. It’s no doubt the same for the twins. I don’t know what arrangements they have, if any, but if they are anything like Alex and me, they maintain the strict partition of clothed and naked which is what CMNF is all about.
