This is my latest instalment in the CMNF Studies saga. It’s a little meandering and convoluted. One of the most interesting things about developing a scenario of this kind is the exploring of all the ramifications and permutations that naturally arise as you delve deeper into the theme.
It’s just before dawn when I awake. Blinking away the blur, I peer out the window. The sun’s first pale rays are fanning out across an indigo sky. The horizon shimmers. There is already heat in the air. It’s going to be another sultry day.
Next to me in the bed, David stirs. Not wanting to rouse him, I ease myself out from under the covers and search the floor with my toes for my slippers. I feel a warm hand on my back, tenderly stroking the bare skin. I turn towards him. The room is too dark to see him clearly, but I can tell he is smiling, and squinting through the gloom. I lie back down, and he props his head up with one hand to look at me. With the other, he fondles my breasts, gently kneading the flesh, playfully rubbing and squeezing my nipples between his fingertips. He draws his hand slowly down my body, gliding over my belly, the nails grazing and tickling my skin. His fingers pause to explore the soft folds between my legs before entering me. I gasp and begin to squirm as he probes deeper. He slides his body over mine, kisses me, whispers words I do not hear. He presses close to me, pushes into me.
Afterwards, for a long time, he just lies there, still on top of me, still inside me. He’s breathing heavily, but otherwise he’s silent. I think that maybe he has gone back to sleep, and I wonder how I can extricate myself to prepare for the day ahead. The weight of his body is becoming oppressive, but I love the feel of the cool, satiny slickness of his pyjamas against my naked body. With each breath we take, and every movement we make, the sleek fabric thrills my sensitized nipples and tingles the insides of my thighs.
I very lightly pinch his ear. He withdraws from me, rolls off and away from me. The sun has reached the window sill, and a beam of gold is creeping along the floor towards the bed. David watches me as I rise from the bed onto wobbly feet, bracing myself with a yawn and a stretch. I sense his gaze following me until I am out the door. I’m still a bit light-headed, but a quick shower rouses me to full awareness. I dry myself, drag a brush across my flaccid hair, rummage through the clean clothes hamper for a pair of fresh knickers. I don’t find any and decide I don’t need them anyway.
Just as the coffee is brewed, David joins me. He stands close behind me as I start to fill two mugs. He is wearing his robe. The coarse fibres are faintly irritating on my skin as he presses his front to my back, between the cheeks of my backside, nuzzling my bare shoulders, cupping my breasts in his hands, lightly compressing my nipples between his fingers. He suddenly pinches hard. I jerk forward, almost spilling the coffee. I begin to scold him, but his hand closes over my mouth. He pushes once more against my rear end, but it’s not the prickly texture of his robe that I’m feeling.
*****
The tiles of the kitchen floor are hard and cold under me as I lie on my back, still puffing and panting. David is beside me, his arm around my shoulders, cushioning my head. He’s caressing my face with a tender hand, and kissing my breasts. I’m still in a dreamy state, but aware enough of the numbness where my bare flesh is in contact with the floor. It’s irrational, but I momentarily resent my boyfriend for his pyjamas and robe, shielding his body from the frigid faux terrazzo.
He reaches up to the counter and brings down the two mugs of coffee, now only lukewarm. I gratefully sip the tepid brew.
“I’m going to have to take another shower,” I complain.
“Why? You’re incredibly sexy when you’re all sweaty.”
I don’t respond, but start to get up. I’m aching from our encounter on the tiles, but I really can’t blame a guy for getting aroused when his girlfriend wanders around their apartment stark naked. The first time, just after we moved in together, sent him goggle-eyed before he recovered and ravished me on the spot.
“I’m not used to seeing girls getting about like that,” he explained.
“You have three elder sisters,” I said.
“Yes, but that’s hardly the same thing. They kept their clothes on around the house... mostly.”
Fair enough (even if that final qualification intrigued me). Yet all these months later, he still gets excited to see me nude, and that’s nice. But there’s more to it than just that. David is still a boy at heart. He’s two years younger than me, a lowly undergraduate, and he was a little overawed when he finally got me to take me out, after several rebuffed attempts. He also has the usual male ego issues, not made any easier by the fact that I’m the principal breadwinner. His part-time job allows for the optional extras, but I pay the rent and buy the groceries. I’m also rather domineering. So speaking metaphorically, in our relationship it might be said that I’m the one who wears the pants.
That’s one of the reasons I don’t wear the pants literally, why in fact I take off all my clothes for him. I say “for him” because I don’t feel especially aroused just walking about sans attire, and I wouldn’t describe myself as exhibitionist. My nudity is a gift to David as much as it is an expression of my femininity and sexuality; but as with any gift there is equal joy in the giving as in the receiving, and I get great pleasure from pleasing him. And from his point of view, it’s more than just the visual delight of my naked body (for what it’s worth) that’s the turn-on. My one-sided nudity, the fact that I as a female am exposed while he the male remains clothed is a reminder to us both that, though I pay the bills and act too bossy at times, he is the man of the house. When I am stripped bare, he and I are equally and acutely aware of what I am and what I am not.
I shake myself out of my reverie and head back to the bathroom. After that, I get dressed to face the day’s heavy schedule. I choose my cream silk blouse and navy blue skirt, and underneath a white Chantilly lace demi bra with matching briefs. As I stand before the mirror, David comes up behind me again. He toys with the hem of my skirt, lifting it to play with my panties, pushing the elastic down and off my derrière. He brushes my hair from the back of my neck and begins to kiss. I pull away, hitch up my knickers and shoo him off. Three showers in one morning are too many.
***
I leave David to make his own breakfast. I have an appointment at Manet House, which is a brisk fifteen minutes walk away. The air is still, the sky clear, the sun yet low in the sky. I encounter a few joggers and a couple of strollers on the path. We exchange casual nods. An old man with a large dog engages me in small talk until I manage to extract myself and continue on my way.
The student residence is located just off campus, a four-story sandstone building hidden amongst the trees down by the river. From a distance it appears modest, the entrance concealed behind a dense grove of pines that straddle the gravel driveway like a verdant islet in a dry, pebbly streambed. As I approach, the edifice looms more imposing. I look up and read, inscribed into the pink granite lintel above the doorway, an inscription in classically concise Latin, “Vestitutus Nuda” – “Clothed Male Nude Female”.
My heels clatter on the stone slabs of the broad portico. The grand oak doors are closed, but the handle turns easily and they open with a soft, rasping creak, into a vestibule about the size of an average living room. On one wall hangs an expensively framed print of the famous painting “Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe” by Edouard Manet, eponymous beau ideal of Manet House. There are two interior doors, and a reception desk, behind which sits a young man, fresh-faced and tussle-haired, reading a magazine. He’s smartly groomed in grey slacks and a cornflower blue, long-sleeved shirt embossed with the entwined initials “VN”. He looks up, and it takes him a few seconds to show recognition. He greets me politely, but I detect a hint of something in his eyes as he scans my skirt and blouse, not exactly disapproving, more like bemused. It occurs to me that he hasn’t seen me wearing clothes before this moment.
“Good morning, Richard,” I pre-empt him.
He gives me another odd look before he stammers, “Good morning, umm...”
“You have no idea, do you?”
He smiles and shrugs. “Sorry, not a clue.”
I could just tell him my name, but I want him to stew a little. Finally I say, “Well, no worry. So, do I have it?”
He looks at me quizzically, until I point to the notice on the door behind him. It says “No admission without permission.”
He grins. “Not before you go there.” He gestures towards the other door.
“Of course,” I nod and go through. It’s a small room, unfurnished except for a long bench, a couple of chairs and a row of about two dozen lockers. I take off my shoes and socks and place them on the table. Then off come my skirt and blouse to make a small pile next to my footwear. I slip off my bra and knickers, fold them neatly and place them on top of the rest of my clothes. I stow them in one of the lockers.
There’s a full-length mirror on the back of the door. It’s been put there for redressing, but as most women do, I pause to study my naked reflection. I perform a little pirouette, arms outstretched. I am probably no more or less self-critical than the average female, but overall I am pleased with what I see. A lean body, short but well-proportioned, not too athletic, hardly voluptuous. My mother may be right, I need to eat more. Small breasts, though nothing to be ashamed of. Flat belly, narrow hips, unremarkable backside. Sparse wisps of pubic hair embroider the contours of pink flesh, blurring the outline of my cleft. I’ve thought about removing it, but David likes me au naturel in every sense of the term. I do have great legs, my best asset. I stop myself. Richard must be wondering what the heck I’m doing in here.
I close up the locker and go back into the anteroom where he’s waiting for me to emerge. He’s seen me nude a hundred times, but he nevertheless looks me over. His eyes start at the top of my breasts, wander over my nipples before descending my belly to settle between my thighs. I wait for him to finish. I’m not bothered by his scrutiny and he’s not at all shy about it.
The first time I experienced the Lingering Gaze, I was indeed embarrassed, and a little flustered. Now I just accept it. It gives the guys a treat and for me it’s flattering. I’ve also learnt the Stance – hands behind my back, fingers loosely interlocked and clear of my buttocks; legs slightly apart, left knee slightly bent (in that oddly coy-coquettish pose); stomach pulled in and shoulders pushed back, all very subtly, to emphasize my chest; head erect but eyes downcast. That last one is not to signify shame or submission. You avoid eye contact that might make your viewer feel awkward (any self-consciousness being the lot of the nude female). And you don’t stare off into the distance either, because that makes you appear haughty, or it else like you’re trying to disguise a sense of shame. These are some of the unwritten rules of CMNF. They’re not mandatory, and it takes a great deal of self-confidence to maintain the Stance. But it quickly becomes a matter of pride. You can easily tell the visitors, newcomers and novices by their posture, where they place their hands and how some defiantly try to stare down the viewer.
Richard cannot resist a telltale licking of the lips. He probably doesn’t even know he’s done it. He’s a first-year student just a few months out of high school. Transition into the worldly sophistication of university life is a big enough shock for naive freshmen, let alone for neophytes in the CMNFS (that is, CMNF Studies) department, where half one’s fellows, postgrad mentors, lecturers and professors are nude females. And strangely enough (or perhaps not so strange), the adjustment seems to be harder for the guys. For all the initial discomfort, we the naked ones quickly adapt. Life continues essentially as normal except that you’re not wearing any clothes. You get used to the Lingering Gaze and you start to worry when you don’t get it. I guess it’s different when you’re on the other side, though I can’t really say. I don’t exactly know what goes on inside the male brain, but I suppose that’s mutual. I wonder if the guys can really comprehend the appeal of the CMNF experience from our side...
I’m daydreaming once more. Richard waits patiently, taking the opportunity to study me in more detail. Finally it’s he who breaks the spell. “Go on through, ma’am,” he grins.
“Thank you, sir,” I reply.
The door opens into a spacious foyer. It has exquisite marble-tiled flooring (cold under my bare feet, but not painfully, more tickly), expensive wood-panel walls, an ornately carved ceiling from which is suspended a flamboyant crystal chandelier. To the first-time visitor it all seems a little overdone, for a student residence. In fact, Manet House was at one time a rather sumptuous hotel. It’s lost some of its lustre but none of its ambience, at least not in the public areas.
The lobby is deserted, but as I ascend the central stairway, a couple passes by, a boy and a girl. He is dressed in the carefully styled sloppy-chic of the typical university student. She is naked but for her shoes, her clothes draped over one arm. We exchange causal nods. A few paces behind them, two more girls are descending the stairs. One is nude but the other is fully clothed. (Actually in a rather skimpy sundress and sandals; but here that counts as fully clothed, for those born with the XX chromosome.)
The thing is, anywhere else it would be the unclad one who commands the attention, but not here. In this house it is the clothed female who looks out of place, and judging by her expression feels out of place. I recognize the look she gives me as she quickly scans my bare body – that familiar blend of curiosity, sympathy, a tiny touch of scorn and a modicum of arousal. She’s wearing a visitor’s name tag clipped to the halter strap of her dress. Women guests are not required to be naked as are the residents and the students and faculty of the CMNF department.
Although it makes perfect sense, that surprised me the first time I entered Manet House. It was shortly after the start of the academic year, when the newbies had just moved in. I shared the changing room with a young woman who was the girlfriend of one of the residents. We didn’t speak, but it was obvious that she had no problem at all stripping down to visit her guy. In the lobby, though, some of the scenes were almost surreal. One pretty little thing, naked as the day she was born, was showing her parents around her new home. They were conservatively dressed but totally unfazed by the nude bodies passing by. Another girl was carrying boxes of her belongings up the stairs, assisted by two mid-teenage boys. They looked enough alike that I surmised they were her younger brothers. On their first trip to the second floor, they kept their eyes fixed firmly to the front, but after that they relaxed and enjoyed the scenery. I wondered if they had seen their big sister so casually, matter-of-factly naked before that day. But the most interesting sight was of another family. It was Richard’s. He was being visited by his parents, his sister (who looked to be in her early twenties) and her boyfriend, husband, whatever. The mother was wearing a stylish pants suit but the sister was naked. So between her and the girlfriend in the undressing room, obviously sometimes guests get voluntarily into the spirit of CMNF. I have yet to see any parental nudity, but I imagine that happens too.
While the ground floor of Manet House is the communal area, the residents occupy the upper storeys, in thirty twin-share rooms. About half the undergraduate students presently enrolled in CMNFS live here, as well as a handful of postgrads. There are a few others, mainly CMNFers’ boy- and girlfriends. The latter must, of course, obey the no-clothing rule. I don’t know who finds the experience more interesting, the guy who moves in with his girlfriend to find that she and all the other females in the house are forbidden to wear clothes; or the girl who wants to share quarters with her boyfriend and is told, for the first time, that she must be fully naked at all times.
I would have moved in myself, if I hadn’t been offered a cheap apartment. The fees are reasonable, but the big attraction is the opportunity to live and not just study the CMNF lifestyle. And given its nature, it isn’t surprising that Manet House is an open-minded institution. There’s no prohibition on mixed-sex roommates, and in fact some two-thirds of the rooms are occupied by male-female pairs. There’s a brother and sister. There are at least two lesbian couples and two gay guys, one of whom is enrolled in CMNFS. Some people found it strange, at first, that homosexuals, particularly males, would take even an academic interest in the subject; but the complex interplay of sex roles and gender identity which lies at the heart of the CMNF experience is a fertile field for research.
(In a recent seminar, we examined the rather perplexing question of transgendered people in a CMNF culture, such as my mother’s native Palmyra. Can there be any such thing as a cross-dresser, if female nudity is mandatory and male nudity is forbidden? How does a libertarian CMNF society protect and preserve the rights of transsexuals and androgynes? It is a fascinating topic, the issues, ramifications and permutations as yet unresolved.)
The sex ratio of the inhabitants is around sixty percent female, reflecting almost exactly the proportion of both students and faculty in the CMNFS department. The house committee, which makes most of the day-to-day decisions, has six elected members, five of whom are women, as is (obviously) the House Mistress. As a non-voting observer, I have sat in on a couple of its meetings. At first I thought it was unfair that the men had been allotted just one delegate, until I learnt that the male residents are generally apathetic about the management of the place. Even that one and only male, Philip, had to be appointed. Still, I wonder if it was in reality apathy, or whether the males have ceded the decision-making to their naked counterparts out of a sense of noblesse oblige. What I have found is that the males in CMNFS are less sexist and self-entitled (not more, as the casual onlooker might suspect) than the general population.
Anyway, it was interesting to attend those meetings. As the solitary male at the table with seven nude women, Philip did sort of behave as if we were his personal harem, although most of us were older and more experienced, and one was his professor. (The House Mistress is Maria Rescia. It’s a largely honorary position, and she leaves most of the administrative details to her assistant, Rob Haslett, who is not a committee member.) And even though Professor Rescia is a very forceful woman, we all did tend to defer to him when it came to debate and discussion. It may simply have been that we were making a concession to him as the sole representative of his sex; but you cannot entirely avoid the implications of the gender dimorphism inherent in the CMNF situation. It is too simplistic to claim that apart from the fact that one is clothed and the other is not, there is equality between the sexes. For it is not the fact of one-sided nudity which is important; it’s the why. As I have said many times, being naked in the presence of a clothed males is not just a symbol of what you are, it’s a symbol of what you are not. It’s a subtle distinction, but it gets to the heart of the whole issue of rights and obligations, of privilege and service, of manifest dominance and unconditional submission. (And anyone who thinks that CMNF is all or just about exhibitionism has missed the point... but of course, since you’ve read this far, I’m no doubt preaching to the converted.)
My destination is the top floor, room seven. Each level has two communal bathrooms (the former hotel having been built in the days before en-suites, I presume), and there are people going to and from these, the men in bathrobes or plain clothes. Any degree of male nudity is prohibited in Manet House, but I doubt that this is a rule that would need to be enforced. It’s not just about accentuating the difference between CM and NF. For a male to wander about the halls in a state of undress would be disrespectful to the females who must be naked. But it’s still amusing, and despite more than a year of getting accustomed to it, somewhat startling to see a young woman emerge from the bathroom and stride down the corridor with absolutely nothing on.
I knock on the seventh door. From the other side I hear a muffled voice calling “Just a minute.” And after just a minute, the door opens.
“Good morning, you’re right on time.” Rachel brushes back a strand of wet hair from her forehead, then with a flourish waves me across the threshold. In her other hand, she’s grasping a brassiere.
I should explain. For women like myself, not generously endowed in the breast department, gravity doesn’t become an issue until much later in life. For the likes of Rachel, built like a showgirl, it’s already a consideration. Since there’s no house rule against wearing clothing behind locked doors, for the more curvaceous girls bras are therefore pretty much de rigueur. In fact, David tells me that there is nothing more sexy than a girl in a bra sans panties, sending deliciously mixed signals of modesty and availability – demure and slutty at the same time. But in the end, it’s all about the inexorable pull of gravity.
This is a vastly different Rachel from the timid, insecure young woman I first encountered at the orientation lecture some fifteen months ago. She’s nowadays self-assured in and prideful of her nudity. More than just about any of us, she slips easily and naturally into the Stance. The fact that she’s the most stunningly beautiful woman in the whole department is incidental; it’s her newfound confidence which allows her to carry it off with such sexy, breezy poise and aplomb. (In the beginning, she meticulously removed every trace of her pubic hair, thinking it made her look unattractive... as if! Now she lets it grow naturally, setting her own aesthetic standard rather than adhering to some arbitrary, artificial “norm”. It’s as much a part of her sexual identity as her vagina and breasts. I agree, by the way.)
Her fiancé James is in the kitchenette making tea and puts out a third cup. He’s a third-year engineering student. It’s interesting – but I don’t know if it’s likewise significant – that a large percentage of women in the CMNF department are partnered with younger men. It goes against another cultural norm which has, after all, no logical rationale. I guess that in a lifestyle which redefines or repudiates social conventions, this very minor “taboo” is one of the first to be jettisoned.
However, Rachel is unlike many of her associates, including myself, in her motivation for CMNF research. Whereas my interest lies in the historical and sociological background, and in so-called post-feminist interpretations of sex and gender, she is a masochist – a misunderstood label if ever there was one. Without elaborating too much, she subscribes to the principle of humility, submission and adversity being integral to femaleness, and indeed the price we pay for being the superior sex.
To this end, she wrote her honours thesis defending the Freud–Krafft-Ebing notion that masochism is an inherent part of female identity in general and sexuality in particular. On this I tend to disagree, but her basic contention is that feminine acquiescence to masculine authority and privilege, along with the self-abnegation and suffering which it entails, is a manifestation of the moral, emotional and spiritual superiority of the female over the male. In essence, no man would or could put up with the burdens that we females bear as a matter of course, so we bear them alone. It’s not some sort of “divine punishment” for being born female, but rather our reward. It’s complicated; but the upshot is that Rachel believes that, in the CMNF formula, NF is the expression of the female’s reverence and respect for the male, as well as the symbol of her own womanhood and femininity; whilst the CM element represents the male’s acknowledgement and appreciation of the woman’s submission. In other words, we are naked to honour male dignity and gravitas; and the men wear the pants, and everything else, as a recognition of the devotion and self-sacrifice of the female as symbolized by her nudity. (Here endeth the lesson.)
James looks me over, as he does every time I visit. The guys living in the house see dozens of naked females every day, but they always look. It’s their homage, a salute or tribute to our nudity. The gay guys do it as well, so it’s not just (or even) about titillation. (But it’s interesting that the only guy who has complimented me on my “very nice body” – something of an exaggeration, I’m sure – was one of the latter. I suppose the straights are afraid that any such accolade will be taken as a come-on. Men are funny like that.)
Rachel picks up two of the cups, hands one to me. We take them out onto the tiny balcony where two cane patio chairs await us. The woven criss-cross pattern of the seat feels uncomfortable as my weight presses my bare skin against the wickerwork. Much of the furniture in the house has this type of design construction, and I’m sure it’s deliberate. Even in the simple act of sitting down, you are not allowed to forget or ignore that you are naked. It’s the same with the floors. All appear to be in some way textured – studded, furrowed, dimpled, pimpled, pitted, papuliferous – or if smooth, polished to a slippery high sheen and icy cold beneath bare feet. For although footwear is exempted from the clothing contraband, most girls go all the way, head to toe. So there are, throughout, all these constant reminders that (one) you are nude, (two) you are female and (three) you have to put up with discomforts and inconveniences that the males are spared purely by virtue of being male. And yet this unfairness, far from being a source of indignation, is a kind of validation, that the CMNF experience is not something to be taken lightly. Or maybe I’m overanalyzing.
Rachel and I begin our work. We’re collaborating on a paper to be presented at the next colloquium. It’s about Palmyra and the historical role of female slavery in the creation of the nude law. Because it delves into the psychology of women perpetuating the slave culture through their CMNF experience, the collaboration draws on both our areas of expertise. After a while, James comes out to join us, bringing a chair from the dining room. He listens in silence, engrossed.
It’s still early, and on the fourth-floor balcony, leeward of the sunlight, we are exposed to a cool breeze, the last relic of daybreak. It raises tiny goosebumps on my skin. Rachel asks if I want to go back inside, and the fleeting expression of disappointment on her fiancé’s face speaks volumes about the male perspective. I decline, but not for the sake of James’s horripilation fixation. There is something deliciously sensuous about the tingly caress of a chill wind on your naked body.
To be continued...
