Obviously, many of the thoughts and feelings described here are derived from my own CMNF experiences; and several of the characters are based on real people.
Maria Rescia is (so far) only an incidental character, but she is a composite of two impressive women I have met. The first is an Italian physicist I encountered at a colloquium. In her mid-forties, she is a breathtakingly sexy woman who wears miniskirts, low-cut blouses and stiletto heels – she doesn’t allow her very high standing in the academic community to compromise her intense femininity (or vice versa). The second is a fairly well-known journalist who achieved some local notoriety when she stripped naked on a very public rostrum while doing a story. She is a very forceful and tough-minded woman who has (for example) reported from war zones, which is why that stripping episode epitomizes what is to me the ideal CMNF situation.
Being very assertive myself (albeit not in their class), I can identify with those women.
Rachel and her view of life do exist, although not in the CMNF context. Martin and Michelle are also real (with different names, of course). I include the twins in the story because they personify the gender dimorphism that is taken to its limit in CMNF. They are very much alike in terms of physical appearance and personality; but as a male he dresses conservatively and is self-consciously masculine. I have never seen him on even the warmest days and most casual circumstances in anything other than long trousers. Whereas she dresses hyper-feminine in flouncy little dresses, micro-miniskirts, skimpy tank tops, ultra-sexy halter-necks and the like. Because they are so nearly identical, the dissimilarity due to gender difference alone is all the more dramatic. I have simply extended this into the CMNF realm.
I include the lesbian couple for two reasons. One is to indicate that my vision of CMNF does not have to be heterosexual in nature, that it can transcend gender identity and orientation.* The other reason is that I am intrigued by one half of a couple I know. She is a photographer who specializes in “deviant art”. She once did a photo shoot for a BDSM club featuring naked female submissives being subjected to all sorts of humiliating torments. She felt a weird ambivalence, being turned on by the girls but also feeling intense embarrassment because hers was the sex being degraded. Those particular circumstances were extreme, but nevertheless it must be strange walking in two worlds like that.
* I haven’t quite worked this out myself. It’s an issue that fascinates me. In my schooldays, despite being politically radical, I was ultra-feminine. However, my most activist friends were Jo, a fire-breathing feminist, and “out and proud” gays Paul and Sharon. As I have mentioned elsewhere, the girls’ uniform and dress code did not allow trousers; and since we had to wear skirts we decided no one was going to tell us how to wear them so we wore them very short, even in winter – typical schoolgirl logic.
My friends made an interesting contrast because Paul, the most formulaically “feminine” of the three (I’m not being denigrating here – I’m talking stereotypes) was nonetheless the one who wore the pants (and, having the only penis in our group, he had the exclusive privilege of covering his legs in cold, wet and windy weather). Jo disliked dresses and never wore them outside school, and yet her uniform hemline was so high she couldn’t sit down without flashing her knickers (okay, maybe that’s a slight, but only slight, exaggeration). She was very attractive, with perfect legs, and the boys, though intimidated by her, “perved” on her all the time. Meanwhile Sharon had the best of both worlds – she could enjoy the sight of her fellow females in our short skirts (she happily told me so, so I am not just playing to the stereotype) while indulging in the pleasure of wearing one herself.
This may indeed be the origin of my CMNF fantasy world (although it draws on several sources). The CMNF experience, from my side of the clothed-naked divide, is about femaleness per se, irrespective of gender issues...
Well, this post has become basically a “random walk” so I shall now cease and desist.
A Day in the Life... Part Two
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.
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.
A Day in the Life...
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...
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...
First International Conference on CMNF Studies
The second instalment from Gaius Tacitus (reproduced with permission).
It was a gloriously sunny day as Alison Q arrived for work at the Serapeum
Intercontinental in Britain’s seaside town of Brighton. At 29 she was the
youngest hotel manager in the Serapeum Group, but she loved her job and was
already recognised as one of the most promising. Nor did her ambition stop
there. One day, she hoped, she might become chief executive of the hotel chain
itself.
Today, though, there were unaccustomed butterflies in Alison’s stomach as she
parked her Mercedes in the staff car park and made her way to her plush office
behind the reception area. For this was the day that delegates would be arriving
for the First International Conference on Clothed-Male-Naked-Female Studies,
which was due to be held at the hotel over the next two days.
It had been six months previously that the hotel group’s managing director had
called Alison to a meeting in London, where she was persuaded to take on and run
the CMNF conference. The executives at Serapeum headquarters had first impressed
on her the business case—-not only was the conference a valuable contract in
itself, but a successful event would likely bring future CMNF conferences to the
Serapeum Group. Alison was given to understand that this could be very good for
her career.
Once this point had been established, the executives broke it to Alison that the
attendees would not just be talking about CMNF, but would want to practise it as
well—-all the female delegates would be completely naked. Alison laughed but was
also rather shocked and dubious. However, after the executives had reassured her
that female nudity was all that was involved, and it was not some kind of mass
orgy, she came round to the idea.
Finally, they broached the most difficult subject of all. The conference sponsors
were asking that Alison’s staff should also obey the CMNF rule while working
in the venue.
“Oh no,” Alison had said, thinking they were joking at first. Then she realised
from the looks on her bosses’ faces that they were quite serious.
“You do not have to get involved yourself,” they told her. “You can hand the
arrangements over to Stuart [Stuart was her deputy manager], and we have
insisted that the fee for the conference is enough to let you hire models,
strippers, lap dancers, any women who do not mind taking their clothes off, to
take the place of your normal staff.” Alison thought about this, and decided she
did not like it. She did not want Stuart to run the show and get all the glory.
Nor did she trust a bunch of lap dancers (as she uncharitably put it to herself)
to maintain the standards of service she expected at her hotel. There was
nothing else for it. Reluctantly, but amid promises that she would receive a
substantial bonus if everything went well, Alison decided to accept the CMNF
rule for the hotel staff.
Having got over the hurdle of agreeing to go nude during the CMNF conference,
Alison found herself less daunted by the prospect than she might have expected.
Later, when the executives took her out to The Ivy for a celebratory dinner, and
Alison had a few glasses of champagne inside her, she almost wondered if she
wasn’t looking forward to the idea.
That was six months ago, when it all seemed rather hypothetical. Now the moment
of truth had arrived, and Alison faced the real prospect of disrobing not only
in front of the conference delegates, who were strangers, but, much worse, in
front of her colleagues and staff, whom she saw every day. The fact that the
female employees, some of whom she classed as personal friends, would be sharing
in her nudity gave a sense of safety in numbers. But Alison was acutely aware
that the hotel’s male employees would be able to enjoy their female boss’s naked
and very comely form while remaining clothed in their normal work attire and not
experiencing any of the shame, exposure and simple jitters that she and the
other women had to endure.
What rescued Alison from her sense of trepidation was the well worked out plan
that she and Stuart had put together for the event. As soon as he saw her
settling into her office, he knocked on the open door. If Stuart was thinking
about the fact that she would soon be doffing her expensive charcoal-grey,
pencil-skirted business suit, to appear completely naked in front of him, he did
not show it.
“Coffee, Alison?” he asked.
Alison smiled and said yes please, trying to reciprocate Stuart’s air of
normality, hiding her internal turmoil. Stuart was a dear. He was in his
forties, competent, trustworthy, and in many ways Alison’s rock, whose
experience had been a sure guide during her early days as his boss. He had tried
for the manager’s job himself, but the senior executives apparently failed to
detect in him the spark they were looking for. Yet Stuart had never shown any
resentment—-perhaps a sign of the lack of ambition and leadership that made the
executives appoint Alison instead. On occasion, Stuart had invited Alison to his
home for a meal cooked by his wife and shared with his children, of whom Alison
was very fond.
When Stuart returned with the coffee, Alison let him put it down in front of
her. She did not want to take it from him, in case the liquid surface betrayed
her trembling hand. She was sitting behind the desk, and Stuart perched himself
on one of the chairs in front of it. He was clutching a sheaf of papers – timetables,
staff rotas, delegate lists, room assignments and so on.
They went over everything one last time, finalising some last-minute details.
Two whole floors of bedrooms were assigned to the CMNF delegates, and the
hotel’s ballroom, auditorium and meeting rooms were to be off-limits to other
hotel-users for the conference’s duration. The rear set of lifts had also been
cordoned off for their exclusive use, allowing female delegates and staff to
remain naked while travelling between the private and public areas without
causing alarm to the ordinary guests.
The clock on Alison’s wall was approaching ten o’clock, the appointed time for a
briefing of all the staff involved in the conference, ranging from assistant
managers, via receptionists, waiters and waitresses, down to chambermaids. It
had been agreed that the CMNF dress code would begin then and there.
“Come on,” said Alison rising from her desk, “it is time to go down to the
ballroom to brief the staff.”
Stuart fetched his jacket then went ahead, while Alison turned to the hotel’s
female locker-room. The locker-room was already full of women. Some had made a
half-hearted start at undressing, but no one was yet anywhere near naked. Their
faces brightened as Alison came in.
Over the last six months, Alison had spoken one by one with the female staff she
wanted to help with the conference, broaching the subject that they would be
required to work in the nude. She had made it clear that it was their choice,
and it would not affect their job were they to refuse. She did allow herself to
say, however, that she would value their support and co-operation, and did not
want to have to hire temporary staff if she could at all avoid it. She also made
it clear that she would be naked herself. To Alison’s surprise and
gratification, all the women without exception, be they of all different sizes,
shapes and ages, eventually agreed to work naked during the CMNF
event—-something that Alison took as a sign of their loyalty to her, their young
and sympathetic boss. A few agreed immediately, almost enthusiastic about the
idea. Most had to think about it and talked it over with their husbands or
boyfriends. One or two lingered for weeks but finally came round, emboldened by
the knowledge that their friends and colleagues were on board. The most
surprising thing involved some of the chambermaids whom Alison had rostered to
work on other floors asking if they could be assigned to the CMNF rooms. They
saw cleaning the hotel naked with their girlfriends as a great lark and a welcome
break from the routine. Alison readily agreed. It meant there would be a cast of
thousands on the CMNF floors each morning, but the girls could get dressed
afterwards to do the rest of the hotel.
Alison had also talked things over with the male staff she needed for the
conference. Although only the women faced the daunting prospect of going naked
in front of their colleagues, the men’s behaviour was equally important. Alison
made it clear that they would have to conduct themselves professionally and that
she also expected them to show understanding for the difficulties most of their
women co-workers would have in exposing their bodies. Off-colour remarks and
inappropriate touching, she said in no uncertain terms, were unacceptable
whether the female staff were naked or clothed. Given her preconceptions about
the male sex drive, Alison was surprised to find that the men’s reactions were
not dissimilar to those of the women. To be sure, a higher fraction agreed
straight away, some hardly concealing their relish, but many wanted to get the
agreement of wives or partners, and a few took a while to overcome their initial
reluctance.
It no doubt helped in these decisions that bonuses were on offer to the staff
who worked on the CMNF conference. Alison’s bosses had initially made available
sufficient funds for the female staff only. They assumed that, for the men,
seeing their women colleagues naked would be sufficient reward in itself. Alison
had quickly realised this assumption was wrong, both practically and ethically.
She did not want to provoke resentment among her male staff, many of whom had
families and would value a little extra pay more than the thrill of seeing their
female colleagues go naked. It might be thought discriminatory that the men did
not have the same opportunity to earn a bonus, especially since their
contribution was also important to the event’s success. Indeed, if any men
became bitter about it, there was a chance they might sabotage it by boorish
behaviour. For all these reasons, Alison insisted that her male staff receive
the same bonus as the females. Of course, the women were not initially happy
with this arrangement, complaining it was unfair given they were the ones who
had to suffer the embarrassment of taking their clothes off, while the men were
allowed to keep theirs on. But Alison persuaded the women to value the bonus for
its own sake, and not compare it enviously with what the men were getting. If
the conference were cancelled over the issue, she said, everyone would lose out.
Apart from a little lingering muttering in the female ranks, the matter was
effectively closed.
With Alison now in the women’s locker room, after a few hilarious remarks, and
amidst much nervous giggling, disrobing began in earnest. Alison was aware that
she had to provide a lead for the other women, and so undressed in a
deliberately quick and business-like manner. Kicking aside her heels, she
slipped off her jacket and put it on a hanger. She unhooked her skirt, pulled it
down and put it on the same hanger, which she then hung in her locker. Next she
stepped out of her slip and folded it twice. She was now standing there in
frilly blouse, pantyhose and underwear. She undid most of the blouse buttons and
took it off over her head, folding it and putting it on the pile with the slip.
She rolled down the pantyhose and stepped out of first one leg then the other.
That went on the pile. Now she forced herself to maintain her momentum. Reaching
behind her back, she unclipped her bra, helped it fall way in front of her, then
folded it once to go on the pile. Lastly, she tucked her two thumbs in the sides
of her knickers and slid them down her recently waxed legs. The discarded
knickers joined the pile as its crowning glory, and the whole thing went in the
locker, with the shoes turned upside down on top.
Alison’s efficient striptease had the desired effect, encouraging the others to
keep pace, and soon Alison was surveying a sea of naked female flesh. She smiled
broadly, partly from embarrassment but also partly from an irresistible feeling
of excitement and daring. Some of the women were nudging each other. Others were
shading their eyes with their hands and grinning nervously. Still others were
chatting quietly as if they had not a care in the world.
“Everyone ready?” Alison asked, followed by “Come on then, girls.”
Alison led the way to the ballroom where she was due to give the briefing.
Nearly two dozen pairs of bare female feet padded over the carpet behind her. A
hum of voices from the ballroom announced the presence of the ten or so clothed
men who were waiting for them. Among the naked women, the atmosphere was tense
and no one said anything much. They just caught each other’s eyes and exchanged
quick smiles, walking down this corridor that they had walked hundreds of times
before but now exposed, vulnerable, deliciously but excruciatingly nude, and
feeling terribly out of place.
As the naked Alison and her equally unclad female staff entered the ballroom via
the open double doors, the men, in their business suits and hotel uniforms,
stood aside. Some of them kept their gaze straight ahead and at eye-level,
remembering the injunction to show some consideration for the plight of their
naked female colleagues, who would inevitably be feeling very self-conscious.
Others though could not help themselves and looked eagerly at their women
co-workers whose bare bodies were suddenly on display in front of them. Here
they scanned the flattish chest of Nicola the twenty-something receptionist,
delicately tipped with colourless nipples. Over there they weighed up the mature
embonpoint of Jean, the catering manager. And between them their eyes came to
rest on the perfectly shaped bodies of Brooke and Kaylee, the two bubbly
chambermaids who went everywhere together. Smiling, Brooke and Kaylee held their
index fingers to their upper lips, as if to suppress a laugh, and coyly returned
the gazes of those men they liked the most. Other of the women stoically allowed
themselves to be inspected, pretending their attention was elsewhere. A few were
blushing noticeably, and poor Rebecca, the 35-year-old head of housekeeping,
seemed to be going red over her entire body.
Most interesting of all, to the fully clothed men, was the lithe figure of
Alison, their naked female boss, who, despite being in the altogether, was the
most senior person in the room. As she took up a position in front of them, they
judged approvingly her teardrop-shaped breasts with their deep pink areolas and
impressively stiff nipples, and looked with fascination at her artistically
trimmed pubic hair and the bald lips of her exposed sex. To her side, Stuart was
immaculately dressed in his sharpest navy blue suit, with a maroon-striped shirt
and fat silvery grey tie held in place by a diamond tie-pin. The luxurious wool
fabric of his clothing and the deep black shine of Stuart’s shoes contrasted
nicely with the unclothed Alison’s milky skin and bare feet.
Alison gave her team, naked females and clothed men, a pep talk. She
acknowledged the unusual nature of the situation but said she was proud of the
way they had all conducted themselves so far, and had every confidence they
would bring the upcoming conference to a successful conclusion. After that she
continued to stand where she was, giving everyone a full frontal view of her
bare body, while Stuart, one hand casually placed in his jacket pocket, ran
through a series of administrative details.
* * *
Some two hours after the staff briefing, the first CMNF delegates arrived at the
Serapeum Intercontinental. Among them was University of Queensland Professor
Penny S, the world’s leading light for CMNF studies. She was accompanied by a
first-year CMNF student, the diminutive (but bigheaded) Jonty H, and two
doctoral researchers, Anna J and Jim A.
The postgraduates’ attendances at the conference were funded by bursaries from
the university, which encouraged graduate students to gain experience of this
aspect of academic life. Meanwhile, the nineteen year old Jonty’s attendance was
the prize of an undergraduate essay competition set by the CMNF Department.
“I cannot believe that obnoxious little runt won the essay competition,” said
Ben to his former high-school classmate, Angela, when the result was announced.
“Everyone knows you are the top student on the course.”
“Don’t be like that about Jonty,” replied Angela. As the former head girl at
their school, Angela still felt a lingering authority over Ben, even though they
were now nominally equals as CMNF freshmen. The two of them were sitting in
Angela’s room in the student hostel. She had been about to change for netball
practice when Ben arrived with the news of the competition result. Having become
thoroughly used to being naked in front of Ben and other male students day after
day in the CMNF Department, Angela casually undressed and wandered around the
room with nothing on, while Ben sat in her armchair wearing a sweatshirt, jeans
and his favourite black leather cowboy boots, one leg draped over the arm. He
admired the rear view of Angela’s sex as she bent over to retrieve her sports
gear from the bottom drawer of her wardrobe.
“Sorry Angela,” Ben said. “But you have to admit, Jonty is full enough of
himself as it is. This will make him even more unbearable.”
“You’re just jealous,” Angela replied. “Jonty is fine. You simply have to know
how to handle him.”
Ben laughed. Yet, though he would not admit it, his friend’s words hit home. He
had noticed how Angela and many of the other females almost mothered their
pint-sized fellow student. Only yesterday, Ben had felt more than a twinge of
envy as he saw Angela with Jonty in the departmental library, where they were
both consulting some anthropological tome on female nudity around the world.
Jonty, in his tweedy jacket and dark trousers, was sitting at the table. Angela,
naked and barefoot, stood behind him, her bare midriff against the back of
Jonty’s chair, supporting herself with one arm on the table. What really got to
Ben was the way Angela let her bare right breast rest all the time against the
back of Jonty’s head, her nipple burrowing into his blond locks.
At any rate, Jonty’s library studies paid off, and his competition essay secured
him a ticket to England in the company of Anna, Jim and Professor Penny. Anna
and Jim were a developing item, judging by the way they bent their heads
together while chatting on the plane over from Australia. Jonty sat next to his
professor, an experience that many students would have found daunting, but not
Jonty whose arrogance would have shamed a heavyweight boxing champion. What
Jonty did find disconcerting about the experience was that it was the longest he
had ever seen his professor with her clothes on. Apart from at a few general
campus functions outside the walls of the CMNF Department, Jonty was thoroughly
accustomed to seeing his female professor naked, strolling fully exposed around
the stage of the lecture theatre, or sitting cross-legged in the seminar room,
her breasts jiggling when she jabbed her pen in the air to make some point, or
on some happy occasions standing right in front of Jonty while they chatted in
the departmental common room, her nipples at his eye-level.
While she had to be clothed for the journey, Professor Penny avoided overly
shocking Jonty by ensuring that much of her flesh remained on display. She
covered up a bit during transfers, but on the aeroplane itself she wore a white
elasticated halter top that obviated the need for a bra, and a flouncy,
mid-thigh mini-skirt in electric blue. She and her male student, ten years her
junior and dressed in his usual rather stuffy fashion, made an odd couple.
Penny, in particular, attracted curious glances—-surreptitious and approving
from the male passengers, more open and disapproving from the female ones. The
cabin crew maintained a cool professionalism, pretending not to notice anything
unusual. Her skimpy ensemble meant that Penny got a little cold from the chilled
on-board air, and that had the inevitable effect on her nipples. Men passengers
passing up and down the aisle glanced appreciatively at the well-defined bumps
beneath Penny’s top, as well as her finely toned bare midriff. Jonty paid no
attention. For him, his teacher was, if anything, overdressed. He was aware
(after Penny told him), but the other passengers were not, that she also had no
knickers on under her skirt. She had pulled the skirt up at the back so her bare
bottom rested on the rough fabric of the aeroplane seat. This was a constant
reminder of her CMNF commitments, and helped focus her mind on the themes of her
conference paper, which was to deal with the risky thrills of female self-exposure,
as she worked on it throughout the flight.
So it was that Penny and her students arrived at Gatwick airport. After passing
through the usual formalities, they emerged onto the main concourse, to be met
by greeters holding up signs saying “CMNF Conference”. They were then directed
to a coach, with other arriving delegates, and sped on their way down to
Brighton. It was the height of the British summer, and the weather on the south
coast was glorious. England’s green and pleasant land basked beneath a blue sky
dotted with occasional tiny clouds.
At the hotel, the delegates checked in in the normal fashion, and were given the
keys to their rooms. An information pack explained that a welcome meeting would
take place at 6 pm, in the conference area, and that a CMNF dress code was in
operation both in that area and on the two floors where they had their rooms.
Penny and co acknowledged their instructions then went up to their rooms. The
women’s luggage was noticeably lighter than that of the men. Stepping from the
lift, Penny’s party scattered to their separate rooms. The plan was to freshen
up, relax for a few hours, attend the welcome meeting, then grab an early night,
to catch up on some sleep and be ready for the first proper day of conference
business the next morning.
Once she was in her room, Penny stripped off and took a shower, washing away the
grime of her journey. Afterwards, she admired herself in the full-length mirror,
applying talc and making sure she looked as presentable as possible for her
naked appearances over the next few days.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Penny peered through the spy-hole to see
who was there. It was her young student, Jonty. Penny opened the door and
welcomed him in. She had told him earlier that she was thinking of taking a walk
along the beach and, if he felt like coming, to call in at her room.
“Come in,” the naked Penny told the youngster. “I am nearly ready.”
Penny made no attempt to cover herself up. CMNF rules were now in operation,
after all.
Jonty entered and looked round his professor’s room as she gave some final
pampering to her nude body. Jonty had also showered, judging by his still wet
hair and spruced up look. He had changed into a cream coloured linen jacket,
dark slacks and blue, pin-striped shirt.
Professor Penny’s room was naturally larger and better appointed than Jonty’s
was, and, while his faced an internal courtyard, hers had a glorious view over
the seafront.
“What is this?” Jonty asked, pointing to a contraption against the wall.
“Oh, that is a trouser press, I think,” said Penny, smoothing down her
sculptured tuft of pubic hair.
“Huh, I could do with one of those,” Jonty replied, “but I don’t have one in my
room. This is discrimination against students.”
Penny smiled and ruffled Jonty’s hair. Notwithstanding his unfortunate manner,
Penny had a soft spot for her young male student and saw him as a potential
future faculty member.
“Let us swap rooms then,” said Penny, and she meant it. It was true, the trouser
press would be far more useful to the clothed male, Jonty, than to herself, the
naked female.
“Really?” asked Jonty.
“Sure,” said Penny. She was not expecting to spend much time in the room anyway.
And so that is what happened. Penny gave up to Jonty her room, which was far
more useful for a clothed man. She took over Jonty’s more basic room. As a naked
female, all she needed was a bed and somewhere to wash her body.
After this, Penny and Jonty went for a promenade by the sea. As they waited for
the lift to the lobby, Penny slipped a front-buttoning sundress over her head
and put on a pair of flip-flops. It was the quickest way to get decent. The
dress hung shapelessly from her breasts, hiding the otherwise naked curves of
her body. Out on the promenade, the professor and the first year undergraduate
allowed the late afternoon sun to soothe away the tensions of long-distance
travel. Passers-by might have taken them for brother and sister, and would
scarcely have guessed that the older woman was a highly respected academic, nor
that, only minutes earlier, she had been stark-naked in front of the clothed
adolescent and, after they returned to the hotel, would be exposing her charms
to him again.
Back at the Serapeum, the time for the welcome meeting came around. Penny
gathered up her students and they went together down to the hotel’s conference
area. Jim and Jonty were wearing the smartest outfits they had brought with
them, including neckties. Penny and Anna were completely naked and barefoot.
Both women smelt fragrant, though, and Anna seemed to have put a little rouge on
her nipples.
At the welcome session, the conference organisers covered various administrative
trivia—-timings, where meals would be served, the rooms for different sessions
and for the poster presentations, fire exits, all that sort of thing. Slightly
more than half the audience—-the female half—-was naked. The remainder—-the
men—-were clothed in a variety of styles, from lounge suits to jeans and
tee-shirts. All of them were sitting on hard plastic chairs, a fact the women,
via their bare bottoms, were far more conscious of than the men. The inspiration
behind the conference was Professor Rachel K, a woman in her forties, with a
pronounced curvature to her nude body. Her bottom stuck out in one direction,
and her breasts in the other, like a stone-age Venus. She had a neat triangle of
pubic hair disappearing between her legs. She said a few introductory words of
welcome, but the bulk of the talking was done by her deputy, Dr David S, a bald
man in a shiny grey suit and black-rimmed spectacles, who had done the donkey
work of organising the event. At the end, he called for questions and several
people put their hands up.
“Will we receive copies of the slides on CD?” was one question, which Dr S
answered in the affirmative.
“What are the plans for future CMNF Conferences?” was another.
Dr S looked towards his female boss for help on this one. She strode forward
from the side of the room, where she had been standing.
“Well,” the naked female professor began, bending one knee and putting her hand
on her hip, “that depends very much on you. If there is sufficient interest as a
result of this one, the aspiration is to make it an annual event. Hopefully, now
the precedent is there, it can be done more smoothly. I won’t deny it has been a
huge job getting financial and other backing for this conference, with the issue
of female nudity and all.”
Dr S rolled his eyes heavenwards, in mock exasperation at the difficulties the
conference organisers had encountered.
“David had a full head of hair when I first asked him to set up a CMNF
Conference,” joked the female professor.
Dr S gave a sheepish grin at the reference to his smooth pate and touched it
briefly with his fingertips. Everyone laughed, including Professor K. Smiling
she put her hand on her deputy’s shoulder to make up for teasing him. Her
sumptuous breasts swayed close to the sleeve of his jacket, and her bare,
Hottentot behind seemed to quiver with amusement.
The meeting was followed by a drinks reception. Jim and Anna found a corner
somewhere to continue their budding relationship. Jonty, the youngest person in
the room, followed Professor Penny around as she renewed acquaintance with CMNF
researchers from other institutions. She proudly showed off Jonty as a representative
of the first bachelor’s-level course in CMNF Studies anywhere in the world. In
conversation after conversation, she stood there naked with her fully-clothed,
short-statured male student at her side, and listened with pleasure to the self-confident
way he spoke about the course and CMNF issues in general.
Meanwhile, half a dozen hotel staff—-two men in maroon waistcoats and grey
trousers, and four completely naked women—-wove their way among the delegates,
offering canapés and glasses of wine or orange juice. They were overseen by the
hotel manager, Alison, who was now almost at ease with her nakedness. Alison
mingled here and there, welcoming the academics to the hotel and checking that
no one had experienced any problems with their rooms or other arrangements.
At one point, Alison came to be talking with Jonty and Professor Penny. The
squat young man found himself flanked by two naked female bodies in their
twenty-something prime. Four nipples variously moved in and out of his line of
sight as the conversation ebbed and flowed. With Jonty’s usual enthusiasm for
the subject, the conversation dwelt on CMNF issues. Alison spoke of her own
experiences in managing the conference for the hotel. She said how surprised she
was to find that not a single one of her female staff ultimately refused to be
naked for the CMNF event, and added further that, while the bonus was obviously
important, she almost got the impression that many of the women would have been
prepared to do it anyway, for the hell of it. At this, Jonty gave a pompous laugh.
“Oh, that. That is practically the first law of CMNF studies,” he said dismissively.
“Female nudity is a kind of contagion. Once a sufficient number of women have
taken their clothes off, you can all but guarantee that every other woman present
will want to follow suit. It’s well known, isn’t it professor?”
Jonty looked up at the naked Professor Penny, who put her arm around his
shoulders, her breast brushing against his ear. She said nothing, but smiled
broadly and exchanged a meaningful, conspiratorial glance with the equally naked
Alison, followed by the barest hint of a wink.
It was a gloriously sunny day as Alison Q arrived for work at the Serapeum
Intercontinental in Britain’s seaside town of Brighton. At 29 she was the
youngest hotel manager in the Serapeum Group, but she loved her job and was
already recognised as one of the most promising. Nor did her ambition stop
there. One day, she hoped, she might become chief executive of the hotel chain
itself.
Today, though, there were unaccustomed butterflies in Alison’s stomach as she
parked her Mercedes in the staff car park and made her way to her plush office
behind the reception area. For this was the day that delegates would be arriving
for the First International Conference on Clothed-Male-Naked-Female Studies,
which was due to be held at the hotel over the next two days.
It had been six months previously that the hotel group’s managing director had
called Alison to a meeting in London, where she was persuaded to take on and run
the CMNF conference. The executives at Serapeum headquarters had first impressed
on her the business case—-not only was the conference a valuable contract in
itself, but a successful event would likely bring future CMNF conferences to the
Serapeum Group. Alison was given to understand that this could be very good for
her career.
Once this point had been established, the executives broke it to Alison that the
attendees would not just be talking about CMNF, but would want to practise it as
well—-all the female delegates would be completely naked. Alison laughed but was
also rather shocked and dubious. However, after the executives had reassured her
that female nudity was all that was involved, and it was not some kind of mass
orgy, she came round to the idea.
Finally, they broached the most difficult subject of all. The conference sponsors
were asking that Alison’s staff should also obey the CMNF rule while working
in the venue.
“Oh no,” Alison had said, thinking they were joking at first. Then she realised
from the looks on her bosses’ faces that they were quite serious.
“You do not have to get involved yourself,” they told her. “You can hand the
arrangements over to Stuart [Stuart was her deputy manager], and we have
insisted that the fee for the conference is enough to let you hire models,
strippers, lap dancers, any women who do not mind taking their clothes off, to
take the place of your normal staff.” Alison thought about this, and decided she
did not like it. She did not want Stuart to run the show and get all the glory.
Nor did she trust a bunch of lap dancers (as she uncharitably put it to herself)
to maintain the standards of service she expected at her hotel. There was
nothing else for it. Reluctantly, but amid promises that she would receive a
substantial bonus if everything went well, Alison decided to accept the CMNF
rule for the hotel staff.
Having got over the hurdle of agreeing to go nude during the CMNF conference,
Alison found herself less daunted by the prospect than she might have expected.
Later, when the executives took her out to The Ivy for a celebratory dinner, and
Alison had a few glasses of champagne inside her, she almost wondered if she
wasn’t looking forward to the idea.
That was six months ago, when it all seemed rather hypothetical. Now the moment
of truth had arrived, and Alison faced the real prospect of disrobing not only
in front of the conference delegates, who were strangers, but, much worse, in
front of her colleagues and staff, whom she saw every day. The fact that the
female employees, some of whom she classed as personal friends, would be sharing
in her nudity gave a sense of safety in numbers. But Alison was acutely aware
that the hotel’s male employees would be able to enjoy their female boss’s naked
and very comely form while remaining clothed in their normal work attire and not
experiencing any of the shame, exposure and simple jitters that she and the
other women had to endure.
What rescued Alison from her sense of trepidation was the well worked out plan
that she and Stuart had put together for the event. As soon as he saw her
settling into her office, he knocked on the open door. If Stuart was thinking
about the fact that she would soon be doffing her expensive charcoal-grey,
pencil-skirted business suit, to appear completely naked in front of him, he did
not show it.
“Coffee, Alison?” he asked.
Alison smiled and said yes please, trying to reciprocate Stuart’s air of
normality, hiding her internal turmoil. Stuart was a dear. He was in his
forties, competent, trustworthy, and in many ways Alison’s rock, whose
experience had been a sure guide during her early days as his boss. He had tried
for the manager’s job himself, but the senior executives apparently failed to
detect in him the spark they were looking for. Yet Stuart had never shown any
resentment—-perhaps a sign of the lack of ambition and leadership that made the
executives appoint Alison instead. On occasion, Stuart had invited Alison to his
home for a meal cooked by his wife and shared with his children, of whom Alison
was very fond.
When Stuart returned with the coffee, Alison let him put it down in front of
her. She did not want to take it from him, in case the liquid surface betrayed
her trembling hand. She was sitting behind the desk, and Stuart perched himself
on one of the chairs in front of it. He was clutching a sheaf of papers – timetables,
staff rotas, delegate lists, room assignments and so on.
They went over everything one last time, finalising some last-minute details.
Two whole floors of bedrooms were assigned to the CMNF delegates, and the
hotel’s ballroom, auditorium and meeting rooms were to be off-limits to other
hotel-users for the conference’s duration. The rear set of lifts had also been
cordoned off for their exclusive use, allowing female delegates and staff to
remain naked while travelling between the private and public areas without
causing alarm to the ordinary guests.
The clock on Alison’s wall was approaching ten o’clock, the appointed time for a
briefing of all the staff involved in the conference, ranging from assistant
managers, via receptionists, waiters and waitresses, down to chambermaids. It
had been agreed that the CMNF dress code would begin then and there.
“Come on,” said Alison rising from her desk, “it is time to go down to the
ballroom to brief the staff.”
Stuart fetched his jacket then went ahead, while Alison turned to the hotel’s
female locker-room. The locker-room was already full of women. Some had made a
half-hearted start at undressing, but no one was yet anywhere near naked. Their
faces brightened as Alison came in.
Over the last six months, Alison had spoken one by one with the female staff she
wanted to help with the conference, broaching the subject that they would be
required to work in the nude. She had made it clear that it was their choice,
and it would not affect their job were they to refuse. She did allow herself to
say, however, that she would value their support and co-operation, and did not
want to have to hire temporary staff if she could at all avoid it. She also made
it clear that she would be naked herself. To Alison’s surprise and
gratification, all the women without exception, be they of all different sizes,
shapes and ages, eventually agreed to work naked during the CMNF
event—-something that Alison took as a sign of their loyalty to her, their young
and sympathetic boss. A few agreed immediately, almost enthusiastic about the
idea. Most had to think about it and talked it over with their husbands or
boyfriends. One or two lingered for weeks but finally came round, emboldened by
the knowledge that their friends and colleagues were on board. The most
surprising thing involved some of the chambermaids whom Alison had rostered to
work on other floors asking if they could be assigned to the CMNF rooms. They
saw cleaning the hotel naked with their girlfriends as a great lark and a welcome
break from the routine. Alison readily agreed. It meant there would be a cast of
thousands on the CMNF floors each morning, but the girls could get dressed
afterwards to do the rest of the hotel.
Alison had also talked things over with the male staff she needed for the
conference. Although only the women faced the daunting prospect of going naked
in front of their colleagues, the men’s behaviour was equally important. Alison
made it clear that they would have to conduct themselves professionally and that
she also expected them to show understanding for the difficulties most of their
women co-workers would have in exposing their bodies. Off-colour remarks and
inappropriate touching, she said in no uncertain terms, were unacceptable
whether the female staff were naked or clothed. Given her preconceptions about
the male sex drive, Alison was surprised to find that the men’s reactions were
not dissimilar to those of the women. To be sure, a higher fraction agreed
straight away, some hardly concealing their relish, but many wanted to get the
agreement of wives or partners, and a few took a while to overcome their initial
reluctance.
It no doubt helped in these decisions that bonuses were on offer to the staff
who worked on the CMNF conference. Alison’s bosses had initially made available
sufficient funds for the female staff only. They assumed that, for the men,
seeing their women colleagues naked would be sufficient reward in itself. Alison
had quickly realised this assumption was wrong, both practically and ethically.
She did not want to provoke resentment among her male staff, many of whom had
families and would value a little extra pay more than the thrill of seeing their
female colleagues go naked. It might be thought discriminatory that the men did
not have the same opportunity to earn a bonus, especially since their
contribution was also important to the event’s success. Indeed, if any men
became bitter about it, there was a chance they might sabotage it by boorish
behaviour. For all these reasons, Alison insisted that her male staff receive
the same bonus as the females. Of course, the women were not initially happy
with this arrangement, complaining it was unfair given they were the ones who
had to suffer the embarrassment of taking their clothes off, while the men were
allowed to keep theirs on. But Alison persuaded the women to value the bonus for
its own sake, and not compare it enviously with what the men were getting. If
the conference were cancelled over the issue, she said, everyone would lose out.
Apart from a little lingering muttering in the female ranks, the matter was
effectively closed.
With Alison now in the women’s locker room, after a few hilarious remarks, and
amidst much nervous giggling, disrobing began in earnest. Alison was aware that
she had to provide a lead for the other women, and so undressed in a
deliberately quick and business-like manner. Kicking aside her heels, she
slipped off her jacket and put it on a hanger. She unhooked her skirt, pulled it
down and put it on the same hanger, which she then hung in her locker. Next she
stepped out of her slip and folded it twice. She was now standing there in
frilly blouse, pantyhose and underwear. She undid most of the blouse buttons and
took it off over her head, folding it and putting it on the pile with the slip.
She rolled down the pantyhose and stepped out of first one leg then the other.
That went on the pile. Now she forced herself to maintain her momentum. Reaching
behind her back, she unclipped her bra, helped it fall way in front of her, then
folded it once to go on the pile. Lastly, she tucked her two thumbs in the sides
of her knickers and slid them down her recently waxed legs. The discarded
knickers joined the pile as its crowning glory, and the whole thing went in the
locker, with the shoes turned upside down on top.
Alison’s efficient striptease had the desired effect, encouraging the others to
keep pace, and soon Alison was surveying a sea of naked female flesh. She smiled
broadly, partly from embarrassment but also partly from an irresistible feeling
of excitement and daring. Some of the women were nudging each other. Others were
shading their eyes with their hands and grinning nervously. Still others were
chatting quietly as if they had not a care in the world.
“Everyone ready?” Alison asked, followed by “Come on then, girls.”
Alison led the way to the ballroom where she was due to give the briefing.
Nearly two dozen pairs of bare female feet padded over the carpet behind her. A
hum of voices from the ballroom announced the presence of the ten or so clothed
men who were waiting for them. Among the naked women, the atmosphere was tense
and no one said anything much. They just caught each other’s eyes and exchanged
quick smiles, walking down this corridor that they had walked hundreds of times
before but now exposed, vulnerable, deliciously but excruciatingly nude, and
feeling terribly out of place.
As the naked Alison and her equally unclad female staff entered the ballroom via
the open double doors, the men, in their business suits and hotel uniforms,
stood aside. Some of them kept their gaze straight ahead and at eye-level,
remembering the injunction to show some consideration for the plight of their
naked female colleagues, who would inevitably be feeling very self-conscious.
Others though could not help themselves and looked eagerly at their women
co-workers whose bare bodies were suddenly on display in front of them. Here
they scanned the flattish chest of Nicola the twenty-something receptionist,
delicately tipped with colourless nipples. Over there they weighed up the mature
embonpoint of Jean, the catering manager. And between them their eyes came to
rest on the perfectly shaped bodies of Brooke and Kaylee, the two bubbly
chambermaids who went everywhere together. Smiling, Brooke and Kaylee held their
index fingers to their upper lips, as if to suppress a laugh, and coyly returned
the gazes of those men they liked the most. Other of the women stoically allowed
themselves to be inspected, pretending their attention was elsewhere. A few were
blushing noticeably, and poor Rebecca, the 35-year-old head of housekeeping,
seemed to be going red over her entire body.
Most interesting of all, to the fully clothed men, was the lithe figure of
Alison, their naked female boss, who, despite being in the altogether, was the
most senior person in the room. As she took up a position in front of them, they
judged approvingly her teardrop-shaped breasts with their deep pink areolas and
impressively stiff nipples, and looked with fascination at her artistically
trimmed pubic hair and the bald lips of her exposed sex. To her side, Stuart was
immaculately dressed in his sharpest navy blue suit, with a maroon-striped shirt
and fat silvery grey tie held in place by a diamond tie-pin. The luxurious wool
fabric of his clothing and the deep black shine of Stuart’s shoes contrasted
nicely with the unclothed Alison’s milky skin and bare feet.
Alison gave her team, naked females and clothed men, a pep talk. She
acknowledged the unusual nature of the situation but said she was proud of the
way they had all conducted themselves so far, and had every confidence they
would bring the upcoming conference to a successful conclusion. After that she
continued to stand where she was, giving everyone a full frontal view of her
bare body, while Stuart, one hand casually placed in his jacket pocket, ran
through a series of administrative details.
* * *
Some two hours after the staff briefing, the first CMNF delegates arrived at the
Serapeum Intercontinental. Among them was University of Queensland Professor
Penny S, the world’s leading light for CMNF studies. She was accompanied by a
first-year CMNF student, the diminutive (but bigheaded) Jonty H, and two
doctoral researchers, Anna J and Jim A.
The postgraduates’ attendances at the conference were funded by bursaries from
the university, which encouraged graduate students to gain experience of this
aspect of academic life. Meanwhile, the nineteen year old Jonty’s attendance was
the prize of an undergraduate essay competition set by the CMNF Department.
“I cannot believe that obnoxious little runt won the essay competition,” said
Ben to his former high-school classmate, Angela, when the result was announced.
“Everyone knows you are the top student on the course.”
“Don’t be like that about Jonty,” replied Angela. As the former head girl at
their school, Angela still felt a lingering authority over Ben, even though they
were now nominally equals as CMNF freshmen. The two of them were sitting in
Angela’s room in the student hostel. She had been about to change for netball
practice when Ben arrived with the news of the competition result. Having become
thoroughly used to being naked in front of Ben and other male students day after
day in the CMNF Department, Angela casually undressed and wandered around the
room with nothing on, while Ben sat in her armchair wearing a sweatshirt, jeans
and his favourite black leather cowboy boots, one leg draped over the arm. He
admired the rear view of Angela’s sex as she bent over to retrieve her sports
gear from the bottom drawer of her wardrobe.
“Sorry Angela,” Ben said. “But you have to admit, Jonty is full enough of
himself as it is. This will make him even more unbearable.”
“You’re just jealous,” Angela replied. “Jonty is fine. You simply have to know
how to handle him.”
Ben laughed. Yet, though he would not admit it, his friend’s words hit home. He
had noticed how Angela and many of the other females almost mothered their
pint-sized fellow student. Only yesterday, Ben had felt more than a twinge of
envy as he saw Angela with Jonty in the departmental library, where they were
both consulting some anthropological tome on female nudity around the world.
Jonty, in his tweedy jacket and dark trousers, was sitting at the table. Angela,
naked and barefoot, stood behind him, her bare midriff against the back of
Jonty’s chair, supporting herself with one arm on the table. What really got to
Ben was the way Angela let her bare right breast rest all the time against the
back of Jonty’s head, her nipple burrowing into his blond locks.
At any rate, Jonty’s library studies paid off, and his competition essay secured
him a ticket to England in the company of Anna, Jim and Professor Penny. Anna
and Jim were a developing item, judging by the way they bent their heads
together while chatting on the plane over from Australia. Jonty sat next to his
professor, an experience that many students would have found daunting, but not
Jonty whose arrogance would have shamed a heavyweight boxing champion. What
Jonty did find disconcerting about the experience was that it was the longest he
had ever seen his professor with her clothes on. Apart from at a few general
campus functions outside the walls of the CMNF Department, Jonty was thoroughly
accustomed to seeing his female professor naked, strolling fully exposed around
the stage of the lecture theatre, or sitting cross-legged in the seminar room,
her breasts jiggling when she jabbed her pen in the air to make some point, or
on some happy occasions standing right in front of Jonty while they chatted in
the departmental common room, her nipples at his eye-level.
While she had to be clothed for the journey, Professor Penny avoided overly
shocking Jonty by ensuring that much of her flesh remained on display. She
covered up a bit during transfers, but on the aeroplane itself she wore a white
elasticated halter top that obviated the need for a bra, and a flouncy,
mid-thigh mini-skirt in electric blue. She and her male student, ten years her
junior and dressed in his usual rather stuffy fashion, made an odd couple.
Penny, in particular, attracted curious glances—-surreptitious and approving
from the male passengers, more open and disapproving from the female ones. The
cabin crew maintained a cool professionalism, pretending not to notice anything
unusual. Her skimpy ensemble meant that Penny got a little cold from the chilled
on-board air, and that had the inevitable effect on her nipples. Men passengers
passing up and down the aisle glanced appreciatively at the well-defined bumps
beneath Penny’s top, as well as her finely toned bare midriff. Jonty paid no
attention. For him, his teacher was, if anything, overdressed. He was aware
(after Penny told him), but the other passengers were not, that she also had no
knickers on under her skirt. She had pulled the skirt up at the back so her bare
bottom rested on the rough fabric of the aeroplane seat. This was a constant
reminder of her CMNF commitments, and helped focus her mind on the themes of her
conference paper, which was to deal with the risky thrills of female self-exposure,
as she worked on it throughout the flight.
So it was that Penny and her students arrived at Gatwick airport. After passing
through the usual formalities, they emerged onto the main concourse, to be met
by greeters holding up signs saying “CMNF Conference”. They were then directed
to a coach, with other arriving delegates, and sped on their way down to
Brighton. It was the height of the British summer, and the weather on the south
coast was glorious. England’s green and pleasant land basked beneath a blue sky
dotted with occasional tiny clouds.
At the hotel, the delegates checked in in the normal fashion, and were given the
keys to their rooms. An information pack explained that a welcome meeting would
take place at 6 pm, in the conference area, and that a CMNF dress code was in
operation both in that area and on the two floors where they had their rooms.
Penny and co acknowledged their instructions then went up to their rooms. The
women’s luggage was noticeably lighter than that of the men. Stepping from the
lift, Penny’s party scattered to their separate rooms. The plan was to freshen
up, relax for a few hours, attend the welcome meeting, then grab an early night,
to catch up on some sleep and be ready for the first proper day of conference
business the next morning.
Once she was in her room, Penny stripped off and took a shower, washing away the
grime of her journey. Afterwards, she admired herself in the full-length mirror,
applying talc and making sure she looked as presentable as possible for her
naked appearances over the next few days.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Penny peered through the spy-hole to see
who was there. It was her young student, Jonty. Penny opened the door and
welcomed him in. She had told him earlier that she was thinking of taking a walk
along the beach and, if he felt like coming, to call in at her room.
“Come in,” the naked Penny told the youngster. “I am nearly ready.”
Penny made no attempt to cover herself up. CMNF rules were now in operation,
after all.
Jonty entered and looked round his professor’s room as she gave some final
pampering to her nude body. Jonty had also showered, judging by his still wet
hair and spruced up look. He had changed into a cream coloured linen jacket,
dark slacks and blue, pin-striped shirt.
Professor Penny’s room was naturally larger and better appointed than Jonty’s
was, and, while his faced an internal courtyard, hers had a glorious view over
the seafront.
“What is this?” Jonty asked, pointing to a contraption against the wall.
“Oh, that is a trouser press, I think,” said Penny, smoothing down her
sculptured tuft of pubic hair.
“Huh, I could do with one of those,” Jonty replied, “but I don’t have one in my
room. This is discrimination against students.”
Penny smiled and ruffled Jonty’s hair. Notwithstanding his unfortunate manner,
Penny had a soft spot for her young male student and saw him as a potential
future faculty member.
“Let us swap rooms then,” said Penny, and she meant it. It was true, the trouser
press would be far more useful to the clothed male, Jonty, than to herself, the
naked female.
“Really?” asked Jonty.
“Sure,” said Penny. She was not expecting to spend much time in the room anyway.
And so that is what happened. Penny gave up to Jonty her room, which was far
more useful for a clothed man. She took over Jonty’s more basic room. As a naked
female, all she needed was a bed and somewhere to wash her body.
After this, Penny and Jonty went for a promenade by the sea. As they waited for
the lift to the lobby, Penny slipped a front-buttoning sundress over her head
and put on a pair of flip-flops. It was the quickest way to get decent. The
dress hung shapelessly from her breasts, hiding the otherwise naked curves of
her body. Out on the promenade, the professor and the first year undergraduate
allowed the late afternoon sun to soothe away the tensions of long-distance
travel. Passers-by might have taken them for brother and sister, and would
scarcely have guessed that the older woman was a highly respected academic, nor
that, only minutes earlier, she had been stark-naked in front of the clothed
adolescent and, after they returned to the hotel, would be exposing her charms
to him again.
Back at the Serapeum, the time for the welcome meeting came around. Penny
gathered up her students and they went together down to the hotel’s conference
area. Jim and Jonty were wearing the smartest outfits they had brought with
them, including neckties. Penny and Anna were completely naked and barefoot.
Both women smelt fragrant, though, and Anna seemed to have put a little rouge on
her nipples.
At the welcome session, the conference organisers covered various administrative
trivia—-timings, where meals would be served, the rooms for different sessions
and for the poster presentations, fire exits, all that sort of thing. Slightly
more than half the audience—-the female half—-was naked. The remainder—-the
men—-were clothed in a variety of styles, from lounge suits to jeans and
tee-shirts. All of them were sitting on hard plastic chairs, a fact the women,
via their bare bottoms, were far more conscious of than the men. The inspiration
behind the conference was Professor Rachel K, a woman in her forties, with a
pronounced curvature to her nude body. Her bottom stuck out in one direction,
and her breasts in the other, like a stone-age Venus. She had a neat triangle of
pubic hair disappearing between her legs. She said a few introductory words of
welcome, but the bulk of the talking was done by her deputy, Dr David S, a bald
man in a shiny grey suit and black-rimmed spectacles, who had done the donkey
work of organising the event. At the end, he called for questions and several
people put their hands up.
“Will we receive copies of the slides on CD?” was one question, which Dr S
answered in the affirmative.
“What are the plans for future CMNF Conferences?” was another.
Dr S looked towards his female boss for help on this one. She strode forward
from the side of the room, where she had been standing.
“Well,” the naked female professor began, bending one knee and putting her hand
on her hip, “that depends very much on you. If there is sufficient interest as a
result of this one, the aspiration is to make it an annual event. Hopefully, now
the precedent is there, it can be done more smoothly. I won’t deny it has been a
huge job getting financial and other backing for this conference, with the issue
of female nudity and all.”
Dr S rolled his eyes heavenwards, in mock exasperation at the difficulties the
conference organisers had encountered.
“David had a full head of hair when I first asked him to set up a CMNF
Conference,” joked the female professor.
Dr S gave a sheepish grin at the reference to his smooth pate and touched it
briefly with his fingertips. Everyone laughed, including Professor K. Smiling
she put her hand on her deputy’s shoulder to make up for teasing him. Her
sumptuous breasts swayed close to the sleeve of his jacket, and her bare,
Hottentot behind seemed to quiver with amusement.
The meeting was followed by a drinks reception. Jim and Anna found a corner
somewhere to continue their budding relationship. Jonty, the youngest person in
the room, followed Professor Penny around as she renewed acquaintance with CMNF
researchers from other institutions. She proudly showed off Jonty as a representative
of the first bachelor’s-level course in CMNF Studies anywhere in the world. In
conversation after conversation, she stood there naked with her fully-clothed,
short-statured male student at her side, and listened with pleasure to the self-confident
way he spoke about the course and CMNF issues in general.
Meanwhile, half a dozen hotel staff—-two men in maroon waistcoats and grey
trousers, and four completely naked women—-wove their way among the delegates,
offering canapés and glasses of wine or orange juice. They were overseen by the
hotel manager, Alison, who was now almost at ease with her nakedness. Alison
mingled here and there, welcoming the academics to the hotel and checking that
no one had experienced any problems with their rooms or other arrangements.
At one point, Alison came to be talking with Jonty and Professor Penny. The
squat young man found himself flanked by two naked female bodies in their
twenty-something prime. Four nipples variously moved in and out of his line of
sight as the conversation ebbed and flowed. With Jonty’s usual enthusiasm for
the subject, the conversation dwelt on CMNF issues. Alison spoke of her own
experiences in managing the conference for the hotel. She said how surprised she
was to find that not a single one of her female staff ultimately refused to be
naked for the CMNF event, and added further that, while the bonus was obviously
important, she almost got the impression that many of the women would have been
prepared to do it anyway, for the hell of it. At this, Jonty gave a pompous laugh.
“Oh, that. That is practically the first law of CMNF studies,” he said dismissively.
“Female nudity is a kind of contagion. Once a sufficient number of women have
taken their clothes off, you can all but guarantee that every other woman present
will want to follow suit. It’s well known, isn’t it professor?”
Jonty looked up at the naked Professor Penny, who put her arm around his
shoulders, her breast brushing against his ear. She said nothing, but smiled
broadly and exchanged a meaningful, conspiratorial glance with the equally naked
Alison, followed by the barest hint of a wink.
The Department of CMNF Studies
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!
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!
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