Natural Beauty (redux)

Although during the non-dig part of the year I stay at a Régate boarding house, I spend a lot of my time in Grandin. The boundary is unfenced, but for those leaving the enclave there are signs which bear the same message as that displayed in the airport terminal.

"NO ADULT FEMALE WEARING CLOTHES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT."

After just a few days on Palmira you get so used to what's around you that when you enter the precinct it's a little jarring to see a woman wearing clothing. But not many. While nudity isn't compulsory in Grandin, most women there don't cover up their bodies.

There are obviously exceptions to the rule, on both sides. In schools, health care venues and places of worship nudity for under-18s is not allowed; otherwise whether or not a girl wears clothes, inside or beyond the enclave, is the prerogative of her parents. So one's eighteenth birthday is especially momentous for Palmirene girls, something they approach with heady anticipation. Like their brothers they are now legal adults, they can vote, they can take control of their lives; but becoming a woman is special because it means being subject to the nude law. It's not an imposition; it's an entitlement.

Palmirene children are accustomed to seeing women naked, including their mothers and teachers. The latter have a choice on school premises, all of which are in Grandin; but though not mandated, nudity is just about universal. Teachers don't have a problem with standing naked in front of a class. For them and their students it's a simple fact of life.

The undergraduate campus of Palmira College is located in Grandin. Females comprise about sixty per cent of the faculty and the student body. Because the age of entry is eighteen, while nudity is technically optional the women are naked without exception. The young men are dressed how you would find them at any university -- in jeans, chinos, capris, cargo shorts, plaid shirts, polo shirts, flannel shirts, T-shirts, etcetera.

Around half of all the College's enrolled students, two-thirds of postgrads, are from overseas. They come from all over the world. There are plenty of casual and part-time jobs available, mainly in tourism, some in the financial sector, and the wages are generous. Tuition fees are relatively low, but not at the expense of the quality of education provided. The Palmirene government uses these benefits as incentives to encourage graduates to settle permanently, and some do. There are other attractions, of course, including the idyllic environment and friendly people. The nude law is clearly not a deterrent, for students or for foreign-born academic staff, and for many if not most it's a major part of the appeal.

Palmira hosts several embassies, consulates and high commissions, all based in Grandin. For these there are protocols regarding nudity. Although it's not

de rigueur

, female members of the diplomatic community who go outside the precinct's boundaries abide by the law. They can stay inside if they're reluctant to bare all, but it would be a dreary life, confined to a corner of this beautiful island.

I got to meet Australia's representative. Heather Turley is Honorary Consul. A career officer with the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, she met her husband James, a Palmirene citizen, on a diplomatic mission. She has ambassadorial privileges and could disregard the nude law if she wished to do so. Naturally she doesn't.

I first met her at a reception hosted by the expatriate community for "important" foreigners living on the island. I was flattered (and somewhat baffled) to be included in that company. It was held at the Governor's mansion in Grandin and was a black-tie function for the men. All the women, including the Governor and Heather, were nude.

Heather is a stylish woman who speaks in quiet but assertive tones; and there's a warm glow of confidence and sophistication about her. She is not classically beautiful; she has a slightly androgynous appearance, with a strong face and frame; but the wonderful thing about nudity is that women like her exude as much sensuality and sexuality as any beauty queen bombshell. So while Heather does not come across as conventionally feminine, next to her husband in his tuxedo there was no mistaking her for anything but female.

On reflection, I realize that this was the first organized social gathering (as opposed to informal get-togethers with my colleagues) I had attended. But soon afterwards I was invited to spend a weekend with the Renettes, my relatives. They live on Frigate Island, proprietors of Palmira's most luxurious hotel, the Chevron. It is larger and grander than the Andromède. On the other hand, Regina's family owns two establishments, so the score between the two clans is pretty much even.

I took the ferry from Régate for a sixty-minute cruise. Upon arrival I was greeted by my second cousin, Sabrina. She's aged in her early twenties and is almost impossibly gorgeous, with azure eyes and flame-gold tresses that cascade onto her slender shoulders like a river of fire. Her smile is radiant, her skin is flawless and her body is divine. She moves with feline grace. Very much cognizant of her own splendor, she draws back her shoulders as if to emphasize her perfect breasts; and when she's still she casually pushes forward her pelvis, as if to proclaim her womanhood. But her body language betrays that she's not entirely at ease with her nudity, though she wears it (so to speak) proudly. Her haughtiness evokes vulnerability. There's a distance in her demeanor, a coldness in her eyes as if they were about to turn from ocean-blue to glacier-blue. It's not that she's rude or acts aloof -- quite the opposite, although that seems more a product of good breeding than an intrinsic part of her nature.

There were two dozen passengers on the boat, and several were bound like me for the Chevron Hotel. One of the now familiar open-air taxis awaited us onshore, and a young man was at the wheel. It is immediately obvious when you see them that he is Sabrina's twin brother. Xander (short for Alexander) has the same striking features, but in an odd way not as well defined, almost blurred. It's his manner. He doesn't project himself. He's grown up in the shadow of his sister, who is easily the dominant sibling. His expression is one of apathetic detachment. His clothes droop on him; he has the sort of languid bearing where even a tailored suit appears ill-fitting. By comparison, Sabrina is acutely aware of her naked beauty.

The twins' mother, Lydia, is English, and you see where they inherited their looks. They were born in Britain but grew up on Palmira. Kudos to them that, like Regina and her brother, Sabrina and Xander have taken on regular jobs at the hotel. Yet they seem frustrated by the ennui imposed by their limited horizons. Both are intelligent and intellectually curious, and were enchanted by my "worldly" experience and academic credentials. During my visit they interrogated me endlessly about life in Australia, about archaeology and even about Palmirene history.

That night a soirée was held to welcome the cousin from down under. It was a more elaborate affair than anything I'm cozy with, and for an unpretentious gal who eschews glamour, glitz and glitter, nudity proved a blessing. No fancy gown to worry about. But I was lavished with exquisite jewelry -- a pearl encrusted barrette, emerald earrings and a turquoise pendant on a black velvet choker. It was weird to be so expensively embellished from the neck up and totally unadorned below. In fact, I ended up even more denuded than before.

Earlier, I had blamed my disheveled hair on the wind during my trip across the water; but that cut no ice with frosty Sabrina. She took me down to the hotel's beauty salon for a hairdressing overhaul. I have to admit that my unruly shag cut was transformed for the better into a sassy side-swept crop. But then Sabrina lowered the back of my chair, and when I was horizontal she ordered me to spread my legs. She instructed the

coiffeuse

to shave me (because a more thorough depilation would leave me with inflamed pubes for the evening), but advised that I should get a waxing when I returned to the mainland. I decided against resisting, since I'd been thinking about a move in that direction anyway. Nevertheless, I remained ambivalent. I have always associated pubic hair removal with presenting a "clean" bikini line, and that is plainly not an issue on Palmira. While aesthetic preferences play a role, it's mainly to distinguish married from unmarried women, and this is a fairly recent (and in my opinion unnecessary) trend. Nevertheless, after I'd returned to Cimarrón and everyone complimented me on my double hair makeover, I went for my waxing.

I later decided on electrolysis for permanent or at least long-term epilation. (Laser treatment is also an option.) Most women avoid the no-going-back track because they want pubic hair when they marry. However, the tide of that trend seems to be ebbing.

The soirée was attended by members of what counts as the local élite. It was presided over by Lydia, who marshalled her guests and serving staff with the command presence of a major-general. As I had already perceived, Palmira is very much a matriarchal society. The Renette women rule their aristocratic roost; and as I'd also learnt, being naked does not preclude power. Indeed, in an interesting way their womenfolk's mandatory nudity gives the males of Palmira a uniquely resilient sense of their masculinity, which obviates gratuitous displays of macho egoism. They are easy-going and user-friendly. I once heard a man described as being strong enough that he can afford to be tender; and I think there's a similar principle at work with Palmirene men. They have nothing to prove. Their identity and security as males is reaffirmed all around them all the time, so they can get on with being good men. (I'm not criticizing males elsewhere; but the Palmirenes seem to be a breed apart.) I've also heard it said that a strong woman is she who can bring out the best in a man. Palmirene women do that. It's not the essential purpose of the nude law -- at least not these days -- but it's what you might call a fringe benefit.

Virginia Woolf once wrote: "Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size." And in a way, a positive way, that's the case on Palmira.

And the thing is, this is one of the least sexist environments you can imagine. For it's a well-attested truism that a person who's viewed as sexy is perceived to lack "agency" -- personal power, the ability to plan, act and exercise self-control, and even intelligence. This mainly impacts on women, because our clothing is genderized -- more revealing and sensual than men's in some cultures, more constricted in others. But that's not an issue on Palmira. You, as a woman, are not adversely judged on your state of undress, because your personal agency is undiminished, because you

must

be naked. Men see, every day and everywhere, women whose appearance is reduced entirely to the sexual and yet are clearly not lacking in competence or intellect. So to lay claim to any level of logical thinking, a Palmirene male will look beyond the skin-deep (so to speak).

Even so, it might be asserted that the nude law is sexist. On Palmira the female body is so revered that it is illegal to conceal it. Yet the intent and effect of the law are not the objectification of women. In this respect the critics (such as exist) are mistaken. Exposing your body to the world, being obliged by society's rules to abandon all inhibitions and put aside encumbering modesty, is an intensely personalizing and joyously liberating experience. And nudity being for one sex alone is not demeaning to females. Never have I been so conscious and proud of my womanhood. Like most women, I don't have a perfect figure or abounding confidence. I do not crave attention but neither do I shun it. Back home, on a beach in a bikini, I rate a few fleeting looks and that's nice. But on Palmira your body is the proverbial temple; it's hallowed ground -- admired, respected and well-treated. Both men and women come from all over the world to worship here; but it's the women who are worshipped. If it's true you're an object, you're an object of veneration.

All women are. Even in the company of demigoddesses like Lydia and Sabrina, there was a feeling of sisterhood amongst all the females in the room -- hostess, guests and waitresses alike. The uniformity of nudity imposes an egalitarian sodality which also transcends differences in shape, size and color. The expensive ornamentation we wore actually reinforced this effect, which may seem counterintuitive. Jewelry properly worn serves to enhance or call attention to what you're wearing without being a distraction. When you're not wearing anything else,

that

is what your accessories highlight.

(Sabrina and a couple of others wore dainty gold and silver waist chains which I hadn't known are legal until I saw a few in Régate. I now wear one sometimes. It tempts the line of sight downwards and upwards, from the raw sexuality of your breasts and vagina to the sensual safe space in between. It gives emphasis to the totality of your nakedness rather than this being just the exposure of your parts.)

Throughout the evening, the two sexes mingled without awkwardness, diffidence or dalliance. The most stimulating part was the conversation. On such occasions as this, I have found Palmirene high society to be very conversable, more literati than glitterati. Yet it still felt slightly surreal. Back home, a "cmnf" party would be a major event on the kinky calendar. On Palmira it's just another night out. More than at any other time since I'd been on Palmira, I felt as if I might be the woman in Manet's

Luncheon on the Grass

-- not flirting or flaunting, but not shrinking from the public gaze.

Waiters and waitresses circulated with trays of drinks and

canapés

, and I was again fascinated by the powerfully evocative contrast between the neat, rather old-fashioned uniforms (including crimson satin waistcoats) of the male servers and the

dénudé

condition of the women they waited on. (And if I'm coming across as fixated on this subject... All I can say in my defense is that, though writing quite some time after the events I'm describing, I'm still captivated, baffled and turned on by it.)

A string quartet performed; and when the chamber music made way for dance melodies, I knew for certain that I would be kept busy. I waltzed with most of the males in the room, and not surprisingly the eroticism proved almost overpowering. During the slow dances the men's tuxedos pressed up against my bare body; wool, satin and silk caressed my skin. When the tempo sped up their jackets and trousers brushed and grazed my body from breasts to thighs and my arousal was such that I feared I might drip fluids on the floor or leave a damp patch on the front of my partner's trousers. It was the most stimulated, and most self-conscious, I had felt since arriving on Palmira.

Wearing only pretty baubles and a sociable smile, as the guest of honor I occupied center stage all evening, so all eyes were on me. I no longer enjoyed the safety in numbers. But I recalled a snazzy one-liner from the celebrated stripper Gypsy Rose Lee. "I wasn't naked; I was completely covered by a blue spotlight."