Women get called the weaker sex, and I suppose in some ways we are. I can live with that. I'm quite comfortable with the idea that, being small and a little on the skinny side, I am physically weaker than most men. But strength is not the same as toughness and tenacity. Indeed, CMNF can turn the platitude on its head. It requires mental fortitude and even some physical endurance.
Oddly enough (given the theme of these stories), I would not describe myself as an exhibitionist. When I first embraced the CMNF experience I had never been fully naked in public view, and this is still not a part of my lifestyle. What I enjoy is my one-sided nudity with Rob. It turns him on, makes him feel more masculine (not that he isn't already) and me more feminine (not that femininity need be defined this way). In essence, I am giving Rob the gift of my naked body. It's a reminder to us both that my body belongs as much to him as it is mine. The gift is unconditional; it's not contractual. When your personal wants and needs and desires merge with those of your partner, you don't need to keep score. I don't expect anything in return except to see and feel his pleasure. That doesn't diminish me. It is a proud affirmation of my womanhood and our mutual bond of love and respect.
So one-sided nudity has been a way to enrich my relationship with Rob. For me, there is no more potent or sensual expression of the wonderful duality of male and female than when I am naked and my man is fully clothed. It's a delightful disparity. I get a thrill being naked in his presence, intimately exposed and accessible; and this feeling is intensified by his clothing. When we cuddle, I adore the touch of his shirt and trousers against my bare skin and sensitized girl parts.
And the thing about CMNF is that I really do revel in the imbalance it creates. Often when we come home after a hard day working, the first thing I do when I'm across the threshold is take off all my clothes. As I've mentioned, in the physics department I have superior ranking; so it's my way of acknowledging that Rob is the man of the house. It's not about him being the head of the household, because I am still very assertive. But when at home I strip for him, it helps restore ("redress" if you will) the balance.
But that's enough navel-gazing...
I used to hate doing housework. It's not that I'm lazy or I thought it beneath my station. It's that I found domestic chores to be mind-numbingly boring. My brain is in perpetual high gear, and the dreary repetition would drive me close to insanity. The thankless drudgery drains your energy and consumes hours that could (in my opinion) be better spent. The work is never interesting and rarely challenging. No matter how good a job you do, it has to be repeated, over and over again, with little variation.
It doesn't help that I lack the necessary skills, care and patience. So, being obsessive about order and cleanliness, and too poor to afford professional help (a cleaner that is, not a psychologist), I forced myself to do it. But my loathing was such that, for example, I resisted having people over as guests, even my family, because I dreaded the before-and-after cleaning.
Yet now I love it. So what changed? You guessed it!
Where I have been more fortunate than many women is that Rob has always willingly pitched in. During the bad old days he enjoyed it no more than I did, but he complained less (or did so in manly silence). Now we look forward to our Saturday morning spruce-up, and spring-cleaning has become an all-season routine. So allow me to describe a typical housekeeping session.
I crawl out of bed just after sunrise, as I do every morning. (When I moved in with Rob, that took some adjustment. Previously I had stayed up late and woke up late.) I normally sleep naked these days, so without a pause it's off to the bathroom and then straight to the kitchen. Still blinking back the break-of-day blur, I make the first of many cups of caffeine for the day and my prepare usual breakfast of banana on dry toast. Pallid sunlight filters weakly through the curtains. My skin offers no protection against the chill in the air, and without my fluffy slippers my feet curl on the cold tiles. I don't mind, because, on cue, Rob appears in the doorway, sniffing the aromas of brewing coffee and browning bread. He comes up behind me and in for a cuddle. Wrapped in his arms, with the fleecy caress of his robe on my back, I find my drowsiness disappears. Rob helps out with warm hands that stroke my neck, massage my breasts, rub my belly.
"That better, sweetie?" he asks.
"Getting there," I reply. "Just a little more..."
The snuggles over, Rob begins to fry his eggs, tomato and bacon. I blanch at the thought of starting the day on a heavy stomach. And I stay well clear of the radiant heat and the sizzling pan spitting oil. (There's an apron waiting for me on a hook nearby, but it won't be needed.)
We sit on the patio to eat. The strengthening sunlight smooths out my goosebumps. Once we've cleared and washed up, we get straight into our chores. There's no strict schedule. Today we start in the living room, with me doing the vacuuming and dusting, Rob cleaning the blinds. It's emancipating, in a way, to be working in the nude, because we are so used to wearing clothes that it's easy to forget that nakedness is our natural state. Thus, to free your body of clothing's constrictions gives a refreshing sense of release. So much so that when our chores are completed it feels strange to get dressed. Unless we're going out I don't.
