The Joy of Nudity

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.

Rob, of course, is fully clothed. I don't mean he's in a tuxedo, rather shorts and a T-shirt. Every so often he stops to look at me, in appreciation and (I like to think) admiration. He's seen enough of me naked by now that it isn't a novelty; but the sight of me toiling in the buff still turns him on. Having him look at me that way does the same for me.

And part of the appeal is the delicious inequality. We are both working hard, doing similar jobs, but one of us has the added role of being visually pleasing to the other; and it's me who's the decorative one because I'm the woman. I'm not saying this is bad, or that I don't find Rob attractive... but I believe that the male body looks better covered, some parts in particular.

Maybe I'm prejudiced; but just consider the male appendage. I have nothing personal against penises. I wouldn't want one, mind you, but they do have their uses. (I was going to write "They have their place" but that might incite sniggering.) So I openly admit that I don't get nearly as titillated seeing Rob naked as vice versa. I'm not saying I won't look at men's bodies, but I do think the female form is by far the more aesthetic. Plus it's a well-known (not necessarily correct) fact that men are more disposed to visual stimulation, women to the tactile and emotional. For while I don't really go for the "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus" cliché, one of the key differences between the sexes is that women are more outwardly focused, relationship-oriented and sensitive to how others view them. When men do dress to impress, they derive good feelings from whatever image they have chosen to project. Women derive satisfaction and fulfillment more from evoking good feelings in others. It's not pandering. It's being true to ourselves, in expressing our own sexual, feminine identity.

If our workplace roles were reversed, if Rob was my superior in the department, I'm sure he wouldn't be taking off all his clothes when he gets home in the evening. He's conservative when it comes to revealing his own body. But it's not a sexist double standard, because he knows that I get pleasure out of pleasing him. So while the nudity is one-sided, the pleasure is shared. We're both happy.

End of pontification.

There's a chance, albeit slim, that a visitor will come up the path, peek through the window and see me in my unrobed splendor. We normally keep the blinds shut for our CMNF sessions, but when Rob is cleaning them they are open to the world. It's one of the risks I happily take which underpins the disparity that makes my nudity more than just not wearing clothes.

By lunchtime we are almost finished. I'm in the kitchen, on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Rob comes in from sweeping the patio. He crouches behind me and begins fondling my backside, kneading the flesh and parting the cheeks. I wonder if I should say no or brace for entry. It's one of the exigencies of being naked. You're alluring and you're accessible. But he's just being silly. And as he bounds to his feet I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed. I curse him and he laughs.

After lunch I decide to stay naked for the rest of the day. We will both be spending the afternoon in the study. I'm preparing a tutorial session on singularity theorems and geodesically incomplete spacetimes (more fun than it sounds), and Rob is assisting. So there's no reason for me to remain nude... except why not? The leather chair, our plushest piece of furniture in the house, is luxurious against my bare skin. Rob is seated beside me, and every so often my breast will brush against his shirt, my thigh against his trouser leg. Even after all this time it makes me tingle. However, by late afternoon the temperature has fallen, and we don't have heating appliances (they give me a headache).

"Aren't you getting cold?" Rob asks.

I'm so absorbed in my work that I haven't noticed I'm starting to shiver. So it's time to cover up.

Who would have imagined, not so long ago, that I would look forward to my Saturday chores? But we also have yardwork to do. As I've mentioned, our home is rather secluded. It's located in a quiet street, screened from the traffic and neighbors by lots of trees and shrubbery. It's old, requiring quite a bit of restoration. So in addition to regular housekeeping we devote one weekend each month to renovation and garden maintenance. Some of the work is quite arduous like replacing weatherboards, some is tedious like painting, and some is messy like digging and planting. And despite being the weaker sex I think I hold my own. I do my share of the hard work. Yet there is that imbalance in our joint effort because (excuse me if this is getting repetitious) I am naked. My man is fully and comfortably clothed, protected from sun, wind, grime and sudden embarrassment.

That is to say Rob is working, while I'm working and also being visually decorative, foregoing convenience and comfort in the process. But I am no doubt an odd sight to behold, more goofy than sexy, in my work boots and gloves, goggles and floppy straw hat with nothing on in between except dirt, dust and paint spatters. We're at the point where Rob pretends to not take much notice. Yet every so often he will smile; and when I ask what's so amusing he tells me how cute I look.

"My dirty little girl," he calls me.

At the end of the day, he nobly volunteers to assist me in washing off the detritus.

So does my self-imposed adversity turn him on? I suspect so, but I don't ask. Since I'm the one paying the price (however willingly), it's what I want that counts. And even if true this does not mean he's sadistic; it's that my goosebumps, for instance, are symbolic of my willingness to go outside my comfort zone for his and my pleasure. I'm the one making the sacrifice. But I cherish it, because CMNF is not just being naked, it's about feeling naked. I'm not as self-conscious as I was at first, so a little extra physical stimulation, inconvenience, even discomfort, replenishes the experience. (Anyway, the self-consciousness adds its own piquancy.)

In other words, my one-sided nudity requires strength -- of will and sometimes of body. In this respect, I like the term "girl power". It doesn't mean exerting power over others. It means having the determination, the self-confidence and self-esteem to define one's own course in life and one's own lifestyle. It means having and exercising inner strength. Those are the qualities needed in CMNF, to pull it off... or more specifically, take it off. (I was about to say it takes balls, but in CMNF that is obviously not an issue. In any case, what's the big deal with balls? I don't have them, I don't need them and I certainly don't want them!) It's also not about having a perfect body, but rather the self-assurance, and to an extent bravado, to expose yourself.

Indeed, I have now reached the point where I rarely wear clothes around the house, when Rob and I are alone. The freshness is still there. We haven't become jaded. Our one-sided nudity hasn't become blandly habitual or a vapid ritual.

In fact, I still feel a little embarrassed and vulnerable, as well as aroused, when I stand naked before Rob in his fully clothed state. But that's the point. When I go about my everyday business, like doing household chores or just relaxing with a book or watching television, or eating a meal, my womanhood is on display. It's not just a part of my daily life, it defines it, in the sense that Rob's manhood is defined by his clothing and my femininity by my lack of clothing. That asymmetry is my way of reaffirming and celebrating, acknowledging and appreciating, for myself and for him, what I am and, just as important, what I'm not.

I've referred to the symbolism. My nudity is not just the display of my body for Rob but a mark of my affection and devotion. It is a joy for me to share in Rob's pleasure, and so it's not just the visual which turns him on. He understands that this is my way of honoring him as my man. And in so doing I am experiencing my womanhood... by which I mean not just being a woman but feeling like a woman.

"Man, I feel like a woman!" proclaimed Shania Twain. I have always loved that song! In the Robert Palmer videos that she's spoofing, it's the women who are dressed sexy. Shania doesn't do a role reversal, because in her video, the male models wear more clothing than she does, especially after she strips down. She may be the woman in charge, but she's still the woman, and she asserts herself through her skimpy clothes... "Go totally crazy, forget I'm a lady. Men's shirts, short skirts. Really go wild. Yeah, doing it in style."

***

I shall end this chapter in the actual present. It's nine o'clock at night. As I type these words I am seated in my big, cosy, leather office chair, and I'm naked. (Of course I am!) It's cold outside. My skin tingles, from the chill in the air, from the slick touch of the upholstery on my bare back, bottom and thighs, from the voice of my wonderful husband, who has just come in with a mug of steaming cocoa. I take a sip, and when I put it down he stands behind me and runs his fingers through my hair. He kisses and strokes my neck, massages my shoulders, caresses my breasts. His hands are like ice.

"That was a shiver," he says, clueless as to the cause. "Put something on or come to bed."

"I'm finishing up now." I continue to type.

"What are you doing?" He checks the words on the screen. "Okay... Wait, are you writing this down? This is weird!"

"So nothing new then," I reply.

Naturally, Rob has read all of my erotic stories. He's never objected when they get personal, so I guess he's just posturing.

"Anyway, I'm done now. Let me save the file."

Next morning's postscript: Though adjourned to the bedroom, my evening was far from over. But that's another story.