The Joy of Nudity

"Whereof what's past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge." (William Shakespeare,

The Tempest

)

It's confession time. My CMNF experiences with Rob were not my first.

Before I met the love of my life I had a few casually intimate affairs. By this I mean a good time without any lasting commitment. And while I'm not proud of this blasé attitude, I was (so far as I was aware) neither a flirt nor a flibbertigibbet. Indeed, one of my most memorable liaisons began as, essentially, guilt sex.

Nathan was a boy who lived in my street and had been a year behind me in school. He had a red-headed, freckle-faced appeal but a shyness and a stilted staidness which was off-putting to a high-spirited termagant like yours truly. He had a crush on me but I held myself aloof; and though I wouldn't describe myself as callous, and certainly not as a tease, I admit that I enjoyed having an admirer who was at my beck and call yet kept at a distance.

At university in my senior undergraduate year I won an academic award which entitled me to a job mentoring freshman students. This meant that I had access to rooms and offices in the physics department. Occasionally I saw in the corridors and lecture halls a lanky, handsome, dark-haired guy whom I would later decide to marry. In the meantime, I had reconnected with Nathan. He was also studying physics, for which he had shown little aptitude in school; and so to this day I wonder if he had pursued me there. (On the other hand, I doubt that my mootable charms could really have elicited such devotion.)

After some pussyfooting and dilly-dallying, he asked me out, and -- feeling some guilt about my previous disdain -- I promoted him from the friend zone to the status of apprentice boyfriend. Yet I'm sure he still felt intimidated, because he conceded to me total control over our relationship. Which suited me fine, of course. I was that sort of girl (and still am, let it be known). But I was concerned that if things developed, I would have to drag him into bed.

One night I was working late in the office which I normally shared with a couple of postgrads. The only other person on the entire second floor was Nathan, who sat silently waiting for me to finish and glancing at the clock. Finally his endurance failed. He went downstairs and brought back two coffees and two vending machine packs of sandwiches. He handed me the egg-and-salad and reacted glumly to my grimace. I'm allergic to egg. So I ended up with the cheese and salad, which he eyed covetously. And naturally I had to reward his chivalry.

Did I sell my virtue for a slightly stale supper? No. It was fatigue that made me amorous. I have the sort of weird metabolism whereby I become more energized when I'm tired. So I thought it was time to do something wayward with Nathan.

At the back of the room is a door which leads into a closet-sized storage area for obsolescent files, stationery and cleaning supplies. It is such a strange location that I suspect the entire office was once the repository. (Such was the rank of academic assistants within the physics department.) So on a whim I beckoned for Nathan to follow me into it. He complied looking nervous. Perhaps he feared foul play or, worse, a prank. More likely he was overawed by what was about to happen.

I switched on the light and closed the door behind us. There was barely enough space for us to stand facing each other. It was poorly ventilated, with a musty whiff of ageing archives and a malodorous trace of ammonia. We stared into each other's faces for an uncomfortable moment, each expecting the other to make the next move. Then I took his right hand in my left and placed it on my bosom. His fingers twitched but otherwise he remained inert. So I unbuttoned my blouse and drew it backwards, off my shoulders. I let it fall to the floor. I turned away and it took Nathan a few seconds to get the meaning. He grappled with the clasp to unhook my bra. When I spun back round, I was expecting him to complete the task, but once again he didn't respond.

I was starting to regret taking the initiative. Maybe I should have stuck with a kiss and cuddle. But having gone this far, it would be very awkward to reverse course and admit I was not as desirable as I'd assumed. So I grabbed the straps of my bra and plucked it away. I moved in closer until my breasts brushed against his shirt. He was breathing heavily and my own chest was heaving. The effect was wonderful. My nipples, hard and sensitized, prickled against the twill. It's slightly coarse texture gave extra stimulation.

I drew him into an embrace. I buried my face into his left shoulder as his hands wandered over my torso -- first gliding across my back, gently stroking the bare skin, then up and down my arms, and finally over my breasts. I gasped and bit my lip as, emboldened, he squeezed the flesh and pinched my nipples. His touch was unexpectedly cold; his fingers trembled. I raised my head to look into his eyes. We kissed. It was crude and sloppy, but it released more energy, casting off inhibitions.

Nathan's hands slid down my sides, over my hips, once more behind my back, and inserted themselves under the top of my jeans and knickers to grope my bottom. I pulled away and for an instant I saw disappointment in his face. But he grinned with ill-concealed elation as I unfastened my jeans and pushed both outer and underpants down to my knees. They immediately dropped to my ankles. I stepped out of them and pushed them aside with my foot.

I don't know exactly why I had gone this far. It wasn't just to appease Nathan, and I wasn't merely being impetuous. The honest truth is that something like this had long been a fantasy of mine; and it was somewhat surprising that it had taken this long to find fulfillment. But I have always conceived of CMNF in terms of both male dominance

and

female empowerment. I had not yet dared to follow up on my fantasies because I couldn't resolve that paradox. But Nathan gave me the opportunity, albeit not how I'd imagined. For several reasons -- our previous history, my belligerent personality, my academic position, even our slight age difference -- I had become the dominant partner. My small stature and "cute" looks (as in "What a cute kitten!" not "What a cute supermodel!") actually reinforced my ascendancy. So stripping for Nathan was a way of ceding some of the power to him, bringing an equality into our relationship which allowed me to break free of my inhibitions.

This sounds very cold-blooded and even cynical, that I was using Nathan to satisfy my own urges and impulses. But it wasn't selfish. We both found joy in my nudity.

As our bodies connected, as my bare flesh pressed against his shirt and trousers, I tingled all over, inside and out. His crotch nestled snugly into mine and I entwined one leg with his. That forced me to lean on him, to depend on him for support, drawing us together more tightly. I wrapped my arms around his neck while his fingers explored me, massaged my butt cheeks, intruded into the crevice and slithered between my thighs to probe my front crease as well. He ran his hands over my hips and down my belly, plucking and tugging at the filaments of my pubic hair. He pinched and tweaked my clitoris; and when he felt my wetness his fingertips jerked, as if in shock, before entering me. So I had the sense that this was his first experience with a naked woman, perhaps his first truly intimate moment with any female. His fondling was hesitant and clumsy but did its work.

My body surrendered. My muscles tensed, my blood rushed, my heart raced, my breasts heaved, my innards tightened. I tried to stifle a moan, clenching my jaws. It came out anyway. I hadn't wanted to lose control, to show weakness or submission; but once I'd removed my clothing I found myself subject to his power as the passive, helpless object of his masculine desire. The dynamic between us seemed to have reversed. He did not reciprocate the gift of my naked body. So while I writhed in ecstasy, loving what he did to me, his clothing was his armor. I had allowed him to penetrate my defences, and my body, while his remained inviolate.

Indeed, whereas I had completely and willingly undressed, I could tell that Nathan didn't want to; and I was happy with that. I rationalized it as being for the best that we didn't go all the way together. It was not the right time, and certainly not the ideal place! (I could feel his passion in his trousers, through the layers of fabric between his loins and mine that prevented us conjoining.) And yet there was something else. I liked the one-sided nudity. It turned me on.

Our storeroom liaison became a weekly ritual. It was a way to spice up our relationship. (I confess that this was largely on me. To be blunt and candid, I found Nathan rather boring. There... I've said it!) It was daring, it was transgressive, it was illicit. It was a game, and part of the thrill was the danger of being caught

in flagrante delicto

. But really, there was no serious potential for public embarrassment. I always undressed and dressed inside the storeroom, and he always kept his clothes on. By the time of evening when the game began, the entire building was virtually deserted. It was usually a Friday, when we were practically the only people in the place and the security guard hadn't yet started his patrol.

On just our second occasion I thought I heard voices in the corridor outside the office and got dressed in a panic. It may have been my imagination; but if it wasn't, then in any case whoever it was went away. I stripped again which, added to the surge of adrenaline, actually enhanced my arousal. However, this was when I decided that Nathan would stay fully clothed every time, so that if necessary he could intercept any interloper.

But there was adventure in the risk, and something else as well. There was that imbalance between Nathan and me, unfairness if you will. Had we been discovered, we would both be red-faced, but the disgrace and degradation would mostly have been mine. I was the bare-assed one. I would be exposed and humiliated, while he could (if he wished) remain calm, clothed and collected, even bask in sexist kudos. Yet I wasn't deterred. It excited me. I had no secret, suppressed wish to be found out, but I have always been something of a daredevil. When I took physical risks, I wasn't privately hoping to smash into the rocks or face-plant in the dirt, or whatever. The challenge lay in the potential for disaster. So there was an extra piquancy in the fact that I would bear the brunt of the fall-out for our joint transgression.

This made me hyper-aware of my vulnerability and also of my sexuality. It was I, the naked female, who would be shamed for her wantonness. Whereas Nathan was shielded from such a fate by his clothing. But that's the thing. I still had the better of it. He could not fully express his sexuality as I had done. The barrier between us was therefore his limit, not mine. That gave me (at least in my perverse mind) the upper hand, the real power. And this impression was reinforced on that first occasion when I got dressed once more. Nathan watched me with a blank expression; and I was disconcerted by his unruffled demeanour. It bothered me that he appeared unaffected physically as well. While I was lathered in sweat and saliva, as I pulled my pants up over my moistened crotch and felt the clamminess clinging, he was dry and calm. Clearly my experience had been the more intense.

That just made me more determined to repeat our cubbyhole rendezvous. This went on for about three months; and it was where we screwed for the first time. As usual I initiated it. While we were snuggled together, I fumbled with his trousers until he pushed my hand away and undid his fly. And when he nudged into me, the thing I remember most vividly was how the teeth of the zipper grazed ticklishly against my tenderest flesh. It wasn't prolonged or satisfying. We hurried to get it over and done with. After that it was mattress sex.

Our relationship did not last. There was no abrupt ending. It just petered out, before I hitched up with Rob. For me it had been more than a dalliance but less than a whole-hearted, full-blooded commitment. As for Nathan, it seems that once he'd entered the Temple of Sarah my icon lost some of its luster. That wasn't his fault. The mystique which had shielded my less admirable qualities was eroded by the friction of close contact.

But we had a few good months; and he was a foretaste of Rob. In their reluctance to shed their own clothes, they helped fulfill my fantasy.

***

There are some other episodes that are worth relating for the sake of completeness. They are rather tepid in terms of CMNF, and perhaps repetitive, so if you stop reading here I won't be offended.

When I started at university I was quite naive. I became friends with a classmate, Amanda, who was my age but much worldlier. She was athletic, bronze-skinned and brazen. She called herself a lesbian, but she was in reality bisexual. She loved hanging out with and being one of the guys. I think she wished she had been born male but decided that she would make the most of being female. I never saw her in a dress, rarely in a skirt, but her skimpy tops and truncated shorts exuded femininity and sexuality.

Amanda introduced me to a party scene which anticipated, and perhaps inspired, my CMNF proclivity. There was a once-a-month revel at the hall of residence where Amanda stayed that more often than not had female partygoers in a state of minimal dress -- with themes like "lingerie night", "board shorts and bikinis", "pimps 'n' hoes", "tarts and vicars", "playboys and bunnies", "007 and Bond girls", "pirates and their booty". I think the underlying motif is obvious. There was lots of exposed skin and almost all was female.

I was never particularly bashful, but this took a bit of getting used to, particularly in the cooler months. But what impressed me was the sophistication of the participants. In my lingerie, my bikini, my bunny costume and so on, it was gratifying to get admiring looks. Some were fleeting glances, some lingered. We girls received compliments that made us feel flattered and appreciated but also relaxed, as they were generic, like "You look great!", not comments on a girl's body or the skimpiness of her outfit. These events were a harmless, almost innocent frolic.

Generally I hovered on the fringe of Amanda's social circle. But one night she enticed me into a game of strip poker with her roommate and some friends, girls and guys. I was disinclined, but she could be quite persuasive. It was, however, different from what I expected.

We paired up, male-female. Amanda assigned partners and mine was Harry (which was the anglicized form of Harish, an Indian name which he proudly professed means "lord of the monkeys"). I told the group that I was lousy at poker and didn't relish the prospect of losing every hand. Actually I'm good at the game because, as a physicist, I understand probabilities. Matthias called my bluff and came up with a proposal. The four males would play, while the girls' clothes would be the stakes. The twist was that the

winner's

partner would lose an item. This, I quickly realized, was a smart move, prolonging the game because a single round could have multiple losers. And it was diabolical. There was no compelling incentive, apart from player's pride, for any of the guys to win because, in victory or defeat, they'd all get to see one of us girls dispense with a piece of her clothing. Everyone laughed at the idea, but we'd had just enough beer that it sounded like fun.

The eight of us sat in a circle on the carpet. The boys played Texas Hold ʼEm, and we girls took turns to deal. The mood was jolly, but we'd stopped drinking and sobriety set in as soon as the first round of cards was dealt. So when Jason won the hand and all eyes turned toward Rachel, she cast an accusatory glare at her partner. She giggled.

"Good thing I'm wearing socks."

Immediately we saw the perennial flaw in unregulated strip poker. I did a quick appraisal. None of us were wearing our shoes, but I wore seven items of clothing -- socks and undies, jeans, shirt and cardigan. Trina was barefoot but wore a scarf, Amanda clearly wasn't wearing a bra. So Matt unilaterally declared that a scarf counted as clothing and a pair of socks was a single item. No one dissented. Amanda would just have to accept her handicap. She didn't seem to mind.

Matthias was Amanda's partner, and he was a good player. She lost her shoes, shirt and shorts very quickly. Already bare-breasted, when Matt won with a big blind special she glowered then grinned, toppled backwards to lie on the floor, raised her hips and slid off her last garment, giving us all a front-row view of her pink pudenda as she parted her knees. She flicked her panties like a rubber band, directly towards Matt and hit him in the face.

Harry, on the other hand, was hopeless at poker. I rolled my eyes at his mistakes, but it meant that I was still in my undies when Amanda and Rachel were stark naked. Not at all embarrassed (though Rachel kept her hands placed strategically in her lap), they laughed and joked. The guys, not wanting to spoil a good thing, behaved themselves. And when Rick won the last hand against Harry, the game ended. Not as flashy as Amanda, Trina raised herself to her knees and sucked in a deep breath. She kept her thighs pressed together as she lowered her knickers. She blushed at the applause.

I wasn't disappointed that it was over, but felt a bit left out as the only girl not

au naturel

. The game couldn't go on, because if it did that would undermine the pretext that it really was a competition with a winner as well as losers. But, of course, someone proposed an "ultimate" round, in which Harry wagered my compromised but intact modesty against the other girls remaining nude for the rest of the evening. (It was still only eight o'clock.) When Rachel and Trina vigorously shook their heads, the idea was dropped. I must confess that I was a little disappointed.

Yet Amanda, in fact, chose to stay nude as we partied on till midnight. She appeared utterly at ease, and I envied such carefree confidence. She made out with everyone, including yours truly. I'm not normally that way inclined, but for the first time I felt what it was like to get it on with a naked girl. CFNF was nice.

Amanda and I remained friends throughout our undergraduate years. (I encountered Harry on a few occasions around the campus, but he never got to see me fully unadorned.) One time she dragged me along to a birthday celebration at a nightclub's ladies-only cabaret. There were four male "exotic dancers" strutting about the stage. They were heartily beefcake, and to the wild cheers and whistles of the crowd they stripped down to buckskin loincloths. Every so often two of the men would make a foray into the audience and grab a woman. When they came towards our group, poor Liz the birthday girl was thrust forward.

The men gyrated about her, gradually stripping her until she was altogether divested, as she danced with them. Since we were all half-tipsy, Liz was laughing and loving every minute of it. But here's the thing. The strippers were never completely naked. Maybe it was in their contract; maybe there was a rule or even a law against full-frontal male nudity. But that didn't stop the women they dragged onto the stage from being stripped to the buff. (I hastily add that anyone who showed resistance was left alone.) Fair enough, it was a totally female crowd, except for the four men. Nevertheless, that's what struck me, the idea that the women, paying members of the audience, ended up totally naked while the males who danced with and for them kept a vestige of their modesty intact.