On the twenty-first I'll be attending a nude dinner for four (the nudity was my choice; more on that shortly). The hosting married couple have a long, bonded history with a mutual friend, and having heard a lot of stories involving me, they want to make acquaintance. I've agreed, in part because I've rarely cohabited with naked human beings outside of sexual contexts, and I'm interested.
A single skinny dipping excursion in the dark immediately before high school graduation was my only exposure. That night I connected as a friend to people I've rarely seen before or since, and I maintain a strong fond feeling when I remember their faces.
Our hosting couple laments that past dinners have ended awkwardly, with their guests revealing themselves to be not only nudists, but swingers. It's apparently rare to find naked, platonic companions. Let me repeat myself here: this is not about sex. I had heard through the grapevine that they're nudists, and I told our mutual friend to forward the message that if they prefer to be naked in their own home, I wasn't averse.
Platonic nudity, I have heard, improves the social climate. People are less guarded, more outgoing. It's hard to be pretentious in your birthday suit.
Wearing a costume does affect the way you perceive yourself. This black cotton t-shirt, these bracelets I'm wearing, and these broken-in jeans comprise tonight's disguise. When I stop to notice, I feel discomfort from all that cloth. I've never stopped to ask myself whether I actually enjoy wearing clothes. Yet to wear nothing is new to me, and my own bare body itself seems like a surreal costume, because I am so rarely unclad in front of others. This is neurotic territory at best, and that saddens me.
Only a handful of women have seen me naked as an adult. Some were so self-conscious that they demanded the lights should be out before they'd agree to strip too. I resisted this request every time, because I wanted to see the body, the nakedness, the humanness. It was always a thrill to make them feel beautiful, rather than merely sexy, because the nudity was not just about sex. It was about peeling off the mundane, stiff, professional daily world and leaving it on the floor layer by layer to create a safe empty space together, one all our own. It was about penetrating beyond the surface of this person's life, being trusted, helping that person feel good about herself, and then making her feel good physically. In the process, I'd like to think that common ground was formed, though at least once I was indeed used and cast aside.
Sex has always been associated with my experiences of mutual nudity, and I feel cheated. Why should I view my body as a strictly sexual object, uncovered only for bathing and gratification? Our bodies are miraculous in every activity. Why not appreciate that, in hopes of gaining a healthier appreciation for unguarded, exposed humanity? I can't empathize with a shirt. I can't empathize with denim. I can't empathize with a sundress. Body is the only thing I can really, humanly understand. Body, body, body.
I'll be there, friends. Eight o' clock. And I'll bring dessert. We'll all have a good laugh, because I'll have no idea which fork to use.
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