On being naked

I detest wearing clothes.

No, really I do.  In the best of all worlds, I’d be able to do completely without clothing except for warmth, sun protection, or entertainment.  Even the best-fitting clothing annoys me a little, and being the body shape I am, most non-tailored clothing doesn’t fit me well and annoys me a lot.  I’ve been like that ever since I entered my teens; if I was at home and there were no guests, I was probably naked.  Once I moved to Austin and had my own place to live, the likelihood of me being unclothed at home approached unity.

Fortunately, L shares my willingness to go bare, so the issue of “put something on!” never comes up unless it’s cold, one of us has to answer the door, or we have company who isn’t comfortable with nudity, and we raised T and M the same way, ensuring the American-Puritan linkage between nudity and sex never got made for them, and when they were old enough to understand we explained why we thought it silly.

But there’s another piece to it.  (With me there is almost always another piece to anything.)  Nudity, whether social or otherwise, has always been a symbol that I have a certain level of trust in someone.  If I’m willing to be naked around you (and if you’re reading this you may presume I am), it means I have confidence in and feel secure enough with you to extend that trust, and to offer reciprocity to you in our home as well if you want it.  Social nudity’s nothing that either L nor I would demand or automatically expect of any of our friends, but the option’s there if ever you should want to exercise it.

Eve was framed.  Fnord.