I recently posed for a figure drawing artist, yet another highly unlikely activity in a lengthy list of things I never imagined that I would ever do in a million years that I have done in this year.
I am not one of those people who sashays triumphantly out of the shower and into the kitchen butt-naked to fetch myself a drink. I sleep with my panties on, even when I have a handsome bedmate. In the wintertime, I add socks to my thermal nighttime apparel. I avoid lingering in locker rooms and showering with others at all costs. I won’t pee in front of you, ever, even if we are good friends. Outside of clearly sexual contexts, my own nudity seriously embarrasses me in company and when I am all alone as well. Your nudity makes me incredibly uncomfortable, makes me not know where to look, can make my skin crawl.
Unless we are fucking. (past, present, future…but not too long beforehand and not too long afterward either.)
So, needless to say, when I saw the job offer in the classifieds, wrote an email, sent a few photos and then physically moved my body to another city in order to sit silently naked with a complete stranger, well, it was huge for me. Because I don’t really like my body? Yeah, probably a bit of that but not only that. It was an odd experience. Not a bad odd experience. I really enjoyed talking to the artist. He made me feel at ease right away.
Ever since, I’ve been trying to pin down what confuses me in nudity, why I am so uncomfortable in the nude. Surprisingly, I really wasn’t uncomfortable at all in our work arrangement. I guess it felt unusual to me to be undressed and not have any sexual intent lurking in the background. To be honest, it baffled me. I am still trying to process my own feelings about this.
When I figure it out, I’ll write something enlightening. (that or run naked through a stadium!)