I have been naked full time for 2 days and counting.

How come, you will ask?

The bare fact is that two days ago I went to my bedroom, disrobed and neatly stored or threw in the wash all that I was wearing. I was not to visit my wardrobe again for a week.

But why would I want to be naked?

You know that I am no stranger to being nude, in private and, during my twenties, in public. But never continuously for this long. I am used to spending mornings and an occasional quiet afternoon naked depending on commitments. For example, when my maid comes in three days a week between 11 am and dinnertime, I dress for her. It has been a lifelong ambition to be bare for many days on end and hardly remember what being dressed feels like.

Yes, but be more specific, please.

I want to renew my relation with my body, by being conscious of myself and alternately being truly ‘natural’ while naked. Secondly, I relish the theoretical possibility of being seen and shocking, provoking and charming people that way. Also, it is simply good to be 'weightless' and feel the flows of air around one's body. Then, I am a masturbation slut. Can control myself being so conscious of myself? Would being 'natural' prevent the urge?

Why now?

My husband went on an extended business trip. A week. Unhappy as I was to see him disappear, to use this opportunity to realise my ambition was good compensation. I cancelled my maid for the period. After he had left the house and I had sipped a self-pitying cup of coffee, I pulled myself up and disrobed, pledging to get dressed only by his return. I also shaved again, all but my scalp and eyebrows, for the first time in a decade! All this took me an hour or two, at the end of which my mind was firmly off self-pity, onto the challenge ahead.

So here I am. Naked. As Nature intended...

Before this opportunity came up, I had made appointments with two friends, which I did not cancel.

Due first is my best vanilla girlfriend who has no clue of my 'Vanna Vechian, erotic writer' existence. Generally, I am not the type that makes a habit of shopping for clothes with a friend and in the process show or see a lot of flesh. Occasionally, in dressing rooms of swimming pools and gyms, we flash flesh, but hardly make a show or have a soft woman-to-woman intimacy scene. No objections; it is just not my life.

My friend is very nice of course, but 'square', so I do not know how she will feel. Would she not freak out and alarm our circle, or my husband? No...

Well, I thought I'd prepare her. We are a two-woman book club. Contemporary fiction, which we each read and then discuss during a nice get together once or twice a month. With quite different points of view and the ability to listen and explain, we have spirited discussions. On the first day of my nude week I mailed her one of my own stories, about a young woman (me, back then!) who liked to be naked when at home, started entertaining that way, had a curious, mildly BDSM oriented relationship with a boyfriend ("a savage general"), who eventually exhibited her as a piece of art, shaven from head to toe with the help of his sister and painted white ("yours, to enhance and amend you... your muse, your subservient angel"). I did not say I was the author and heroine. I confessed that I was interested in erotic literature, naturally of quality, and would she mind? She replied that she was new to this genre, yet keen to discuss it.

She arrives and I open the door. Naked and a little nervous. Does it show? I manage a smile and step aside. She observes my bareness, blushes and hesitates. Then she enters, forgets to kiss me and asks, 'my dear, how inconvenient. Am I too early? Excuse me, please!' I put my hand on her arm, look her in the eye and say, 'Not at all, pardon me for my immodesty!'

I explain that the (my!) story inspired me to be naked while my husband was out and that this is my third day. I say that I dearly wanted to know, 'Will I be able to become natural as time passes or will I remain self-conscious?' ‘A valid question,’ she acknowledges and looks at me, admiringly, I think. However, she does not dare surveying me from head to toe. I add, 'I have been alright so far, but am just a bit uptight now, like you. Come and let's try to relax.' I take her to the living room and sit her down, while I get us some refreshments.

When I return, in a small voice she says she would reciprocate, if not for her period (Is she being shy? We refer to our periods on occasion, but I hardly record hers. Think it is true though, knowing her.) She averts her eye, takes a deep breath and then offers to bare her torso. I accept, of course. So she proceeds and I see her poor breasts appear from the bonds of her bra. I observe the many minutes required for the strap marks to fade.

There we sit, opposite each other in easy chairs. I believe that she, as I, grows comfortable within a short period. To go further, I believe our nudity actually helps and removes any inhibition that still lingers between us as good friends. A threat to my behaving naturally is that I will not use my hands for modesty or cross my legs. The first I do normally and in repose my hands are in my lap, warm and cosy. I manage to do neither, but have to fight the urges. I would pass for natural, I think. So does she, once she settles. Initially I noticed her glancing at my crotch.

We get to our purpose and discuss the story. Funny, to talk and hear her talk as if it were by and about someone else. For me as an author, it helps because now she is not inhibited to discuss it freely and openly. We laugh at the situation at the start: "So it came to happen that I opened the door to one of my friends in this [nude] state. When I saw her face, I laughed, and she." ‘True, I was embarrassed,’ she remarks. I remind her: ‘I was uptight as well, even though I set it all up.’ She is not sure whether the heroine's acceptance of the 'savage general's' domineering was entirely credible. As a mental model for relationships it did serve well, she adds. The head shave she finds too horrible to consider and the help by the general's sister incredible. The image of the female character as the 'subservient angel' she likes very much. Strength in adversity. All in all, even if incredible, she appreciates it as a well-written 'fairy tale' with a worthwhile theme: body versus mind. I, as the one who underwent the entire story minus the head shave, of course argue that I do not doubt the credibility and confess that I have a secret longing to have my head shaven, once, to see what I would look like without that "essential element of woman's mystery, clean of individuality, like a newborn.." Anyway, she considers me crazy and will physically prevent me doing it, if she can.

She then hesitates, blushes and asks, 'I noticed you have shaven your pubic hair. I know women do this, but I have not seen a naked vagina since my daughters were small and never on a grown woman. Do you... oh, what an awkward question... would you mind if I had a closer look?' 'I won't, not if it is you,' I reply. I get up and stand before her, legs slightly parted, feet turned outward, arms on my back. I have never done quite this. She approaches and hunches down before me. She sighs, 'Oh, you are so... naked! I can't find another word. Thank you, Vanna. I am moved by the sight and also by your openness.' She rises and hugs me, chest to chest. That is it. I simply walk back to my seat and sit down. We decide upon the next book to read, before finishing with some chitchat. Then it is time for her to go.

She kisses me fondly when she leaves. Whether this session marks the start of a new tangent in our relationship? Who knows? Nothing is lost by my actions.

During the next twenty-four hours, I have decided to address this issue. I will not come! This task is only deceptively easy. Smokers trying to kick the habit will know.

My approach is round about. I will keep myself excited all the time but timely quench the heat with ice. Pavlov’s cure. Me, the old doctor and his dog all in one. Will this scheme work?

Get on with it, Doctor, what do I do?

I lie flat on my bed and think of things that turn me on ... My husband, far away... he is a good lover and gentle or hard when he needs to be ... and I miss him!

Ice! I break away and grab some ice cubes from the bowl beside me and force two into my cunt...

Hell!

I spring into fetus position, eyes closed and teeth clenched. The pain is intense! Yet it only lasts a minute, whence I gradually relax and feel the ice melt inside of me. And yes, I clearly have succeeded in preventing a climax. Good girl! (Dr. Pavlov, are you with me?)

It takes half an hour before I can even begin to stimulate myself again. I should, though, Dr. Pavlov? Once I begin, the stimulation is nice of course. I am ever so gentle, so as to stretch the process endlessly. I do not think of ice; I think of the second visitor I am expecting, a man, and how I will present myself to him. I decide that I will not only remain nude, but moreover be shameless... that I may offer myself up for inspection... he will look me over at close range, spend ample time on my intimate areas...

No! Halt! My hand scrams into the bowl and thrust a few cubes in my crotch... The hurt! (Dr. Pavlov, screw you!)

I will not even touch myself anymore!

I continue lying on my bed for at least another half an hour, before my mind reasserts itself. I catch myself sucking my thumb.

Not even touch myself anymore? I must take that back. The slut I am must keep going - my weak and strong sides working in unison! At my PC I visit my haunts on the web. The images I watch are those I can identify with. Pictures of people having sex don’t do it for me. Nor the few pictures of naked men; most are homoerotic. I get the biggest kick from the erotic story sites.

I do touch myself, but the effect is indifferent. I am amazed. Have I succeeded in conditioning myself already? I get nervous and afraid that I have lost the appetite altogether! My reason tells me that worrying is counterproductive - everyone knows this. So much for the mind over the body! I start rubbing myself ever more frantically and only get sore. I fetch a jar of Vaseline. This helps the soreness, but does nothing for the appetite. Face it, woman! You have lost it.

I sink to the floor and scram a few ice-cubes into my crotch, howl and start sobbing.

When I get up eventually, I mix myself an overdose of whisky, gulp it down and go to bed. Intoxicated, blissful sleep comes soon.