I am a (part-time) naturist; we have holidayed abroad in naturist resorts, and I have walked in the English countryside au-naturel. I have worked from home in my (overlooked) garden unclothed, and happily wander around the house bare.
I am at ease with my naked self: all 16st of it.
I love being naked. I like the feel of warm sun on my bare skin, or the cooling breeze wafting over my body. I adore the liberating feeling of nakedness, unshackled from my clothes and free from restriction. I love seeing my wife in all her glory, at home and doing normal things, naked. It’s refreshing and lovely.
But naturism isn’t part of my sex life. Indeed, naturism is as desexualised an environment you will ever be in: it’s about celebrating the closeness to nature, and enjoying the purity of freedom, not “checking out” or “admiring” other people. Nor is it about sexual tension or lust, it’s family friendly and has no sexual overtones.
But nudity outside of that environment can be; a naked wife on the sofa may well find an errant young man with nefarious intentions rubbing his face gently up her thigh and offering sweet kisses. A bare wife running to the shower may well get accosted en route with much more than a kiss. A nude spouse in bed, will find an arm embracing her and running fingers down her smooth skin. After all, a naked cuddle is closer and more intimate than a hug with clothed barriers shielding the loving parties.
So while I will always admire the stockings, lingerie, latex, bustiers et al, there are few things that I prefer to see my wife in than her birthday suit.
There is also a meme, run by Dirty Little Whispers, that highlighted the elegance of nakedness called Naked Wednesday; the archives are well worth a look (I did it last year, with One Man and His Sword)