Naked, naked, naked

Most mornings, especially when the weather is warm, my wife spends about twenty minutes completely naked. Her nudity often takes place after we walk the dogs, a ritual that is rarely missed, come rain or shine. She changes out of her walking attire and into nothing. Then she goes about her morning routines, reading the news and attending to minor matters.

I know for certain that her nakedness is mostly for my benefit. Some days, the walk is hot and she may be undressed to cool down, but even then, the nudity goes on long after the cooling is accomplished, in fact, the main reason she eventually dresses is because she gets cold.

Being for my pleasure, I take care to pay close and affectionate attention whenever she is undressed. I watch like an audience when she unconsciously dances being a trained dancer and so habitually given to shake and shimmy. I study her lines and tints and shadows. I drink deep my joy. I know what a lucky man I am.

My fascination with the nude began early; my mother was a painter and so I was nearly raised in a studio and nudes abounded, in the paintings, drawing and sculpture of my madre’s avocation, even more so in the plethora of art books that lined our shelves. By puberty, I knew where every nude could be found in those leaves. I had studied them all, from ancient Greece to Manet and Picasso. i knew the ins and outs, the fleshy tones and subtle shadows. I am an afficianado of the naked and especially the nude woman.

In bookstores, i found my fill in the usual books of art history, eventually discovering their cousins in the books on photography and even comedy. Nudes are easy to find, once we know where to look. I sought them out everywhere.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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