naked.

Sometimes, Smith College is exactly what the stereotypes would have you think it is. Well-educated, spunky women sitting around and passionately discussing women's issues...or constantly gittin' nekkid. Last night was a combination of the two (no, it was not an orgy).

I'm lucky enough to have TWO ENTIRE SMITH COLLEGE QUAD HOUSES to myself for a week, a situation that simply begged for a little soiree. Since all two of the men I know that are staying in the area this summer were out of town, the gathering was all female. As the Malibu and fancy pants beer flowed, the Gaga played and hide-and-seek ensued, the idea of streaking surfaced. And it was one of the best things I've done in ages.

My relationship with my naked self has evolved substantially in the past few years: from posing spreadin' my junk for Sexhibition to sleeping naked to showing off my clitoral hood piercing to near strangers, I've challenged myself to move outside my comfort zone and get more comfortable with my body, with no clothes to hide the stretch marks or bacne. And last night's naked streaking and pizza eating was a happy sort of culmination of that.

What was interesting to me is that the body-talk that surfaces around naked college women is so intensely different in tone than it was in high school. A few years ago, it was mostly gym class locker room bemoaning one's flaws and waiting expectantly for the compliments sure to flow, a la Mean Girls ("I wanna lose three pounds." *pause* "NOOOO you're so skinny!"), and while it may have provided a temporary rush (people think I'm hot! omigod!) was also deeply indicative of the heaps of insecurities that most high school girls harbor about their bodies.

But last night, it was so different. It was complimentary and genuine and wonderful; I heard women of all different body types and sizes "Damn! Look at your six pack!" and "You've got a perfect vagina," as well as reassuring that there is no such thing as an ugly boob. There was the revealing of insecurities too (I explained that I remove most of my body hair because it reminds me of lanugo, the downy fuzz my body developed as a survival technique in the worst of my anorexia; someone complained jokingly about having a small chest; one of us talked uber candidly, as is her style, about her crooked vagina), but it wasn't done in the desperate sense of needing to be seen and heard and acknowledged as beautiful. It was stated as a fact, an acceptance of what one is, the good and the bad.

Maybe the booze rose-tinted my experience of this (one girl quietly left in part because it was too much naked for her, so it was not all lovely), but it felt good and safe and lovely to be able to just be with our bodies around each other without the fear of scrutiny or judgment. I'm not sure if that's a reflection of Smith's culture or of our maturity, but I adored it all the same.

Much love,
The Albright Sheriff