A FIRST STEP INTO CFNM
(by Sam Connors)

I was nineteen-years-old when I was first naked for the visual pleasure of a fully dressed woman. It happened long before there was anything called CFNM -- clothed female, naked male. It was in the spring of 1975, back in the days of the hippie counterculture and the Woodstock Nation. It was nothing that I had planned. Instead, I was a victim of circumstances -- or, rather, the unsuspecting prey. Whatever the case, that moment turned me completely around and brought my sexual life down a path that, until now at least, was the least traveled, one that has given me as much as, I hope, it has the women. Until then, I had been incredibly shy. I was afraid of even the smallest and least erotic kind of exposure like, for instance, having my picture taken for the obligatory high school graduation picture. Though I had many female friends, I was so terribly shy with women that I never dared to ask a girl out on a date. Only two pictures of me from those times still exist. One is the graduation picture; the other is a mug shot of me with a number and fingerprints underneath, an honorary photograph that I earned for an infringement of America's draconian marijuana laws.

Those were about as far as I dared to go with becoming an uninhibited exhibitionist for a woman's visual pleasure. In the spring of 1975 all that changed because of a seemingly innocent encounter with a lady I had never seen before in a subway train in the city of Boston, Massachusetts. In a sense, I was "discovered," though I had nothing to do with this discover. It was she that initiated the meeting.

I was almost oblivious to it. Her name was Robin. She came from the Midwest. Like me, she was a student in Boston, a city of students, with schools like Boston, Harvard, and Northeastern Universities, and numerous smaller colleges. Robin was taller than me and older, rather robust, but in an athletic way, with a slightly oriental face, peppered with freckles, long silky brunette hair, and lynx-like brown eyes that beamed mischievous sensuality. She wore a calico shirt, a flowered dress, and beads around her neck, and a bandana -- a real hippie girl in the style of the times. Robin went to Boston University; I was at a smaller college. In those days Boston was a melting pot of the counterculture and the sexual revolutions. With all its colleges and universities Boston was a Mecca of social and political revolutions.

These were two ongoing revolts against the mainstream establishment that sought to break down traditions that had long kept our society stuck in narrowly defined roles. This was especially true of the sexual revolution. Women were marching through the streets shouting, "Our bodies, ourselves," between lines of Boston cops with tear gas and billy clubs, tearing off their bras as a symbol of male bondage and burning them. The cops, some of the most traditional people around, were helpless to smash up these demonstrations like they always tried to do with the others. The women marched through them demanding novelties like equal rights, equal pay, and equality in sex, where men did more than just a few push-ups and that was it. "We have fantasies and want to cum to," one lady told me during this time. The magazine Playgirl had come out a couple years before to document this rebellion. While the perfectly sculptured hunks in the pages bore little resemblance to the average Joes, for the first time women got to see a naked guy featured on pages 100 and 101. Playgirl did for women what its sister publication Playboy had done for men twenty years earlier. It brought sex out into the open, though Playgirl had met with more resistance. Our largely patriarchal society had yet to come to grips with a woman's right to view the opposite sex in between the pages of a magazine. It was one thing for women to be in between the pages, but it was quite a different thing for a man to do it. But the women scooped up the magazine. I had been in some rooms of women and seen stacks of Playgirl that stood higher than school books or their records.

A couple women had used them to wallpaper their rooms. I tried not to look at all those smiling hunks in glossy print by the light switches and windows. "Do you want to go lunch with me," she asked. I looked at her and thought she was asking someone else. "Yes," she said. "You. Do you want to have some lunch?” We were in Boston's Park Street subway station. I barely heard her because of the screeching subway cars. I thought at first that she was talking to someone else. A strange lady of her caliber would never be interested in a tatterdemalion hippie with long hair, a thick mane of a beard that generally resembled some ragged biblical prophet, carrying a backpack bulging with my possession.

My mind was far away, contemplating the possibilities for a long hitchhiking trip up to Burlington, Vermont, and the even brighter potential of meeting up with Elizabeth, an old girlfriend that I had shared numerous sorties with in the past, often at her initiation. Still, the idea was tempting. She possessed a stunning beauty in a plain sort of way that was excessively tempting. But I had a backpack on my back and a distant goal in mind. "How many times does a woman you've never seen before ask you out to lunch?" she said. Robin had a point there. "Why not," I said. As a veteran hitchhiker I knew how wise it would be to have a good feast in me before I took off. "Here, follow me," she said. "I know just the right place." It was an outdoor cafe on Charles Street, the old cobblestone district of Boston at the base of Beacon Hill, the city's old district. "I like this place," Robin said. "It is quaint." She was right about that assessment. We talked and watched the tides of people flowing by. I could not understand what she could possibly have seen in a bum like me carrying a backpack. There were certainly more eligible bachelors out there to complement her, but she had me marked from the moment I boarded the subway.

"I saw you from the beginning," Robin said. "I was interested in you." This should have tipped me off right then but deft flattery appropriately applied always succeeds. I soon found myself going back down the Green Line on an invite to let her "come to her place." "I'd love to draw your portrait," she said. I figured that I might as well take the opportunity directly in front of me rather than risk future uncertainty. I had no idea where we were going, but I had begun to realize that my hitchhiking journey and yet another dalliance with Elizabeth had been cancelled for at least that day. Maybe, though, I would get just as lucky. I would get luckier than I ever imagined. After the usual preliminaries involved in getting I adjusted and comfortable in a strange apartment on Commonwealth Avenue Robin proceeded to implant an introductory kiss on my lips.

"Time to get started," she said. With similar response in kind, she really went to work. Maybe, I hoped, this was the reward for me overcoming my innate shyness and agreeing to let a stranger draw me, something that until then I had never dared to do. I also made the happy discovery that her breasts, which at the luncheon she had taken great care to taunt me with sublet hints of their outline, were larger than I had previously imagined. When I attempted to take advantage of this great discovery she only pushed me away. Instead, Robin hooked her hands underneath my grungy tea shirt with the hemp flower on front and lifted it up over my head and onto the floor. A few more well-placed preliminaries on my naked (and hairy) torso and then, with excellent precision, she unbuckled and slipped off my frayed dungaree shorts, leaving me, much to my surprise at how quickly it had happened, completely naked in front of her. I expected, and then tried, to lure Robin into a similar condition as me, but to no avail. At first, it was an eerie feeling.

Elizabeth, for instance, had seen me naked on many occasions, but she was also in the same state. Once was when we took a shower together. The other was at a swimming hole. I had never experienced a fully clad female admiring me natural state like this. Was she going to draw my portrait this way? "Would you stand up," Robin said. "I want to see what I have found today." I obeyed but nervously. My body shook madly, so much that I thought my knees might simply give way. I kissed her again and, once more, attempted to get her in the same condition as me. Once more it was in vain. "Can you turn around," Robin said, "I want to see the other side as well." Once again, I performed as she asked. Was I doing this for the hopeful promise of bliss in the end? Was this some game that she was playing? I felt way to exposed, vulnerable, nervous, and yet wildly excited. If my rigidity had grown out any more it would have popped right out of its casing. I had no clued what to do, other than stand there and make more frustrated attempts to equalize the situation. Yet, it was the standing there, watching the delights of her femininity looking me up and down that, after a while, became so exhilarating. "You poor boy," Robin cooed. "You've never had been enjoyed before.

It's time to break your virginity." "Are you going to get naked too," I blurted out? Robin smiled and touched me where it did the most good. We kissed hard; I felt the delights of her clothes touching my nudity. It raised my blood pressure and how I withstood Robin's pressing her lips and her clothed form against mine was something that I could not understand. Every pore of mine was ready to explode, my maleness that she kept teasing with ruthless competence stood right on the edge of an eruption the size of the volcano that leveled Pompeii. I finally gave up trying to unfetter Robin from the restrictions of her clothes. I was the naked one, the subject. It was than that the lights finally came on and I realized the truth: I had been had. I thought about just giving up there, getting dressed, and going home. It was too late to make an attempt to reach Elizabeth's place. I was stuck. But, instead of giving it up as being why there is a sucker born every minute, I stayed and let her use me as her toy. Perhaps it was my innate shyness had something to do with it.

For the first time a woman had found a way to use it to her advantage. "Would get me something to drink?" she asked. I went to the refrigerator, my nakedness flapping around, Robin's eyes right on top of me. "Coke or Pepsi," I said. Robin smiled. "How about some wine," she cooed. I brought out the red wine and opened it for her. It felt weird, yet wild beyond the imagination, to be opening a bottle naked in front of a fully dressed woman. I have done it many times since. Pouring out the glasses upon her command, I even rubbed the glass against my outstretched third leg, throbbing almost to the point of agony. I did this more out of nerves than any erotic intent, but it had a beautiful effect that I never imagined. "Ohh," she said, "I liked that little move that you did there. Can you do it again?" Since then, of course, this small move made pales in comparison to the nude adventures in front of women that I have been on since then. But what this harmless act, improvised out of sheer awkwardness, and a still lingering hope that she might yet give in, probably was the was the launching of my long amateur career in cfnm. She asked me to do it again.

"Do it slower," she said, "so that I can watch it for longer. It looks really nice." The cold wine in the glass made me shiver. It felt almost surreal against me as Robin's eyes stayed glued on the action. Then she delicately touched me again, curling her fingers around me. I loved it. We moved out of the kitchen and into her living room, with the windows above the couch. I kept wondering who was behind all those windows facing us, among the webs of telephone wires and the advertising signs showing the Marlboro Man out on the open range, watching me slowly use a wine glass as a toy while the girl sat back to enjoy the view. Robin made me lay down on the couch; she knelt close by and rubbed some of the wine on me. She had me kneel and gently traced the lines of my derriere that was facing her. How I kept from letting go was a miracle. Robin then got out her sketch pad, while I shook even more from the wildness of what I had been doing. Robin sketched a little on the pad and then taunted me with tracing lines along my body with her finger. "I think you actually like this," Robin said. "I think I made a discovery." "Follow me," she said.

Something had taken over. I actually enjoyed being this kind of a subject, naked, the subject for her eyes, submissive to the whims of her imagination. Robin made me lay down on her bed. She stood at the end of it watching me, while I watched the gaze from her salacious gaze and how her hair swept over her breasts. She smiled and got undressed just enough to let me into heaven and the building seemed to shake in seconds from the tremors of both of us. I had not realized how hard she was too.

A divine feeling had gradually supplanted the initial fright. It surprised me as much as it did Robin. She later confessed that she had hijacked me from the subway to see whether she could actually make a fantasy come real -- a fantasy she saw in a Playgirl shoot, where a woman meets a guy and gets him naked then molds him as she wishes. I was the subject. Neither of us believed how well this had worked. We lay in each other's arms and I rubbed my hands through her hair and over the back of Robin's shirt. She, too, had let go. "Now I want to draw you now," she said. "Will you stay naked for me?" The answer was obvious.