“Come, Chantal,” Monique called gently. “Body heat is the oldest warmth.”
The room erupted in groans and laughter. Jean-Paul, still in his hat and boots, raised a glass of champagne. nudist french christmas
Chantal was a textile—what nudists called those who preferred clothes. She had reluctantly agreed to spend Christmas with Jean-Paul and his wife, Monique, but only under protest. “I will freeze,” she had declared. “And I will be mortified.” “Come, Chantal,” Monique called gently
And outside, beneath the naked Provençal stars, the Christmas pine glittered with lights, glass baubles, and not a single stitch of tinsel—because even tinsel, they insisted, was technically clothing. Chantal was a textile—what nudists called those who
The crisis came at dinner. The main course—a perfect chapon (capon) with truffles—was interrupted by a power outage. The heated floors died. The outdoor hot tub’s jets fell silent. The temperature began to drop.