The first step was the hardest. It wasn't the cold, but the looking . She felt like a raw nerve, exposed to the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees of the naturist campsite. Her arms crossed her chest automatically, then uncrossed. Stop it, she told herself. No one is looking.
It started as a dare. A whisper from a friend at a party: "You? You wouldn't last an hour." zita dans la peau d une naturiste
From now on, she decided, she would wear clothes like an accessory, not an armor. Because she had finally, mercifully, learned to inhabit the one thing she could never take off. The first step was the hardest