en
route, taking a detour on my return trip to visit the first-floor lounge and
sit unclothed on the chilly leather sofas which faced the blank dark mirror of
the television screen. My nude reflection in the glass, wan as a pudgy ghost.
Ah, those glory days when I still had an earthly reflection...
Really, Satan, please. You have to swear that you won't breathe a word
of this.
By my fifth night alone I'd ventured naked to the chemistry lab, sat
naked in my usual desk in the Romance Languages classroom, and stood naked on
the dais at the head of the dining hall, where the senior faculty normally sat
for their meals.
And, yes, while I admit to being dead and having a poor body image and
a suppressed sense of my own personal value, I am well aware of my risky,
late-night exhibitionism and yen for Goran as symptoms of my budding sexuality.
The night air against my skin... all of my skin and nipples, and the texture of
so many ordinary objects: wooden desks, stairway carpets, tiled
hallways—without the usual intervening layers of silk or nylon—it all felt
glorious. Around any corner seemed to lurk a possible guard, some strange man
wearing a uniform, his boots polished. I imagined each guard with a polished
badge, wearing a gun strapped to his belt. Most likely, it would be somebody's
Swiss father or grandfather with a mustache, but I pictured Goran. Goran,
carrying handcuffs. Goran, his brooding eyes behind dark totalitarian
sunglasses. At any moment, the beam of a flashlight might reveal me, the parts
of myself I had always kept hidden. I'd be reported and expelled. Everyone
would find out.
In my nude ramblings I lingered among the leather-smelling stacks in
the library, perusing the books as I walked barefoot over the chill marble
floors. I swam unclothed in the pool complex. With only the moonlight to see
by, I sneaked into the stainless-steel kitchens and sat cross-legged on the
concrete floor, eating chocolate ice cream until my body shook with the
accumulated cold. As lithe as an animal... a sprite... a savage... I strode
into the chapel and presented my fleshy self to the altar. There, the paintings
and statues of the Virgin Mary were always so heavily robed and veiled, crowned
and burdened with jewelry. Depictions of the Christ seldom wore more than a
thorny halo and a way-tiny loincloth. Sitting on the front pew, I felt the
gentle suction of my bare thighs against the polished wood.
By my second week alone, I was sleeping through the days and wandering
sans apparel all night. I'd been naked in almost every room, wandered all the
hallways and steam tunnels, entered every space with an unlocked door; however,
I had yet to venture outside. Beyond the windows, snow fell, layering over
everything and bouncing the moonlight inside. Now, the buildings themselves
felt like too much clothing. At this point I slept naked. I walked and ate and
read naked so often that the thrill had evaporated. Even while reading Forever Amber with my tits out... I'd lost that special
forbidden feeling. The only way to renew it would be to go out-of-doors and
stand unclothed under the stars or masked in the falling snowflakes, leaving my
bare footprints in the drifts.
Other girls I know, they shoplifted to generate this same prepubescent
high. Other girls told lies or cut themselves with razors.
No, it's not fair, but one minute you can be wading through clean snow,
your feet sinking ankle-deep into the perfect wastelands of snowdrifts which
surround a private girls' school near Locarno, and mere days later you can be
slogging through the morass of countless discarded fingernail clippings, cast
forever into fiery Hell.
That Christmas break which I spent alone, as I first stepped out of the
residence hall, entering the snowy night, my skin felt the touch of every
snowflake. The cold air made my hair stand up from the roots the way my nipples
stood erect, every follicle on my arms and legs becoming a tiny clitoris, and
every cell of me
route, taking a detour on my return trip to visit the first-floor lounge and
sit unclothed on the chilly leather sofas which faced the blank dark mirror of
the television screen. My nude reflection in the glass, wan as a pudgy ghost.
Ah, those glory days when I still had an earthly reflection...
Really, Satan, please. You have to swear that you won't breathe a word
of this.
By my fifth night alone I'd ventured naked to the chemistry lab, sat
naked in my usual desk in the Romance Languages classroom, and stood naked on
the dais at the head of the dining hall, where the senior faculty normally sat
for their meals.
And, yes, while I admit to being dead and having a poor body image and
a suppressed sense of my own personal value, I am well aware of my risky,
late-night exhibitionism and yen for Goran as symptoms of my budding sexuality.
The night air against my skin... all of my skin and nipples, and the texture of
so many ordinary objects: wooden desks, stairway carpets, tiled
hallways—without the usual intervening layers of silk or nylon—it all felt
glorious. Around any corner seemed to lurk a possible guard, some strange man
wearing a uniform, his boots polished. I imagined each guard with a polished
badge, wearing a gun strapped to his belt. Most likely, it would be somebody's
Swiss father or grandfather with a mustache, but I pictured Goran. Goran,
carrying handcuffs. Goran, his brooding eyes behind dark totalitarian
sunglasses. At any moment, the beam of a flashlight might reveal me, the parts
of myself I had always kept hidden. I'd be reported and expelled. Everyone
would find out.
In my nude ramblings I lingered among the leather-smelling stacks in
the library, perusing the books as I walked barefoot over the chill marble
floors. I swam unclothed in the pool complex. With only the moonlight to see
by, I sneaked into the stainless-steel kitchens and sat cross-legged on the
concrete floor, eating chocolate ice cream until my body shook with the
accumulated cold. As lithe as an animal... a sprite... a savage... I strode
into the chapel and presented my fleshy self to the altar. There, the paintings
and statues of the Virgin Mary were always so heavily robed and veiled, crowned
and burdened with jewelry. Depictions of the Christ seldom wore more than a
thorny halo and a way-tiny loincloth. Sitting on the front pew, I felt the
gentle suction of my bare thighs against the polished wood.
By my second week alone, I was sleeping through the days and wandering
sans apparel all night. I'd been naked in almost every room, wandered all the
hallways and steam tunnels, entered every space with an unlocked door; however,
I had yet to venture outside. Beyond the windows, snow fell, layering over
everything and bouncing the moonlight inside. Now, the buildings themselves
felt like too much clothing. At this point I slept naked. I walked and ate and
read naked so often that the thrill had evaporated. Even while reading Forever Amber with my tits out... I'd lost that special
forbidden feeling. The only way to renew it would be to go out-of-doors and
stand unclothed under the stars or masked in the falling snowflakes, leaving my
bare footprints in the drifts.
Other girls I know, they shoplifted to generate this same prepubescent
high. Other girls told lies or cut themselves with razors.
No, it's not fair, but one minute you can be wading through clean snow,
your feet sinking ankle-deep into the perfect wastelands of snowdrifts which
surround a private girls' school near Locarno, and mere days later you can be
slogging through the morass of countless discarded fingernail clippings, cast
forever into fiery Hell.
That Christmas break which I spent alone, as I first stepped out of the
residence hall, entering the snowy night, my skin felt the touch of every
snowflake. The cold air made my hair stand up from the roots the way my nipples
stood erect, every follicle on my arms and legs becoming a tiny clitoris, and
every cell of me
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