You’ve got a certain poise, when you’re naked. Like every movement is more measured, something to be considered and deliberated over, like suddenly they’re important, they need to be thought about.
It’s mostly in your back. Up to your neck, the curl of your spine and the fact that it isn’t curling, but instead a straight rod, that perfect frame to hand that supple figure off. High breasts. Flat stomach. Flattish. The softest curve to it, just enough to dimple when I press my hand against it. Your arms. Your shoulders. The delicate shadows of your collarbones.
I think it’s because you know you’re own show. You lose your clothes and they become an impromptu stage, a crumpled heap that approximates wood and spotlighting, and suddenly I’m watching, more than before. Enjoying you, the aesthetics of you, the beauty. It’s always there, and I’m always conscious of it, but once you’re nude, it comes out of the background, popping into the centre of attention.
And so you act accordingly. Deliberate, graceful, elegant. Gorgeous enough that I want to stop looking. That I want to start touching. Grabbing. Fucking.

