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.”
“To Chantal,” he said. “May she always remember—at the Domaine de l’Évidence, the only thing we dress is the tree.” nudist french christmas
“You know,” she said, reaching for another slice of bûche de Noël , “the stockings are hung by the chimney with care—but here, we are the stockings.” Chantal was a textile—what nudists called those who
The room erupted in groans and laughter. Jean-Paul, still in his hat and boots, raised a glass of champagne. “And I will be mortified
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.
In moments, two dozen nudists of all ages, shapes, and sizes were arranged in a great, wriggling pile on a massive pile of faux-fur throws. It was like a living palet breton —a human blanket of skin against skin. Children giggled. Grandparents snored softly. Someone produced a flask of cognac.