Christmas | Nudist French

Chantal, still robed, shivered alone.

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. 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.” Chantal, still robed, shivered alone

“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.” The heated floors died

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.