I went to a naked dinner party with a dozen strangers, here’s what I learnt

“Baring our bodies meant it was easier to bare our full selves, thoughts and feelings for each other to witness.”

After work on Friday, I was picking through my wardrobe looking for an outfit to wear when I realised it didn’t matter: I was going to a dinner party – naked. When I heard the pitch for this “immersive dining experience” six weeks ago, I was shocked and intrigued.

I tried not to overthink it. I’d be heading to a beautiful, mid-century home in North Warrandyte for dinner; I could do this, I reassured myself. What I didn’t expect was that being naked wasn’t the most vulnerable part of the night. In a way, being naked almost felt anticlimactic. What felt most exposing wasn’t our collective nudity but the way we opened up to one another.

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Wrapped in a comfortable ensemble of stretchy pants and a cosy cardigan, I took a nap in the car journey there, attempting to quell my rising nerves. I’d always been quite content in my body, naturally leaning towards the concept of body neutrality, but even so, the thought of being surrounded by strangers in the nude for over three hours was daunting. 

Arriving at the High Noon property, I was greeted by the embrace of nature. Tall trees cast long shadows, providing a blanket of security and privacy. Attendees of the event gathered at the back of the house, making small talk about traffic and suburbs. Nerves were fizzing; it was a bit amusing making small talk when we all knew we’d see each other naked in a matter of time. One woman quipped that it felt like we were at the beginning of a reality TV show. 

The group, around a dozen women in their twenties to forties, was a varied mix: some sexually liberated people who worked in embodiment practices, trained in burlesque or attended sex parties, and others who’d never been part of an event like this. Hosting us was the Melbourne-based sexual wellness brand Bruxa, promising an evening “curated for connection” and a means to “return to our sense of self”. 

We slowly got changed out of our clothes and into some matching robes, snacking on plant-based delights by food artist and chef, Leonie Bouchet. Against the setting sun, we descended on a low table with large fabric-covered cushions, where we sat cross-legged in front of a fireplace. Floral arrangements by Margo’s, beeswax candles and a tower of vegan miso butter set the tone: we were in for a beautiful night. 

Before we unrobed, feminine embodiment coach Tamara Shan led us through a guided meditation to ‘drop in’, a practice that helps you become present in your body. This co-created harmony helped situate us all into a place that felt sacred and intimate. We went around the room describing how we felt (still robed) in that moment. Calm, held, open and grateful were some of the responses.

As we entered another round of guided meditation, emotions rose in the space. Several women started crying and Tamara encouraged us to allow these feelings to run through, before summoning us to disrobe. Gathered around candlelight, eyes now open, attendees shared vulnerable stories about body image, shame and fears. It felt incredibly special to be a part of, I was in awe and revered the women around me. 

Without clothes, I felt a bit like a newborn baby. I felt like a creature, not necessarily like a woman. Outside of the male gaze, my body was just a body. I had to remind myself not to suck in my stomach or slouch to hide my body, mannerisms adopted from patriarchy.

Encouraged by conversation cards, we explored topics of intimacy, femininity and connection. We laughed at how the common threads of mothers and shame naturally found their way into our heart-to-hearts. The physical shedding of clothing allowed people to eschew niceties and superficial interactions. Baring our bodies meant it was easier to bare our full selves, thoughts and feelings for each other to witness. 

Towards the end of the night, I found myself reaching for my robe again. Not because I was shy, embarrassed or self-conscious, but simply because I was cold. 

For more on communal nudity, read this.