Lee Suckling: Why are Kiwis so afraid of nudity?

The more I saw the human form through the eyes of others, the more I thought it was something that couldn't just be bandied about - willy nilly, as it were. Photo / Getty Images

As I write this column right now, I am naked.

Nobody can see me (except my dog, but he's naked too!). I expect no visitors. I am enjoying the December heat without my shirt sticking to my back or my toes sweating in my socks.

Nudity in modern society is something we humans have a big problem with. We're the only mammals with such shame about our bodies – my dog doesn't care; he probably thinks, when I'm not clothed, that I look just like him. Cats, horses, birds, pigs... they don't hide their bodies in modesty either.

Obviously humans are a little different because we possess critical consciousness, but the puritanical nature of our histories had forced us to believe that the naked body is a sexual body; as if there's only one purpose for nudity.

Unless, naturally, you're from Europe. The Euros are terribly laissez-faire about nakedness; whether at a public spa or sauna, the beach, or hanging out on a steaming hot summer's afternoon on an apartment balcony. Nudity in somewhere like Germany, Spain, or Italy isn't scandalous in a lot of situations – unlike in New Zealand, where we flinch at the thought of others' private parts (emphasis on the "private").

Though there are exceptions.

From infanthood through my early teenage years, my parents took us to Mapua, near Nelson: a clothing-optional camping ground for families. I grew up communal showering with others of all ages, cheering on the sidelines of couples playing tennis or bowls naked, and all of our mums – none of them hippies by any stretch – going topless on the beaches.

Nudity was such a non-issue for me, as it was for the few thousand other campers that communed at Mapua every year. I stopped going, of course, because I started to reach age 13-14 and began to feel weird about nakedness. I became uncomfortable with my body - and everybody else's.

The more I saw the human form through the eyes of others, the more I thought it was something that couldn't just be bandied about – willy nilly, as it were.

After about 10 years of prudishness, I moved into a house in my early 20s where everyone saw each other naked. One of those very lax flats where it was normal, if not expected, that you'd walk between the bathroom and your bedroom sans towel or you'd sunbathe naked on hot days. It was even completely acceptable to knock on any flatmate's door whilst naked, to ask for emergency condoms/phone chargers/hair product/their car keys.

That experience, coupled with my childhood, re-reminded me that the human body is not innately sexual. It's kind of ugly, really, and looks basically the same on everybody – except for the placement of body hair, or lack thereof.

Naked bodies are never surprising, so why do we still act so shocked when we see them?

I won't go into why I think the world's religions are responsible for giving us shame of the naked body, because that's a whole other column. But on the face of it, I do think the fact we are taught shame of our bodies is a form of societal oppression. It's a controlling force to keep people from thinking, or feeling, a little too free.

Such systematic ways of thinking aren't going away, so if you're going to de-sexualise the naked body, it must be a conscious effort.

I like the "be naked around your house" as much as possible method, because it's safe and non-threatening. Am I worried that my neighbours have likely seen my bits now? Not really. If you want to de-sexualise your body, you accept that others may come across it in its natural habitat. And you must accept, instinctively, that there's nothing wrong with that.

• Got a question about sex, sexuality, and all things related? Send it to lee.suckling@gmail.com and Let's Talk About Sex.