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I feel more naked if my face is seen without make-up than when I have no clothes on.
It’s so natural for me to get made-up in the morning that it just seems like part of waking up and accepting the realities of adulthood. When I was younger I learnt the importance of finessing my face, enhancing its riches and distracting unwelcome attention from what I imagined were imperfections. When my face is naked now, I remember what it felt like to be less than an adult; vulnerable, unsure, unfinished.
Naked-face fetishists adore that combination of self-consciousness and disclosure that only an absence of make-up allows. Every young woman has a fleeting moment when she is as beautiful as she will ever be and every day that passes subsequently becomes a pursuit of that ideal. Men who adore the naked-face fetish see that perfect moment held and flaunted every time the eyeliner and lipstick is left in its drawer.
I was told recently that my untouched face was pure bliss. The fetishist explained that my random gatherings of freckles and naturally pink lips were essential. My white skin with its star-fields of unpredictable pigment needed to be seen he said. There were many men who dreamed of the arousing potential inherent in my washed and scrubbed face and would be only too pleased to tell me so, he concluded.
I looked into his expressive eyes and I knew it was true.
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