Chapter 2: The First Shedding

The Guangdong summer deepened, wrapping the city in a thick, wet blanket. Even with the A/C humming, the air in my apartment felt perpetually damp. A different kind of humidity clung to me now—the lingering residue of those gatherings, the echo of bare skin pressed against my clothed consciousness. Mei Lin’s dinner hadn’t shaken me like Lily’s welcome had, but it had confirmed something: this wasn’t an outlier. It was a pattern. A recurring feature of my new landscape.

Work became my anchor—my zone of predictable, clothed normalcy. Spreadsheets didn’t blush. Logistics didn’t demand radical hospitality. I buried myself in market analyses and vendor contracts, the sterile glow of my monitor a welcome counterpoint to the vivid, unsettling memories. Chen Wei remained distant, efficient, and unreadable. Lily’s occasional visits to the office—always impeccably dressed—felt like encounters with a dual citizen: one foot in this world, the other in something far older, far barer.

David became my lifeline. Our shared bewilderment morphed into an easy camaraderie. We grabbed lunches, dissected office politics (the clothed kind), and danced carefully around the unspoken topic. He was my translator—not just of language, but of cultural nuance.

“See how Mr. Zhang avoids direct eye contact with the servers?” he’d murmur. “Not disrespect, just ... ingrained formality. A way to acknowledge their role without staring.” His observations chipped away at my initial horror, replacing it with knottier: a blend of anthropological fascination and stubborn personal discomfort.

One sweltering afternoon, hunched over a complex freight cost analysis, my phone buzzed. Lily’s name flashed across the screen. My breath hitched.

“Julie? Hi! I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her voice was warm and bright, cutting through the office drone like sunlight through blinds.

“No, not at all, Lily.” I straightened in my chair, forcing my voice into something that sounded normal. Professional.

“Wonderful. Listen, Chen Wei mentioned you’ve been working incredibly hard on the Shenzhen corridor project. We’d love to have you over for a small, informal dinner this Friday. Just a few close colleagues. No pressure, truly. Consider it a thank you.” Her tone was light and inviting. However, the subtext vibrated under every word. Our home. Our tradition.

I glanced across the partitions. David was mid-call, gesturing animatedly, unaware. My mouth went dry. “That’s ... very kind of you, Lily. Thank you.”

“Perfect! Around seven? Just yourself, David, maybe Mr. Li and his wife ... very casual.” Casual. The word rang in my ears like a warning. “We’ll see you then.” The call ended before I could form more than a weak assent.

I stared at the dark screen of my phone after the call ended. Another invitation. Another step, and presumably ... another outfit.

I’d returned the hanfu, pressed and folded, along with the embroidered slippers, but the thought of walking into that house again in a Western sheath dress felt wrong. Disrespectful, even. Like bringing a cheeseburger to a tea ceremony.

So, I messaged Lily: Would it be appropriate to wear traditional attire again?

Her reply came quickly: Of course, Julie. I’ve already had something prepared for you. It’s a Qíyāo ruqún—flowing and light. More breathable in this heat. Shoes too. It will be delivered tomorrow. Just enjoy it.

No pressure, she’d said, but the soft power of Lily’s hospitality moved like silk—irresistible, enveloping. QiYao Ruqun xiu xie After reading her text, I leaned back in my chair, letting her earlier words echo: Just a few close colleagues. The phrase looped in my head. Close colleagues who would witness the ritual. Witness me witnessing it. Again.

The knot of dread tightened—familiar, yet somehow sharper. Woven through it now was that persistent thread David had named: the pang of exclusion. The ache of standing outside, clothed in my foreignness.

Later, over lukewarm noodles in a crowded cafeteria, I told David. He whistled softly. “The inner circle invites. Progress, China. Or a test.”

“Feels like both,” I muttered, pushing a shrimp around my bowl. “I can’t decide if I want to hide or...” The words stalled in my throat. Or finally see what it feels like on the other side.

David studied me, his expression unusually serious. “You’re thinking about it,” he said quietly. “The question.”

I didn’t pretend to understand. “It won’t leave me alone, David. That feeling ... of being the only one wrapped up. Like I’m armoring myself against something that isn’t an attack.” I looked down at my blouse, suddenly aware of its weight, its artificiality. “Lily, Mei Lin ... they look so free. Not sexually. Just ... unburdened. Present.”

“It’s their normal,” David said gently. “Their strength—but Julie, it’s their strength. Their tradition. You don’t have to adopt it to respect it.”

“I know,” I said quickly—too quickly. “But what if ... what if trying it, just once, in that space, with that intent ... What if it helps me understand? Truly understand the connection they talk about? Not just observe it?” The words tumbled out, surprising me. My curiosity had shifted—no longer just academic. It was something deeper now. A need. A need to bridge the gap. To step out from behind the barrier.

David leaned back, gaze steady. “Okay. Hypothetically. If you did ... how would you feel walking out there? Knowing Chen Wei, Li, and his wife, we’d all be clothed. Knowing every eye would be on you. Not just acknowledging you. Seeing you.” He didn’t say it to judge, but the reality of it landed like a weight between us.

The image flashed—stepping out of a guest room, bare, into the Chens’ living room. David’s eyes widening, Mr. Li’s polite cough. The weight of their clothed gaze. My skin prickled with imagined heat, a flush rising from my chest. The vulnerability felt crushing. Terrifying. However, beneath the terror, a strange counterpoint: the memory of Lily’s absolute calm. Her pride. Could I borrow even a fraction of that?

“I don’t know,” I whispered, the truth of it hollowing me out. “I honestly don’t know.”

The days crawled. Friday loomed like a cliff edge. I researched obsessively—not just Guangdong customs now, but anthropological studies on ritual nudity, body image, and the psychology of exposure.

I found accounts of Finnish saunas, Japanese onsen. Ancient rites across cultures where nudity wasn’t erotic but symbolic—purification, community, or equality. It gave me an intellectual framework. Lily’s world wasn’t singular, just uniquely expressed. The theory was cold comfort against the weight of the impending reality.

Friday arrived, heavy and humid. I sat on the couch reading a book when a soft knock pulled me from my imagined world. I was lounging nude in the heat, so I put on the thin silk robe I kept by the door. When I opened it, one of the Chen’s household staff stood silently in the hallway, a familiar face from the first gathering. She bowed lightly, then stepped inside without a word.

She moved with practiced grace, laying the folded Qíyāo ruqún on my bed, its delicate fabric catching the afternoon light. A pair of embroidered xiù xié shoes was carried to the front door and placed next to her own. On the vanity, she placed two slender gold hairpins, their polished surfaces gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Then she turned to me, expectant, and gently motioned toward the bathroom.

There were no words. None were needed. I began to wonder if she could even speak.

She undressed me slowly, with deliberate reverence. Each movement was careful, respectful, almost ceremonial. The whisper of my silk robe as it slips along my bare skin to pool at my feet sent shivers down my spine. Standing bare, she let her own uniform fall in silence.

Together, we stepped into the shower. The cool water fell steadily down my naked body. Her hands were firm but gentle as she used my scented shampoo to wash my hair thoroughly, massaging my scalp until I nearly swayed with the rhythm. Then she turned her attention to the rest of me—arms, legs, back, stomach, breasts, and shoulders. No part was hurried. I was touched like someone being prepared, not cleaned.

Finally, she applied a pale cream to every place on my body where hair normally grew. It tingled, then cooled, then vanished down the drain as the water rinsed it away.

When we stepped out, I felt different. Exposed in a way that went beyond mere nudity. I stood on the mat as she dried me with my thick, soft towel, her movements as careful as before. Then came the powder, feather-light, across my chest, under my breasts, over my vulva, my thighs, the backs of my knees; no skin from my neck down to the tops of my feet was left unpowdered.

She led me back across the apartment—still nude—to the bedroom. The Qíyāo ruqún waited, the fabric alive with subtle motion, in the light breeze of the ceiling fan, as if it already knew its place on me.

She gestured to the vanity. I sat without complaint.

She pinned my hair up with precision, coiling it high with the gold ornaments like placing a seal. The makeup came next—minimal, soft. I barely recognized myself, yet somehow felt more me than I had in weeks.