What’s it like to have dinner with 25 strangers, and every single one of you is totally naked? Do people flirt? Is soup served? Does it make you feel better, or worse, about your body? Helena Whittingham stripped off to find out…
Pulling up to the venue, a medieval church in central London, to dine alone — and naked — with strangers, I was nervous.
Getting ready had been a self-imposed ritual in itself: oiling my body, layering shimmer over moisturiser, fixing my hair and make-up so I felt ‘done enough’. My red mani-pedi was still fresh. Ruby earrings and necklace. Little armour pieces preparing myself for the night ahead.
Inside, there was no ceremony about undressing. We were greeted at the door, and then we stripped instantly. Honestly, it felt rude not to; to be naked was polite even. What alternate universe had I stumbled into? My confidence and nerves collided as my clothes fell away.
The church itself was beautiful: high ceilings, candles glowing, a long table set in perfect fruitful symmetry. I tried not to stare, so I let the room blur around me — but my eyes darted to a stranger’s shoulders glistening, a pierced nipple, the curve of a hip in the candlelight, my own hair falling forward to cover my chest before I flicked it back so as to not hide. Conversations were soft and tentative: How did you find out about tonight? Is this your first time? Naked small talk. It felt oddly courteous and cordial, but underneath there was a current — a newness and excitement for the evening ahead.
The Füde Experience was founded in 2020 by artist and plant-based chef Charlie Ann Max, as a way of feeling more connected to her body. She’s since hosted more than 100 gatherings globally, each one with a different theme, but with one key element: everyone attending is naked. There’s also always a meal, accompanied by an activity such as breathwork, movement, sound healing, or a creative workshop. The iteration I joined is one of her rare London appearances, themed around the ‘monstrous feminine’. The schedule is kept somewhat vague, but whispers among participants suggested the shape of the evening: an activity first, then a feast.
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Soon after arrival, a clap from Charlie boomed across the room, and suddenly we were moving: spinning, pacing, shaking out limbs and all our nervous energy. I was paired with a petite blonde woman (gorgeous, self-possessed) for mirroring. I had to watch her every gesture and let mine echo back. It was the most nerve-wracking part of the night — truly intimate, direct — but also thrilling. There’s something erotic in watching someone watch you, especially when neither of you can hide a thing.
Then came the breathwork, led by Rebecca Moore. Fists pumping, lungs heaving, sound spilling out. She was inciting anger in us through somatic release, and I felt agitation and tears rise. We lay down on satin sheets and were told to make guttural, ugly noises while rhythmically slapping ourselves on the ground. 26 naked bodies writhing and groaning in a church. It was messy, surreal, cathartic. I wished I could have watched us from above — a creature made of many parts, mouths open, bodies heaving. When we finally opened our eyes again, we locked gazes and silently told each other: I see you.
Throughout the evening, the church bells rang every hour — four low notes that shook the walls. Each time, we screamed along with them. A chorus of naked voices, howling, releasing, and embodying the monstrous feminine.
We were told to introduce ourselves with our name and a sound. People whooped, meowed, and clicked. When it came to me, I said my name, Helena, and I screamed. And then everyone screamed it back. I loved it.
By the time we sat down for dinner, I had almost forgotten I wasn’t wearing clothes. We perched on seats covered in cloths at a long table, skin against silk, plates before us. We ate onion bread with herby butter, stone fruit salad, trumpet mushrooms with creamy potato purée, strawberry-rose crumble with praline ice cream. Each dish was sensual in its own way, textures melting and dripping, fruit juice sweet on the tongue.
By now, everyone had settled into the evening — the small talk had turned to familiarity, and as we ate, scholar Cosima Carnegie, AKA Cosi Odessy, spoke to us about the ‘monstrous feminine’ in Greek mythology. About Medusa, cursed into a snake-haired monstrosity after being raped in Athena’s temple — punished for surviving, punished for being seen. About Scylla, a girl twisted into a sea monster with too many mouths, forced to devour sailors — hunger turned into destruction. And the Sphinx, half-lion, half-woman, who killed men with riddles until her knowledge was stolen.
We sat there, naked, feasting and communing with these myths: women punished for their appetites, wisdom, and vengeance. It felt erotic in the deepest sense of the word — not about sex, but about power, hunger, and being uncontainable. A real wildness; an antithesis to the everyday.
At 10pm, after the final bells and screams, it was time to get dressed. Stepping into my clothes again felt almost wrong; like shrinking after expanding. In a quiet act of defiance, I skipped my knickers and walked home beaming — carrying a secret against my skin, a reminder of the night’s wild permission.
What surprised me most is that I hadn’t thought about sex as much as I expected. I’m often surrounded by sex in my work (as the founder of Lover Management, a creative agency specialising in intimacy and the erotic), and I assumed this would feel similar. But it wasn’t sex. It was something else: the erotic. Just the charge of being seen, of watching, of being in a room full of bodies unhidden. Everyone’s body was different: every shape, every age, every line of flesh. And everyone was beautiful. I felt beautiful, too. I’ve felt beautiful all day, all week since, and it’s a confidence that’s quietly carried over into other aspects of my life. Maybe I’m a nudist now. Maybe I always was.
I am not urging you to rush to a naked dinner party (though I’d absolutely recommend it), but I do urge you to take notice how much we’ve been taught to fear our own skin. In a culture that censors nipples, blurs flesh, and flags bodies as indecent, the most subversive thing I feel we can do is to simply exist — and maybe commune — in our skin. Next time, I won’t feel the need to ‘get ready’ as I did for this one. Instead: more nakedness, more confidence, more eroticism.
You can read more about FUDE here, and find FUDE’s naked dinner party schedule here.
Helena Kate Whittingham is a woman with deep and multifaceted experience in working with The Erotic. She founded Lover Management in 2019 at just 24 years old, creating a pioneering agency that bridges intimacy and talent management in multiple industries from art to entertainment and more.
Her innate ability to connect people has honed her specialty in talent management within the sex realm, working with some of the biggest names in the industry. Under her leadership, Lover Management has collaborated with top brands such as Lovehoney, Ann Summers, LELO, Mubi, Coco de Mer, Channel 4, Atlantic Records, Deliveroo, London fashion week, Monzo, and many more.
Prior to this, she was the assistant curator at VITRINE (London and Basel) until 2019 and has long been interested in the intersection of art, sex, and film.
Beyond management, Helena is an occasional model and erotic writer, writing for titles like SCREENSHOT Media and Cosmopolitan.
She shares a collaborative curatorial and creative practice with her partner, Harlan Whittingham, under the title CONTENT WARNING, exploring fetishistic desire and erotic cinema, which has exhibited at ICA, Barbican, Leiden, and London short film festival.
