Fringe Florida: Travels Among Mud Boggers, Furries, Ufologists, Nudists, and Other Lovers of Unconventional Lifestyles (47 page)

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But I’m not ready to reveal this to James, who still seems a little

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mortified.

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He relaxes when a fully clothed retired couple sits down next to

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me at the bar. They look like tourists you might see taking a breather

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from a museum tour. The man is wearing shorts, tennis shoes, and a

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proof

Kimberly, a Bare Buns Biker,

pulled on a shirt for a photo

with her bike at Caliente

Tampa Resort. Photo by

James Harvey.

T-shirt with a smiley face emblazoned with “Life is Good.” His slender

date sports a quarter-length-sleeve blouse and slacks. They seem like

the last people you’d expect to see at a nudist resort, or even riding

motorcycles.

They welcome conversation and motion us to move closer. “One of

the things I like about nudist resorts is that people are always friendly,”

he says. “I’ve been by myself at the pool and had people ask me to come

over and join them. I’ve been at a Ritz-Carlton pool where no one would

speak to you.”

He gives me his name but asks to go by the pseudonym Robert since

he’s not ready to announce to the outside world that he’s a nudist. He

and his date, Carol, rode over on his motorcycle for the Bare Buns bash.

“Motorcycles are really my thing. Antique ones especially. At one time

I had forty.”

He explains they came dressed because he had to pick up Carol at

her condo in Paradise Lakes, requiring him to travel on public roads.

He jokes, “We just haven’t had time to take off our clothes.”

Robert is a snowbird, living half the year in one of the fancy modular

homes in The Woods—the adjacent nudist RV park that James and I

had peered into the previous weekend. I don’t mention that little voy-

euristic moment.

proof

A retired manufacturing company owner, Robert likes to refer to

himself as a naturist because he finds “it’s softer, easier for textiles to

accept. People look at you like you’re some kind of pervert when you

tell them you’re a nudist.”

Sex actually has nothing to do with the nudist lifestyle, he and Carol

both say. “One thing I love about it is that you can have a nude woman

stand face to face with a nude man and there won’t be any sexual over-

tones,” Carol says. “Nudism is actually asexual.”

So, what’s up with the swingers at Caliente? They assert they aren’t

swingers, and are not particularly happy that Caliente caters to them,

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or even allows people to wear clothes. “That’s not what the original

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people wanted,” Carol says. “When you came down the balcony to the

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pool you were supposed to be totally nude. Because of the economy, I

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think they felt they had to reach out to those in the lifestyle. Do I agree

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with it? No.”

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They argue that most nudists aren’t swingers and that Caliente’s

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embrace of the lifestyle makes it even harder for textiles to accept

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nudists. Robert gives the example of a woman he briefly dated before

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Carol. “When I told her where I lived, she said, ‘Oh, you’re one of them.’

One of them.” He got her to come over for dinner to show her that the

Woods is basically like any other upscale RV neighborhood, just that

people don’t wear clothes. She saw that he wasn’t Caligula, but she still

couldn’t get beyond the fact that he likes living in the nude. “She asked

me, ‘Would you give this up?’ I told her no. This is who I am.”

Robert is not just a naturist who also likes to ride motorcycles. He’s

one of the few in the Bare Buns crew who actually rides in the buff.

He often dares to ride naked alone on the open road. Granted, it’s just

around his neighborhood and the only other developments around are,

you guessed it, nudist communities. Even so, he’s stealth, cranking up

early before most are stirring. “When you get on a cold gas tank,” he

says, “that will wake you up.”

Why go to the trouble? Why expose your genitals to frigid tempera-

tures and your skin to possible road burns? What actually makes one

want to ride a motorcycle naked? Robert says it’s more than just the

rush of air against your bare skin. It goes beyond the naked acceptance

of the flawed human body, and it is far more than the exhilaration of

riding a rocket with wheels. It’s a double dose of freedom. “That’s the

common denominator between nudism and biking,” he says. “It’s the

pure freedom.”

proof

The reflection seems to take Robert far away. His eyes briefly focus

on some infinite place in the cloudless sky. “I regret that my children

weren’t raised this way.” He sighs, shakes his head. “Their mother and I

divorced when they were small and their mother became a born-again.”

Now adults, his children have no idea he’s a nudist, much less that he

lives half the year in a community of them.

The guttural sound of a Harley overtakes the stage music. On the

other side of the bar, a bald nude man in sunglasses is navigating his

bike through the crowd. His moment of pride is short-lived as motor-

cycles aren’t allowed on the pool deck and he’s forced to return to the

grass lot.

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We leave Robert and Carol to their lunch and check out the vendors,

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passing again through a throng of nude bodies and once again feeling

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choking guilt for wearing clothing. Realtors are advertising condos for

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sale in area nudist communities. A busty one is wearing only a long

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sarong, and I only recognize her as a realtor because nearby there’s a

life-size cutout of her in a business suit holding her agency sign.

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Next canopy over, Catnip is on the job working from behind a display

of smokeless cigarettes, beaded fringe shirts, and her namesake nipple

necklaces.

PANDAbare.org, the group that came up with the county’s Eurobird

nudist tourism campaign, is set up nearby. A woman in her forties with

wild red hair and glasses stands stark naked before the group’s banner

that for some inexplicable reason includes a photo of an actual panda

bear.

Marcia, one of the few here with pubic hair, is the group secretary.

She considers herself a naturist although accepts that the mainstream

generally considers all who live in the buff as nudists. She enthusiasti-

cally shares information about her organization. Though they do non-

nudist philanthropy such as raising money to feed the poor and help

abused women’s shelters, their primary efforts promote the business

of nudism in Pasco County. Consider them a nudist economic develop-

ment commission. They attempt to highlight nudists’ impact on the

local economy by asking the bare set to pay merchants with two-dollar

bills. She tells me they are trying to attract a developer to build a nude

assisted-living center. As images of doctors wearing only stethoscopes

and naked nurses in nerdy white rubber-sole shoes flash through my

head, Marcia clarifies that the medical help won’t have to bare all. “It’s

more a place where naturists can go and live out their last days and not

proof

have to wear clothes.”

The band pauses, and someone announces over the microphone that

the Mr. and Miss Bare Buns Biker contest is about to begin. Wonder-

ing if there might be hotdogs involved, we make our way to the upper

deck for an unobstructed view. The smell of marijuana drifts up from

the sandy lake beach where a couple sits under an umbrella showing

no interest in the contest or the bikers. The naked Bare Buns crowd in

front of the stage clears for a handful of couples of all ages and sizes.

A topless wisp of a woman belts out a shake-and-grind blues tune.

Couples start dancing with much less finesse than at the nightclub the

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week before. A senior citizen in only a 10-gallon hat attempts a Fred

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Astaire wing move, waving his arms like he’s doing a double backstroke

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as he spreads his feet and legs in sync. A heavy woman sways her hips

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as her partner does the twisty-shoulder, bent-arms-tucked-at-waist

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shuffle. A younger athletic couple clearly has them all beat. In the only

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display of sexuality we’ve seen all day, they do the front-to-back, booty-

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to-groin grind, bare-chest-to-bare-breasts sways, and just general

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dirty-dancing moves. Seems bold in the bright light of day, but when

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it comes down to it, their dancing isn’t any more suggestive than any-

thing you see in any nightclub. There’s just no textile between them.

As expected, the crowd cheers loudest for the dirty-dancing cou-

ple, cinching their title as Mr. and Miss Bare Buns Bikers. The prize,

strangely, is clothing, T-shirts.

The band breaks out into Wild Cherry’s “Play That Funky Music,”

and other couples hit the dance floor. We head to the upstairs bar for

the remainder of the party. I’ve pretty much given up on getting James

into the pool. “I’m afraid I’ll blind somebody,” he says, referring to the

whiteness of his private parts.

We watch the band pack up and leave. The crowd below peels away

until most lounge chairs are empty. Behind us a scrawny couple in only

brown walking shoes racks pool balls for a game. There’s something dif-

ferent about them. They have tan lines.

“See, not everyone has an all-over tan,” I kid James.

He looks over at them and then gives me a sardonic smile.

“You really want to do this?”

I sense he’s cracking. “Well, it is hot,” I say, looking longingly down

at the massive blue pool with its rushing waterfall. Only a handful of

people linger, and they appear too caught up in conversation to notice

anyone else. A couple of others swim alone, seemingly in a state of Zen.

proof

We deliberate on the most inconspicuous place to park our towels

and clothes. There’s really no where to escape being seen. I vote against

setting up close to the balcony where we are sitting. As hypocritical as it

may be, I don’t want other clothed people looking directly down on my

nude body. We settle on a couple of empty chairs on the far side, close

to the pool’s edge.

“Are you ready?” I ask of myself as well as James.

“Not really, but let’s go.”

He chugs his ice water and marches down the stairs, leaving me hus-

tling to keep up. Safely perched on the edge of a lounge chair, I scan the

pool deck. Not a head is turned our way.

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Leaving no time to chicken out, we tug off our clothes and trot to

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the water’s edge, giggling like mischievous children. No toe-dipping, we

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plunge into the refreshing blue water, deliciously free.

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While putting this book to bed, I received an e-mail from a man alarmed

by an event in south Florida that he thought was training people how

to kidnap and torture unsuspecting victims. He provided links to the

event’s website as proof.

I’ve been a reporter long enough to be skeptical of sensational

claims, especially from a stranger over the Internet. But the alleged

acts were serious, so I checked out the links. There among the alleged

“torture” and “kidnap” photos was wild-mustached pony-play trainer

Foxy dragging a bound Sherifox across a hotel conference room floor.

Despite the dark nature of the photo, I chuckled. Not at the e-mail-

er’s concern, but that I would not only recognize people in the photos,

but also know that Foxy and Sherifox were at the Beyond Leather event

demonstrating how kinky couples can safely role-play. This moment of

awareness was liberating and disconcerting in the same way that I’m

astounded by the idea that I can get behind the wheel of a car and drive

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anywhere I want, but that I can just as easily slam into a tree.

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Yes, I see people and Florida differently since completing this proj-

ect, and no doubt the reverse is true. Knowing the difference between

a “hard swap” and a “soft swap” in swinger world tends to raise some