Naked at Lunch (6 page)

If you ask the American Association for Nude Recreation (AANR)—the self-proclaimed “credible voice of reason for nude recreation”—they’ll tell you that a nakation offers “Relaxation, stress relief, freedom, fun, great people, positive body image and increasing self esteem.”

The fact that everyone is naked is supposed to help you connect with others—the de-alienation I heard about earlier—and let go of your body obsessions, your fears, and your shame. Ideally, the nudist experience creates a level playing field where everyone is equal. And it’s true that once you’re in a place where everyone is naked, there is a sense of it being a level playing field, only this playing field wasn’t level, it sagged. I would guess the average age around the pool was sixty-five, maybe older. And the inexorable pull of gravity had exerted its force on their bodies. It occurred to me that if people lived long enough, we would all eventually melt into lumpy puddles of flesh, like squashed basset hounds.

As I was standing naked in front of these people, I have to say that I didn’t feel a sudden sense of liberation. But I didn’t feel afraid or ashamed either. My self-esteem didn’t increase or decrease. Mostly I felt a little awkward. I’ve never talked to a naked stranger while being naked before and I was unsure what to say. Like, how was I supposed to greet people? Would my saying hello be interpreted as overt sexual behavior?

And what were they thinking about me? Did I appear unhealthily pale? An obvious first-timer? Nudists refer to people with untanned buttocks as “cottontails.” I’ll be the first to admit that my ass doesn’t see a lot of sunlight. Were they all scoffing and muttering “cottontail” under their breath?

I noticed that a couple of the women were violating the “don’t gawk” rule. They were staring at me, their eyes wide.

I quickly realized why.

It was not my physique or lack of tan that was making them goggle; it was the fact that my penis had become incredibly shiny in the sunlight. It looked as if it had been coated in a glossy lacquer like some kind of Shang dynasty artifact. The spray-on sunblock that I had so scrupulously and thickly applied had turned my dick into something resembling a solar flare. I could’ve sent a distress signal to a search and rescue team.

Fortunately, I did not get an erection.

If the number of times this question is brought up on nudist resort websites is any indication, one of the biggest fears men have is getting an erection in public. At the Desert Sun Resort they offer these reassuring words: “On the rare occasion that this does occur, just simply cover up with a towel, turn over or take a quick dip in the pool.”

I honestly don’t think that’s what most men are afraid of when they go to a nudist resort. The fear isn’t that you’ll get an erection; the fear is that your testicles will ascend, your penis will retract, and you’ll stand there looking like a Ken doll.

The throb of Rick James was followed by the up-tempo innuendo of George Michael as I sauntered away from the “activity pool” toward what was called the “quiet pool.” I walked past a few people soaking in the Jacuzzi. I nodded at a semicircle of naked people playing guitars and singing a wretched version of “Layla” in the shade of some trees.

The quiet pool was quiet. No music blared, and the conversation among the few couples that lounged around it was a barely audible murmur. I did not gawk. I spread my towel on a chaise and settled in.

Occasionally someone would get up and swim in the pool for a few minutes, but mostly people kept to themselves. They might nod and smile at each other, but there was not a lot of conversation.

I thought maybe I could start a conversation but then I began to obsess about the rules. What if I said something that could be taken as a sexual provocation? Was it like making a joke while going through airport security?

As a single man, I felt like I was eyed with suspicion. As if some kind of primitive alarm bell was going off in the other men’s reptile brains. Was I some kind of swinger? Would I swoop in and steal their mate? But perhaps it was just a flash of sunlight reflecting off my penis that caused people to squint and look away.

I swam a little. I read a book. I watched a youngish woman with a flower tattooed on her butt walk to the bar and fetch a couple of drinks. I was enjoying nonsexual social nudism at a bona fide nudist resort. The AANR calls membership in its organization a “passport to fun,” which seems a bit of a stretch. It’s not that it wasn’t fun, but it really wasn’t that different from any other Palm Springs resort I’d been to. The main difference was that the prohibition against “the appearance of overt sexual behavior” seemed to give a strained Kabuki stateliness to people’s demeanor. In other words, they were trying so hard to be nonsexual that there was a formality, a stiff decorum, to the way people carried themselves. Even at the active pool there wasn’t much activity. It seemed weird to me. Typically you get a bunch of people around a pool in swimsuits and they’ll flirt and gawk and do cannonballs off the diving board, but there was a playfulness to typical poolside behavior that was missing here. Maybe it was because it was an older crowd, or maybe it was the tension created by trying to be nonsexual when everyone is naked. Typically humans get naked for sex, but in a setting where everyone is naked and even the appearance of sexual interest is strictly forbidden, it’s easy to see why people start to act strangely prim.

Historian Paul Fussell, in an essay titled “Taking It All Off in the Balkans,” writes,
“Naturists agree that, given the cascades of sexual stimuli poured over us by contemporary civilization, at stated times and places a little contrived, conscious sexlessness is good for you.”
¹²

“Conscious sexlessness” sounds about as much fun as a juice cleanse.

After a couple of hours of lounging and scrupulous non-gawking, I got hungry and wandered into the restaurant for lunch.

The restaurant was crowded, every table full except for one by the bar. I sat down on my towel and surveyed the room. There were dozens of naked people sitting at tables eating lunch. Following proper nudist etiquette, they kept towels between the furniture and their bodies. Compared with the morgue-like tranquillity of the swimming pool, everyone in the restaurant was positively chatty. Conversations would spill from one table to the next and people would jump up to greet friends or stand at another person’s table chatting away. I would’ve been somewhat uncomfortable to have someone’s penis that close to my french fries, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. In fact the restaurant scene was livelier than your typical Palm Springs lunch joint. Maybe this social nudism thing
is
a passport to fun.

The waiter, who like all the other employees at the resort was fully clothed, handed me a menu. I watched him walk off and deliver a couple of cheeseburgers to a table. Is being a waiter at a nudist resort the weirdest job in the career of a food service professional? Or is it just another day at the office? Did they train you not to stare at the guests’ genitals? And how could you not? I had a lot of questions.

I ordered a veggie burger and an iced tea, and just as I was about to ask him what it was like to work around all these naked people, his boss appeared. I could tell right away that she was the owner of the resort. She carried herself like someone who was in charge, only instead of a briefcase and business suit she was topless, a sarong jauntily tied around her waist. Her sunglasses were jammed on top of her head holding her blond hair off her face and she looked younger than most of the guests I’d seen. She seemed smart and friendly, a hands-on kind of boss—in a distinctly nonsexual way—one of those proactive managers who was making sure everything was running smoothly and all the guests were happy.

I felt for the waiter. How weird would it be to stand there and listen to your employer give you instructions while you desperately tried not to look at her large, and admittedly attractive, naked breasts.

Imagine that sexual harassment training film.

And so I sat there and ate my lunch. Naked.

After lunch I went to check out the library and game room, which was really just a shelf of books and board games off to the side of a very modest fitness center that housed a few creaky elliptical trainers and some dumbbells. I entered the room to find a naked woman looking through the books. She was probably seventy years old and tilted her head back so that her reading glasses would focus on the titles. Although I tried not to gawk or stare, I have to say that for someone her age, she looked to be in pretty good shape. She gave me a quick once-over. And I have to admit that I was taken aback. Weren’t we supposed to not look? Isn’t that what the sign says? Or is a quick once-over different from a gawk or stare? But that’s something I noticed about nudists: for all their talk about nonsexual this and don’t gawk that, they always take a peek. It’s a normal human response to seeing a naked person. I look too. You can’t help it.

The library comprised a few shelves of paperbacks that looked to have been abandoned by previous guests. Among the usual suspects, the thrillers and romance novels and bestselling business books, were some literary fiction titles. Zadie Smith at a nudist resort? Maybe not in the flesh, but a copy of
White Teeth
was here.

The naked lady pulled a dog-eared paperback off the shelf and turned toward me. “Have you read this?”

I made a concerted effort to look her in the eye and said, “I’m not really a Clive Cussler reader.”

She put the book back and continued looking. Only now we were looking together, side by side, a naked man and a naked woman, strangers trying to find something to read to pass the time. I picked up one of Lee Child’s novels. “Have you ever read him?”

She nodded. “He’s good. Can’t say I cared for the movie.”

We chatted about authors and books for a few minutes, and just as I was wondering how the conversation might turn if I picked up the copy of
Fifty Shades of Grey
sitting on the top shelf, she chose a Harlan Coben thriller and said good-bye.

Would this have been an encounter worth writing about if I hadn’t noticed the gray hairs on her pubic region? Doubtful. But there it was. My first nude conversation with a stranger. Awkward, but not unfriendly.

I went back to my chair by the pool.
Was this a more enjoyable experience than sitting by a pool and reading with a swimsuit on? If I’m honest, I have to admit that it was. It felt good to let the sun and the warm desert breeze dry my skin after a dip in the water without the feeling of clammy fabric sticking to my body. Admittedly it was strange to look around and see naked people, but they were doing a pretty standard version of what people on vacation do, reading or snoozing or drinking cocktails and laughing—all in a nonsexual way, naturally. Nobody gawked, nobody said anything offensive or racy, it was all very proper. I suppose, for me, it was a bit too proper. But after a while I got used to it. I didn’t feel weird or embarrassed or uncomfortable being naked around these people, and the few who would dare talk to a lone naked man were totally friendly.

There was nothing else to do but kick back and relax, so I laid out on the chaise lounge, my penis reflecting the desert sun like a chunk of fool’s gold.

*****
Nothing annoys me more than someone who writes a book about cannabis and then claims to have “never smoked it.” Really?

******
It was not the actress Maggie Smith.

A Very Brief History of Early Nonsexual Social Nudism

N
udity isn’t new. People have been expressing their natural nature from the beginning of civilization. Ancient Greek Olympians competed in the nude; sculptures of early athletes reveal rippling muscles, curly pubic hair, and genitalia in exacting detail. In decorative drawings on ancient wine ewers, the wrestlers, discus slingers, and javelin heavers are all depicted sporting in the buff.
*******
Not only were they naked, but their bodies were slathered with olive oil to enhance the viewing pleasure of fans and the gods, who apparently liked the look of shiny, well-articulated male musculature as much as anybody.

But nudity in ancient Greece wasn’t limited to just sports, the Greek word
gymnos
means “naked,” and early gymnasiums were not musty places to practice free throws and hold homecoming dances. They were institutions where young men discussed philosophy, science, and literature—Plato and Aristotle both taught at gymnasiums—and practiced physical exercises called gymnastics. The ancient Greeks were way ahead of us in understanding the value of going to the gym. That the young men in the gymnasiums were nude and slick with oil as they studied and exercised is, depending on your point of view, awkward or kinda hot.

The Romans came along and decided that lounging around in the nude discussing philosophy wasn’t a good fit for a civilization in the business of world conquest. Much like the corporations of today, they didn’t need philosophers and aesthetes, they needed soldiers and workers who could take orders, so they declared the gymnasiums immoral and closed them. Rome’s conversion to Christianity only reinforced this attitude, and the once brazenly naked and heroic Greek statue was deemed shameful and required to wear a plaster fig leaf. Western culture seems to be stuck in this quasi-military patriarchal mode, and any form of intellectualism or philosophical discourse is relegated to bohemian enclaves, college campuses, and the Internet.