Philadelphia Weekly

The thin plastic 2002 AANR membership card with a pretty pink sun on it came in the mail a few months ago. In terms of flimsiness, the card was similar to any number of organizations that have sent me such cards in the past: WHYY, the ACLU, BlueShield's "Clarity Vision" program. It even had that weird new-card smell.

But while past cards were evidence of the fact that I watched documentaries, believed in free speech and had relatively poor vision, this tasteful bit of pastel plastic told a different tale, one certainly more disturbing:

I am a nudist. Kind of.

My relationship with the American Association of Nude Recreation--the aforementioned AANR--started last year when a friend of mine I'll just call Nudey Norma asked me to go with her to a nudist camp.

I was shocked. Did Norma think she actually had such a great body? But she told me attractiveness had nothing to do with it--and after having experienced it myself, I can assure you that's true. It's just a matter of wanting to do things without pesky shirts and pants and shoes hindering your progress.

I mean, isn't it awful the way sleeves just hang there, like floppy arm-curtains? Isn't it tiresome that laces insist upon separating from each other like mischievous little snakes? Isn't unfair to put makeup on your face but not share any with your sternum?

Norma did the research and discovered that if we wanted to go to a so-called nude recreation spot, we'd have to join the AANR. Introductory membership dues were $35 a year, which seemed a little high for taking off my clothes in front of others, but Norma sprung for us both, mostly because she didn't want me to have an excuse not to go.

As we parked the car at the Naked Wood Nymph Club (not its real name) and gathered our things, I realized I had no idea what to take with me. Was I supposed to start out completely naked, right out of the car? Was I supposed to wait until I saw others and then take my clothes off? We decided to keep our clothes on but bring our nakedness with us. I also brought plenty to read, so I could avoid eye contact and face-to-face encounters with unmentionables.

We walked up a small hill to a shack. There was no one there, but there was a list of rules including a caution against public displays of affection. I forget the wording, but the basic gist was, "Please don't screw in front of everybody else. It might make them feel left out." Just seeing the sign made me panic. Would there be men walking around with, um, protuberances? Being male is so inconvenient that way.

Suddenly out of the pastoral mist emerged a 60-ish gentleman in nothing but what nature provided. He went behind the desk to put our information into the computer. As he went to sit down I found myself thinking, "Is he going to put his bare ass on that vinyl seat? Will other people sit there after?" It may sound unpleasant, but believe me that's what you would have thought, too. My questions were answered by the man's jaunty little throw of a towel onto the chair. Buttocks, thank heavens, never touched vinyl.

After the naked gentlemen took our money, we were sent up a hill. There was a huge grassy park and a clubhouse with a pool and hot tub. There were also tennis courts, where people were playing doubles in nothing but sneakers. Around the perimeter of the park sat really nice, funky mobile homes. It was secluded and quiet. If you had to be naked somewhere, it might as well have been there.

We put our towels down on what was, in college parlance, the main green. Norma threw her clothing off. I took my socks off. When I finally did disrobe, I had to admit that having the sun, in all its cancerous glory, touch every part of my body was sort of nice.

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We decided to try the pool, but there were strangers without clothes in it. Of course they wanted to be friendly and chat, never qualities I particularly enjoy in strangers. After some agonizing small talk, Norma and I floated toward each other and tried to act like we were in a very deep conversation that shouldn't be interrupted.

Then we hit the hot tub.

Hot tubs are, in my obsessive-compulsive opinion, breeding grounds for shared bacteria. I don't like them even when everyone has bathing suits on. I slid into the hot water (thank God for those bubbles) and found myself looking at a sign asking that menstruating women not use the hot tub. Oh dear.

Before we left I decided to take a walk around the park by myself. I put my shoes on and hit the gravel road lined with homes. As I walked, I felt kind of great--so unfettered.

I saw a group of people barbecuing and drinking refreshing beverages. For a minute, before I remembered I don't like socializing, I felt a stab of envy. Then I saw the horseshoes--heavy, clanking horseshoes. Doesn't it seem particularly ill-advised to play horseshoes in the buff? I know clothing doesn't offer much protection, but surely the goods are better off even with a little fabric in between.

When we got in the car to go, putting on clothing felt strange and unnecessary. What was the purpose of clothing again? To make us all more neurotic about our bodies than we already are?