Text Size
  • A
  • A
  • A
Share

The Local Lens: Debut as a Public Nudist


As a journalist, I’ve covered a lot of strange events. Perhaps one of the strangest was in the late 1990s when I was asked by an editor to cover a nudist camp weekend in southern Maryland. Now, I’ve always been a ‘clothes man,’ by which I mean even in summer I tend to wear long sleeve shirts and trousers, much to the chagrin of friends who ask me why I don’t dress down in shorts. “Shorts are for the shore, and so are flip flops,” I tell them.

So what about going nude for a week in a private forest setting? “Well,” I told my editor, “I guess I can do it, though I’ll need lots of sun block. There’s a first time for everything.” Wasn’t it Voltaire who said that human beings should experience everything at least once? With the exception of murder, of course.

So I packed my bags with towels and tubes of sun block along with the clothes on my back, headed down to southern Maryland with a carload of confirmed nudists who seemed to be counting the minutes until they could rip off their clothes and begin to frolic in the fields and woods.

“Freedom at last,” they cheered, their faces burning with enthusiasm and anticipation as we arrived at Camp Ramblewood, an old Ponderosa-like ranch in the middle of nowhere that different groups rent out for summer retreats. Biker conventions have been held here; even the Jehovah’s Witnesses have visited.

I made my way to my assigned cabin, de-clothed, doused myself in greasy sun block, selected a baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses, the necessary “sitting” towel (because you never know what’s on the ground) and made my way downstairs into the foyer of the cabin and then into the open air.

My debut as a public nudist!

My first nude walk in the open was not like being trapped in one of those dreams where you find yourself walking nude in public for no apparent reason at all, where you look for cover because you think you’re going to get arrested or be laughed at. To the contrary, I experienced a buzzing freeing effect, an inner elevation, a natural John Denver high. I spotted other nudists lounging by trees or sitting in circles in the middle of the field. The little embarrassment I still felt faded as I met these people and as we began conversations that had nothing to do with nudity at all. The day then commenced as normally as a clothed day, with swimming, volleyball, and hiking, conversations by the pool and later a cocktail party at five under a shady pavilion. During the cocktail party I noticed that most of the nudists had all put on a little bit of clothing to accent their bodies: a scarf, a large hat, a cape, a torn half T-shirt, tall boots or Hawaiian grass skirts. At some point I realized that people had donned these clothing accents in order to look sexy! Somehow this made sense because walking around nude all day makes the experience of being nude common and boring so that by 5 o’clock your natural inclination is to accent the body in some way. And an accent always involves clothing.

Being nude outdoors and seeing other nude people of both sexes of all shapes and sizes is not a sexy experience. Total nudity is too raw, too total, too un-mysterious, too revealing. What makes sexiness is mystery or hidden “elements,” accenting the body so that not everything is revealed all at once. Total nudity was never meant to be sexy, I suppose, and a nudist colony is not what some people think.

What do some people think? That nudists are going around having hot, uncontrolled sex with one another, their libidos raging like an August thunderstorm. The general behavior at Camp Ramblewood, however, was monastery-like and outrageously respectful, although at meal time I found myself pulling back a little.

Food and nudity do not mix, especially during the hot summer months in a banquet hall where the air conditioning is minimal. Perspiration builds; sweat happens and natural body odors conspire to ruin the best deodorant, cologne or perfume. When I’m seated at a long table, fork and knife in hand, I don’t want to see a line of cracked, perspiring “moons” jockeying for space around the table next to mine. Life at that point becomes a world of bouncing fleshy Jell-O molds. It was then that I heard the voice of my grandmother: “Can’t you put on some clothes!”

When Sunday morning came, I experienced my first church service in the nude as an Anglican priest (also nude, of course) conducted the service as calmly as if he was ensconced in his parish church. As good congregants we sat on towels arranged under a large shady maple tree. By that point in my visit being nude was beginning to feel normal although I never felt comfortable eating in the cafeteria surrounded by all those sweaty, naked bodies.

At the end of the week, I thought of that Peggy Lee tune I used to hear my mother sing, “Is That All There Is?” Is that all there is to nudity? Well, if that’s all there is, then let’s have a ball, although the truth is that most nude bodies, when one looks at them closely, are far from perfect. If you’re looking for perfection, don’t go to a nudist colony.

In that bright Maryland summer sunlight, I saw unwieldy operation scars, bruises the size of Bulgaria, kneecaps shaped like hard volcanic ash, butts the size of South America, and excess arm skin that recalled the bloated iguanas of Puerto Rico. Stripped humanity up close is often not very pretty, and that’s why clothing or clothing accents are needed to make it pretty. As Mae West once said, “My advice to those who think they have to take off their clothes to be a star is, ‘once you’re boned, what’s left to create the illusion?’ Let ‘em wonder. I never believed in giving them too much of me.”

Fast forward to the riders in Philly’s 2015 Naked Bike Ride, many of whom seemed to understand the need for a body accent of some sort. Body accents, in a nudist colony or on a bike ride, can take many forms — a vest, cape, loin cloth, etc. — but an accent can also be as simple as a body paint job. Many of the riders in this year’s Naked Bike Ride painted their bodies as a form of Adam and Eve cloverleaf. Paint your naked body all over in colorful configurations and the painted result becomes a suit of clothes. Actually, the Naked Bike Ride is really a misnomer because less than half of the riders at the event ever actually ride nude. Most of the riders could just as easily be transferred to the Wildwood boardwalk and be absolutely unnoticeable on an extremely hot day.

Of course, the public reaction to “nudity” whenever the Naked Bike Ride occurs is the real circus event. Often you can gauge maturity levels (and sexual sophistication levels) on how a person reacts to nudity. An angry response suggests a sexually repressed and puritanical nature, while too much laughter may point to something childish and immature within a person. There’s not much laughter in a whole lot of people being nude, but there may be a laugh or two in seeing nudity out of context, like somebody walking nude in a red wig and top hat in the middle of Aramingo Avenue.

The Philly Naked Bike Ride came on the scene in 2009 with a specific mission in mind: to promote the idea that drivers need to share the road with bicycles. In many ways, the event’s nudity was an attention getting device, and it has worked in getting the public’s attention.

All things considered, however, once you’ve been nude in a nudist camp for a week, the whole nudity thing becomes absolutely boring. This is pretty much where I stand today.

Yes, “Keep your clothes on,” as Granny used to say.

 

The Spirit | Hyperlocal done differently
Advertise Now

Related News