Clothing Optional Read Online Free Page B

Standing beside her was a completely naked man.
    â€œAlan?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m Mary Clare.”
    â€œHello.”
    â€œAnd this is my husband, Tom.”
    â€œHi, Alan.”
    â€œNice to meet your penis, Tom.”
    Rendered mute by their unique brand of desert hospitality, I obediently followed Mary Clare and Tom around a half wall, which gave way to a courtyard. With a pool. Bordered on three sides by attached rooms. And swimming in the pool, lying on the grass near the pool, reading books and Sunday papers on lounge chairs that surrounded the pool, and walking around, casually sipping drinks nowhere near the pool, were them—the naked people. Two-eyed, four-cheeked naked people, who obviously didn’t know the meaning of the word
optional.
    My hosts couldn’t have been nicer. They explained that this was strictly a couples resort, where people come with their significant unclothed others to enjoy the sun and relax. The last thing they want is for anyone to feel pressured into walking around in any way that would make them uncomfortable.
    But as much as I appreciated the inherent logic of this policy, anyone who has ever been the only sober person at a party knows how it’s possible to feel like the only one who’s drunk under those circumstances. I, for one, had never felt goofier than when I was unloading the car.
    The fact that I brought luggage to a nudist resort is, in itself, worthy of some discussion. But how I felt carrying three suitcases and a hanging garment bag through a maze of lounging naked people on the way to my room on the far side of the pool is a topic Talmudic rabbis could debate for centuries. Suffice it to say that Robin had done my packing, and it took me close to forty-five minutes to determine what I was actually going to wear to a naked tea. My decision? Gym shorts and a Yankees nightshirt that extended just below the knee. My thinking? Hard to say. But for some reason, it felt just right.
    THE NAKED TEA
    The office of the Terra Cotta Inn is not dissimilar to the office of any typical resort that happens to have thirty-six stark-naked adults and one large Jewish man in a Yankees nightshirt having wine and hors d’oeuvres on a Sunday afternoon. Husbands. And wives. Girlfriends. And boyfriends. Youngish. And oldish. Blackish. And whitish. Chitchatting about the weather. The Dodgers. Clinton. And Dole. Conspicuous by its absence was any overt acknowledgment of one another’s overabundance of exposed flesh. They were all so natural. And casual.
    Could I possibly be like that? So cool? So nonchalant? I went outside to where everyone had drifted back to their previous locations in and around the pool. I took off my gym shorts. No big deal—courtesy of my Yankees nightshirt—but a start. And then? Oh, what the hell. Off came the nightshirt, and into the pool I dove. Butt naked. Like the day I was born, only larger and more immature.
    Under the water I swam. Eyes open, mindful of any exposed body parts that might be dangling in my path. At the other side of the pool, I came up for air, and right before me was a rather plump, elderly couple sitting on the edge, minding their own business. I turned around, took a deep breath, and headed underwater back to the other end, where I surfaced only to find myself, God help me, looking into, God help me, the nether regions of a beautiful woman sitting with her legs, God help me, apart. And then…well…it happened. The
e
word. Right there, in the pool. Well, let’s just say I had no choice but to swim back (now with the aid of a rudder) toward that plump, elderly couple whose very presence, God bless them…humbled me.

    A CALL HOME
    â€œAre you naked right now, Daddy?”
    â€œNo, Sari. Can I please speak to Mommy?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œThanks, honey.”
    â€œHey, Dad, you take any pictures of the naked folks?”
    â€œNo, Adam. Can I please speak to