Clothing Optional Page 3
“Alan, would you ever give any thought to spending time at a nudist club and writing about it?”
“Yes.”
“You can go there whenever you—”
“Yes.”
“And you can write the piece whenever you—”
“Yes.”
“Any idea when you might be able—”
“Now.”
“I mean, you’re extremely busy, so—”
“Now.”
“But all of your other projects—”
“They can wait. How much do I owe you?”
“For…?”
“Letting me do this.”
A CALL TO MY WIFE
“Hello?”
“Hey, Robin! Guess what? I’ve been asked to write about a nudist club in Palm Springs.”
“I’m not going.”
“Who invited you?”
Reaction from the rest of my family ranged from my son, Adam, fourteen, begging me to take him along, to my youngest daughter, Sari, seven, who giggled at the thought of “Daddy seeing lots of tushies,” to my embarrassed middle daughter, Lindsay, eleven, who—as I left in the third inning of her West L.A. softball game—found it easier to tell her teammates I was going to the hospital for minor back surgery.
There were other reactions as well. The most asked question: Are you going to get naked? The least asked: Where are you going to insert your room key when playing naked volleyball? (My dad lost sleep over this one.) The person with the most questions: me. And I started asking them as I turned onto I-10 heading east toward the desert: Why am I doing this? Did I bring enough sunblock? Why am I doing this? When was the last time I was naked in front of a nude woman whom I wasn’t married to and with whom I shared a hamper and three children? What if I run into someone I know? Like Siskel? Or Ebert? Or one of my mother’s friends? What if I get an erection? What if I get an erection in front of one of my mother’s friends? Why am I doing this? And why in God’s name am I sweating this much?
The air-conditioning in the car was on full blast, yet as I got closer and closer to the exit that would lead me to the land of naked people, my pores were involuntarily soaking every stitch of fabric associated with my forty-four-year-old body, and I was now sort of hoping that somewhere between my daughter’s softball field and all of those windmill things, I’d contracted malaria and would have to call my editor with my regrets and suggest she send a non-Jewish male to research this article.
The place I was driving toward? The Terra Cotta Inn, which according to the brochure was a “clothing optional” resort. So with the distinct possibility that it was nerves and not a rare tropical disease that was causing me to sweat like a fountain, I began to hang on to the word optional the way that actress in Cliffhanger hung on to Sylvester Stallone’s hand.
THE TERRA COTTA INN
I can’t remember ever knocking more gently than I did on the big gray doors that separate the Terra Cotta Inn from the traffic on East Racquet Club Road. But after a few seconds, the door opened. A woman, dressed only in a romper unzipped to her navel, greeted me. Standing beside her was a completely naked man.
“Alan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mary Clare.”
“Hello.”
“And this is my husband, Tom.”
“Hi, Alan.”
“Nice 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
“Are you naked right now, Daddy?”
“No, Sari. Can I please speak to Mommy?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“Hey, Dad, you take any pictures of the naked folks?”
“No, Adam. Can I please speak to Mommy?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“Dad?”
“Hi, Lindsay.”
“Dad, when you come home, could you limp in front of my friends? The way you would if you actually had minor back surgery?”
“Fine. Can I please speak to Mommy?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Hello?”
“Robin?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you drive out here?”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Please?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m hornier than a toad.”
“Alan, the kids have school tomorrow.”
“Robin, I was around naked people all day, and now it’s night, and I’m alone, and I’m ready to burst.”
“Alan—”
“Please. It’s only a two-hour drive. You can come out, stay seven minutes, then turn around and go home.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“You’re right. Six minutes.”
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I hung up, got undressed, went outside, and was aware of the fact I had never done those things in exactly that order before.
The Terra Cotta Inn doesn’t have a restaurant. (If it did, I wondered, would the chef have to wear two hairnets?) But meals ordered in arrive in no time at all, as the delivery boys from all the local restaurants race through the streets so they can get to see the home where the naked people roam.
I heard voices and walked in their direction. Much to my surprise, I now had no inhibitions about my nudity. Sure, I was conscious of it, but there I was. Under the stars. Four couples. And me. At a naked pizza party. A couple from L.A. whose children knew where they’d gone for the weekend but weren’t told about the clothes part; a middle-aged CEO from Michigan and his wife of twenty-seven years; a kindergarten teacher and her husband, a retired cop, who’ve been coming to places like this since 1987; a couple from San Diego, both attorneys and both thirty-two, and me.
I realized I liked these naked people. They were without pretense in addition to being without clothing. So the next morning, when I saw a number of them pass my window holding coffee mugs and doughnuts, I took off my bathrobe and dashed outside to join them. Not only did I spend the entire morning naked, but by noon, I found the very concept of clothing an absurd one.
A CALL TO A FRIEND
“Garry, it’s Alan. Look, I’m calling because I just felt the need to tell someone that I’m forty-four years old, and about an hour ago, for the first time in my life, I put suntan lotion on my ass. I’ll explain later. Bye.”
What else can I say other than that I was now one of them? I swam naked. I read American Pastoral by Philip Roth naked. I ate a chef’s salad naked. I played naked foosball. I started using my laptop for reasons other than to just cover my lap. And I was quickly becoming more and more intoxicated with my new-found freedom.
“Hi, Tom.”
“Hi, Alan. Where you headed?”
“Carl’s Jr. The one on Palm Canyon. Want anything?”
“No, thanks.”
“Catch you later, Tom.”
“Alan?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you should put some pants on?”
“What for?”
“Well, the Palm Springs police have rules when it comes to naked men and fast-food chains.”
“What about the drive-thru?”
“Also the drive-thru.”
“Those bastards.”
ANOTHER CALL HOME
“Well, then how about taking a plane?”
“Alan…”
“I’m serious, Robin. The airport’s only a few miles from here, and—”
“But you’re coming home tomorrow.”
“Exactly. So I say fly out in the morning, I’ll pick you up, bring you here, then we’ll drive back to L.A. together.”
“We’ll see.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Great, because I really want you to see this place and meet my new friends.”
“Jesus…”
“Hey, guess what? Remember when I told you that years ago, this place was where President Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe used to come together?”
“Yeah…?”
“Well, local legend has it they used to stay in room thirty-four, and I went in there today.”
“Yeah…?”
“Naked.”
“Yeah…?”
“So think about it, Robin. This very afternoon, I was naked in the same exact room that a president and Marilyn Monroe were naked in.”
“Yeah…?”
“So the way I see it, in some strange, mystical way, this afternoon I had sex with Marilyn Monroe and…”
“Here, speak to the kids.”
“What kids?”
GOING HOME
Since I had a 114-mile trip ahead of me, I planned on leaving Palm Springs no later than eleven in the morning. This would allow me more than enough time to stop off at the Nike outlet store on the way, maybe grab a little lunch, and still make Lindsay’s softball game, which began at three. This was a very workable, very well-intentioned plan, but…
I’ve seen a lot of prison movies where inmates, when their terms are up, are so comfortable with the routine that they prefer to remain in jail for fear they won’t be able to adjust to life on the outside. And while this is by and large a feeling they have after fifty years in Alcatraz or Shawshank, I felt exactly the same way after two days at a clothing-optional resort. And since I had no idea when I’d have the opportunity to be naked outside again, I savored my last few garmentless hours, and before I knew it, it was noon. No big deal. Nike won’t go broke without my business. So I took another naked swim, finished Philip Roth’s book, noticed that a very attractive woman was checking in, started reading To Kill a Mockingbird (because I hadn’t read it since eighth grade), and the next thing I knew, it was almost one o’clock. Oh well, I’ve always felt lunch was an overrated meal. And I still had two solid hours to travel the 114 miles, so all I’d have to do is maintain a 65-mph pace, and I’d get to the field for the start of Lindsay’s game. I packed, got dressed, said good-bye to Tom and Mary Clare, noticed that the very attractive woman who’d just checked in was now emerging from her room completely naked, put down my luggage, read a few more pages of To Kill a Mockingbird, marveled at how much I’d forgotten about this fine piece of writing, and, when I finally pulled out of the parking lot at two o’clock, wondered aloud how it would actually feel to drive a car 114 mph.
Would I ever go back? I think so. With my wife? God knows. But those questions would have to wait.
When I pulled up to the softball field, it was the fourth inning. And as I approached the bleachers, I purposely limped the way one would if he’d actually had minor back surgery.
My NYC Marathon
Today, I am sorry to say, I will not be running in the New York City Marathon because I’ve been out promoting my novel about a man who is running in the New York City Marathon and I didn’t have time to train. I didn’t run in last year’s marathon either because I was busy writing my novel about a man who is running in the New York City Marathon and I didn’t have time to train. I did, however, run in the 2003 New York City Marathon. I trained hard for that one. I joined a running group, did stretching exercises, watched my diet, and finished in 33,517th place. A half hour slower than the time of my previous marathon, for which I didn’t train at all.
I harbor not even the slightest embarrassment that while I was running, a person could have gotten a good night’s sleep. Or have consecutively boiled 127 three-minute eggs. Or that while I was still hauling my fifty-three-year-old carcass through the streets of Brooklyn, the winner had not only crossed the finish line at Tavern on the Green but was probably already on a plane back to Kenya.
None of those things bother me because my goal was modest. All I wanted was to finish. To allow the cheers of the crowds to carry me through the five boroughs and allow me to revisit some neighborhoods I hadn’t seen since childhood. In effect, a tour. I knew my limitations and had no illusions that by dint of a good night’s sleep I would miraculously get a burst of energy and become the new winged symbol for FTD.
So at the start of the race, I lined up toward the back of the pack for pretty much the same reason that cowboys, if given the choice, would prefer to be behind the horses during a stampede. And after the gun sounded, it was thrilling being a part of a 35,000-strong throng moving en masse across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge on a beautiful November morning. I also appreciated the wit displayed by my fellow marathoners who had shunned the traditional running shorts and T-shirts and were dressed, oh, let’s call it unconventionally, for the 26.2-mile journey. Among them were a bride, a man wrapped in an American flag bouncing red, white, and blue basketballs, a one-legged waiter carrying a bar tray with a mug of beer attached to it, Abraham Lincoln, a surgeon, and what I believe was a deli clerk. It supplied added color to an already colorful event, and I didn’t even
mind when they all passed me—figuring that they either were better runners than me or might eventually drop out of the race when they felt their joke was over.
The polar bear did bother me, however. A lot. Whether it was a thin person wearing two hundred pounds of white fur or a very fat person wearing a tight furry sweater, I’m not sure, but I first noticed him when he scampered past me in Williamsburg, where he was given high fives by Hasidic families who ignored me when I eventually came upon them. Was it possible that, as they were snubbing me, he turned back in my direction and waved at me before turning around and disappearing into the masses ahead? No, I figured. He was probably waving to an amused child who had called out to him or to another tundra-dwelling mammal who was also running that day. So I proceeded along and figured I had seen the last of him because there was no sighting in all of Queens.
Manhattan was another story. For when I came across the Queensboro Bridge, panting and carb-depleted, I turned up First Avenue and spotted him again. Leaning against one of the refreshment tables that are stationed at every mile marker and eating a bagel. The thought that there were still ten miles to go until the race ended in Central Park was, indeed, a daunting one under normal circumstances. But after a polar bear makes eye contact with you a second time, gestures as if offering you a bite of his sesame bagel, folds his paws onto his chest, and does an Arctic jig before turning around and heading uptown, you can’t help but feel stupid. And unathletic. So I grabbed a bagel of my own and took off. For the sake of accuracy, when I say “took off,” I mean that I trudged along in the same direction determined to catch up—which I almost did when he waved to me after he drank some Gatorade in the Bronx, after he had stopped to play the harmonica with a street band in Harlem, and after he crossed the finish line about fifty yards ahead of me in Central Park.
To this day it is hard for me to believe that someone dressed as a polar bear actually beat me in the New York City Marathon. Yes, I know I said that just completing the race was victory enough, and it was. Still, once this book tour is over, I plan to start training for next year’s marathon with another goal in mind—to finish ahead of anyone dressed similarly, so my children will stop laughing at me.