Read Naked at Lunch for Free Online Page B

completely generic—it looked like every motel room in North America and reminded me of the time I got caught in an ice storm and my wife and I were forced to spend Christmas in a Motel 6 in Abilene, Texas—although there were odd touches of Palm Springs glamour like a marble shower and lemongrass shampoo. I opened the cupboard and found a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and six cans of Sprite. Did the previous guest leave them for me? Was the resort a cool ranch kind of place?
    Actually, the room was fine, and it’s not like people come to nudist resorts to sit in their rooms. I was mostly concerned by the fact that there wasn’t a chain or bolt lock on the door and no in-room safe, just the doorknob with a key lock, which anyone who has ever watched an episode of network television knows you open by sliding your credit card between the door and the doorframe. How could I walk outside without a stitch of clothes on and leave my wallet, cell phone, and laptop in a room a twelve-year-old could break into? Or was I using my security fears to keep from leaving the room? I had never been in a nudist resort. I’d never strolled around naked with other naked people, and now that I was in a place where that was not only encouraged but required, I was obsessing about the lack of a deadbolt. Was I just making excuses?
    I stood naked in front of a mirror and checked my body. What was I looking for? Gravy stains? Some physical deformation that was so humiliating that I should just call this whole thing off for humanitarian reasons?
    I took a canister of spray-on waterproof sunblock and covered my skin with a thick SPF 45 coating. I remembered Dr. Grenier’s warning and made sure I sprayed sunblock everywhere; I was not going to get squamous cell carcinoma on my scrotum, or anywhere else for that matter.
    Satisfied that I had blasted every inch of my body with several layers of sunblock—and really, what was I doing? Putting on sunblock like it was a pair of jeans?—I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked out of the room. I strolled toward the pool trying to look as normal as I could. Without any clothes on. In public.
    I carried a towel and, being an intrepid immersive-style journalist, a mechanical pencil and a Moleskine notebook.
    I heard a song start thumping out of the poolside speakers right on cue, as if they knew I was coming, like I had my own theme song. It was “Super Freak” by Rick James, the sound track for my entrance into the world of social nudity.
    There was a small brass plaque on the wall that read, ABANDON CLOTHES ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE, and that’s pretty much what was going on. There were about twenty naked men and women sitting in chaise lounges around the pool. And it is not paranoia, I am not making this up, as I walked out by the pool they all turned their heads to look at me.
    My first thought wasn’t Wow, we’re all naked here!
    No.
    My first thought was Wow, these people are really old!
    They sat blinking at me from behind sunglasses, peering over magazines and books. One man in his early seventies cleared his throat and went back to reading the newspaper. A woman who looked a lot like the actress Maggie Smith ****** took a sip of seltzer water. I caught a whiff of what smelled like something cooking and turned to see a man in his midsixties stretched out in the sun, his skin tanned the color of teak, glistening with cocoa butter.
    It could’ve been a scene from any retirement home in America, except that they were all stark naked. An elderly woman walked past me and smiled. I smiled back. Have you ever seen a seventy-year-old woman with her pubic hair shaved into what’s called a “landing strip”? I have.
    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