No Nudes Is Good News

HY,YOU ASK, am I not a nudist? Don't be gross. A complete answer in most people's books. For most women, a word that rhymes with "mischarge" is inspiration enough to stay dressed. For both sexes, all one usually need do is utter the words "Willie Nelson," thus conjuring the ancient human taboo against sleeveless shirts on tribal elders.

First, I'm afraid I must bore the pants off (just an expression) all of my female readers while I deal with the steadfast male obsession. A good number of you men out there have convinced yourselves that the bevy of lovelies on those nudie channels live that way as a rule, that they nakedly frolic, tra-la-la, all the day long, just bouncing and giggling amongst the shrubbery and around the pool, licking popsicles and naughtily pulling any remaining cloth fragments off of each other. Where else, you ask your hormone-soaked cerebellum, could they sustain this lifestyle, California not included? Why, a nudist colony, of course! Well, I've got news for you, silly. Actual nudist colonies are havens of the unsolicited body. Federal law mandates that 87% of colony membership must consist of those whose physiques have been rated "pretty disgusting" by a panel of average-looking, otherwise non-judgmental citizens.

And yet there are still some people left who think it would be nifty to be among the unclad. That without the tyranny of fabric, we would become our true, original selves and live a self-actualized existence at last. Is that so? I'm afraid you are forcing me to shake some sense into you by presenting two hypothetically real-life encounters you could experience in the naked city. Then I'll conduct an exit poll for your final decision.

You are a 45-year-old woman who still looks quite presentable in underwire, but now you're out there, so to speak, it being your first day at "Eden Village." I see that gravity has met your left breast and renamed it "pancake." No matter, no one judges here. Speaking of same, isn't that retired Judge Barkley hurrying toward you, grinning a bit lustily? Didn't he marry you and your ex-husband, Doug, 20 years ago in his chambers? Didn't he seem just a tad more distinguished back then, what with his pants on and all?

Suddenly you realize that no etiquette has prepared you for greeting a member of the judiciary whose legal briefs are nowhere in sight, and whose little jurors are, shall we say, in heated deliberations. At this moment you are struck by a bolt of heightened consciousness, heretofore known only to mystics and swamis. You experience the Word, and the Word is: BATHROBE. You run like a criminal for your car, cradling your left pancake and assuring it out loud that you will never send it into the world unsupported again.

Or, you're a 30-something male attending the evening nudist welcome party at the house of Lead Nudists, Ralph (pronounced "Ralph") and Marlene (pronounced "Pickles"). To make small talk you announce to your hosts that you finished today's 5K "Lucky 13" Welcome Bounce and Run in a respectable time—"13" referring to that allowable percentage of enrollees whose physiques are not nauseating. However, you add, your legs are a bit wobbly from the flu you got over just last week, so you may wish to sit more than is your usual practice at a party.

The cruel music of impending doom rings in your head and compels your attention to a giant, flesh-colored bean bag in the corner which you soon realize is actually the naked lard of one person, approximately the dimensions of Jabba the Hut. Her thighs and bummular region flow perfectly together as one. "Flow" is the operative word here since, like foam insulation, her body fills every nook of the love seat she inhabits.

Jabba has overheard your wobbly leg story and graciously offers you her seat. Oh my, have I mentioned what a hot, sultry, humid, sticky, wet, humidly hot, icky-sticky summer night it is? She begins to rise, the sloshing and swaying of thigh matter making you a bit seasick. You can tell by her progress it will take about five minutes for her to fully extract herself, after which it will be hopelessly ungallant of you to refuse the empty seat. What do you do?

  1. You begin to faint, but then think better of it as you realize that you would be carried, possibly by Ms. Hut herself, straight to her Love Seat of Unspeakable Secretions. This was not a good idea, so you quickly forget I brought it up.
  2. You cry out that you have suddenly remembered that you must rush back to your room to begin observance of the Holy Thursday Night of Purification ritual, which includes among other important things the, um, cleansing of the elbows with Listerine, and of course the total abstinence from accepting favors of naked people.
  3. You insist, on the verge of indignant tears, that you have never allowed a lady to give up her seat for you and you're not about to start now. You look around imploringly and ask, just because we have abandoned our clothing, we haven't also forgone our manners, have we? And everyone says, no of course not. Then a large, moist man named Ed offers you his stool (as in furniture). See "b."
  4. You pass gas, and everyone including you busily acts like it wasn't them. Subjects begun during a gas event are never finished, are they, you clever rogue.

I see that only one of you is still interested in joining a nudist colony. Very well, sir, but first you must relinquish that copy of "Naked Checkout Girls Scan Each Other."