By Alex Berger
A lady nudist wanted a personal tattoo where it would not show, so it was put on her face.
Did you know nudist colonies in the United States are on the rise? It appears many Americans cannot wait to flash their me-oh-my’s. Why am I telling you this? Because Nude Recreation Week began this week.
This annual exhibition, which follows the Fourth of July, is growing by leaps and bounds. The shedding-of-clothes set is eagerly waiting to see how many more of us nude prudes are willing to sit around a nudist camp fire in our birthday suits roasting marshmallows — and, hopefully, nothing else — during this “be naked as a jaybird” celebration.
Nudists are selfish. They are only wrapped up in themselves.
Coincidentally, a few weeks ago I met an I.M. “Buck” Nekkid, a nudist, in Flushing Meadows Corona Park.
“Yes,” he proudly said, “and I can disrobe in five seconds flat. We aren’t wackos, but plain, ordinary, carefree, bundles of 100 percent exposed skin that yearn to undrape our shapes. Are you interested?”
“Only if you can also convince Angelina Jolie and Meghan Kelly to pare along with me,” I laughed. “Don’t look for erotica.”
Buck angrily countered, “Look for freedom instead.”
If you believe all men are created equal, try going to a nudist colony.
“Just imagine luxuriating clothes-free under a brilliant sun,” Buck said dreamily, “enjoying the caress of a gentle breeze on your bare integument; floating through the cool, silky waters of a lake; feeling completely casual and relaxed in the stimulating company of other undraped, unfrocked folks. We nudists are trendsetters who want everyone to let the sun shine in where the sun ordinarily does not. Give us a try.”
Visitors were being shown around a nudist colony. A man with a long beard appeared. “Why do you have that long beard?” he was asked. “Someone has to go out for coffee.”
I warily concurred, but only if I could convince Gloria, whom I thought would never want to be in a place where the women all wore the same outfits at the same time. But, surprisingly, she said yes when I explained what “integument” meant.
If you need a lesson in being mindful, watch a nude man climb a barbed-wire fence.
The following day, Buck brought us to his nudist colony. He quickly stripped into his “Full Monty” mode, which made Gloria’s face turn a crimson red and prompted us to tightly embrace our clothing. Gloria was right: All the women wore identical ensembles and the men sported non-attire. A nude gentleman came by and asked Gloria what she thought of his birthday suit.
“It needs pressing,” she answered.
At a nude marriage ceremony, everyone at first glance was able to spot the best man. When the minister asked the bride, “Do you take this man?” she said, “Well, if I had a choice, there’s a guy in the second row ….”
Buck described the many diverse activities at a nudist colony, such as coed basketball, where everyone can score; biking (their seats must hurt); bowling (never drop the ball); camping (beware of bees searching for nectar); and jogging (and “jingling”).
“Notable points all,” I told Buck. But on the other thigh, hip, er, hand, to be or not to be a nudist, is not merely a sartorial question, but a perceptible one: Are men handsomer and women prettier in the nude? Is it natural for one to show his “one” to other ones? Can a nudist be a beekeeper or fish, pick blackberries or sit on a hot, vinyl car seat? Would I be comfortable parading around exhibiting my baby blues and other vitals too delicate to describe in this family newspaper while cavorting with other nudists donning worse anatomies than mine? Would I need stronger prescription eyeglasses? And why put peeping Toms out of business?
There is one place where you can walk around and never see a human face: a nudist colony.
On the other thigh, hip, er, hand, I doubt whether you can ever get Angelina Jolie and Meghan Kelly to join me in your blissful state of nakedness. But the one most vivifying and compelling reason for me not to peel is the one most frightful.
I read that a nudist left his parked vehicle, turned to collect his packages on the rear seat and with arms full, tried to close the door. He got his male pride stuck in the door. He spent 16 days in the hospital. ’Nuff said!
So, c’est la vie, Buck. No nudes is good nudes. Parading around in the raw is definitely a health hazard. My friend Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would love to join, but only if all the women’s faces are veiled.
Contact Alex Berger at timesledgernews@cnglocal.com.
