That 'squiggly-wiggly' feeling -- National Nude Recreation Week comes to an end

Hey, they're naked! Well, in the spirit of Nude Recreation Week, take a peek inside a Sandy Valley nudist club, where 'au natural' is the only way to go

We're all adults here, right?

Surely it's possible to relate one's experience at a nudist retreat in nearby Sandy Valley without it degenerating into snickers or stares or... Ohmigod, here comes the club president wearing nothing but an apron and a smile!

... comments like that.

Right now, a little decorum is in order. The whole nudist experience is supposed to induce "relaxation" - not bring on a full-blown panic attack.

Even if ...

There's a man slathering sunscreen - everywhere!

Relax ... Be suave. Think Jackie O. Think Grace Kelly. Remember the clear-cut "nudist etiquette" laid out in the brochure: "Conduct requiring no apology is expected." That means always carry a towel to set yourself on and never, ever, lasciviously lower your lids.

Gulp!

Feeling free

It is the final weekend of the 23rd annual "National Nude Recreation Week," an effort to bring attention - if not respectability - to being in the buff.

Across the country, people have been shedding their, um, inhibitions and recreating with reckless abandon: a nude car show in Michigan, a bare balloon ride in Georgia.

And in Sandy Valley, about an hour south of town, the Las Vegas Sun Club is hosting an open house, hoping to expose - pun intended - prospective members to the sunnier side of the street.

It's a tough sell. Today, there are barely any new barers. Only the fearless media (including a radio station - go figure), have shown up to check out the - that is, cover - the event.

Still, the Sun Club has been growing steadily, tripling its roster in the last three years to 150 dues-paying members. The club, was formed by current owner Gloria Massey, 71, and her late husband, Jack, in 1979 as an in-town social and travel club. It became Nevada's only landed club in 1996, meaning that it owns its own grounds and offers accommodations for travelers and RVs.

The nudist lifestyle on the whole has been growing too: The Kissimmee, Fla.-based American Association for Nude Recreation boasts 50,000 members nationwide, an increase of 76 percent in 10 years. Proving the great demand for nude recreation, 1,500 New Year's revelers are set to sail around the Caribbean on a sold-out "Millennium Cruise" the last week of 1999.

It's hard to figure out the big attraction. Sure, we "textile" folk with our "cottontails" (nudist parlance for clothed people with bone-white rumps) are forever complaining of overstocked closets with not a thing to wear. And last week's 110-degrees-in-the-shade weather might give anyone the desire to disrobe.

But reality - and a healthy dose of good ol' media-induced, body-image loathing - usually nips those notions in the bud.

Mike, a Las Vegas construction worker and club president, (who, along with many in this article, preferred to go by first name only) hadn't really provided any satisfactory answers when he arrived in my office two weeks before "N-Day" to prep me. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt - and even a hat and some white socks, to boot.

He rhapsodized about the "breeze blowing" down where the sun don't shine, and that "tingly-wingly" - no, he amended, that to "squiggly-wiggly" - feeling.

Instead of feeling all wiggly, I guess I looked ready to wig out.

Dismissing the notion that a nudist colony is an excuse for an orgy, he gently scoffed, "I don't know how you could see anything sexual about a bunch of fat, middle-aged people sitting around and talking. You'll see what it's like when you get there," he added, smiling knowingly. "People have very weird ideas of what goes on out there - until they come out."

Life in the buff

The brochure for this Desert of Eden is nothing but soothing, featuring blue skies and fluffy clouds and touting social nudism as a "wholesome and enjoyable family activity."

The Sun Club seems especially proud of its summer- camp-like amenities, including badminton courts and a "Bar-Be-Cue Grill" and Western hoedown parties.

In fact, Massey had put so much emphasis beforehand chatting up the anniversary parties that had been held there and the sand volleyball court in the works, you figure she's either forgotten this a place where people stroll around naked - or she's trying to get you to forget it.

At first, this disingenuous attitude can make for an "Emperor's New Clothes" sensation. Is she crazy for ignoring the fact that everyone else is naked - or are you crazy for obsessing over it?

Despite all this prepping and soothing and distracting, we are inexplicably nervous, the photographer, my pal the "Pervette" and myself, as we drive up the dusty road and enter the 8-acre facility, shrouded by a wooden fence to keep out the "teenage looky-loos."

We pull into the parking lot, where, lo and behold, a man stands in all his glory - albeit sheltered by his open car door.

Inside, Mike quickly greets me, this time wearing little more than his apron and the orange dog tag around his neck, which IDs him as a bona fide club member. They are barbecuing lunch, he says; why don't we take a tour of the grounds?

In the main yard, about 10 men and women, ages 35 to 70, are hanging out. Literally. They lounge on lawn chairs beneath a tree, while in the middle of the circle, 3-year-old Jocelyn, wearing only two long strands of beads, dances around as her parents smile indulgently.

What? You were expecting something naughtier? Something X-rated?

In fact, after a few hours - yes, hours spent beneath the delirium-inducing sun - this club didn't seem all that different than, say, my Aunt Marlen's book club; it's just another outlet for middle-aged people looking for social interaction, granted, with a higher threshold for entry than most.

As part of my entree, avowed nudist Charley Harvey begins quizzing me extensively to assess my nudity quotient. Ever slept in the nude? Gone to a topless beach? Skinny-dipped?

Well, um...

"Once you swim naked, you'll never go back," one woman says, and they all nod knowingly.

"Well, they say, underneath all our clothing, we're all naked ..." I say, lamely offering up a slogan cribbed from a T-shirt, to which they all nod with delight.

Gaining confidence, I move on to the swimming pool, where, for the first time in my life, I find myself sitting nonchalantly at a deck table with four naked men. Contrary to what you'd think, there is such a thing as a shy nudist. There's even such a thing as a pale nudist.

With a little encouragement, they are ranting about how the fashion industry is a social construct, comparing nude beaches, sharing their sunscreen.

Soon, they begin brandishing nudity quips. "I was born a nudist," Leon says. "I've got pictures." "We need a nude casino, so people who lose their shirts don't have to worry," adds Steve, who wears his watch because he "feels naked" without it.

"The only thing you'll find out (at a nudist camp) is the biggest lie of all - that all men are created equal," Ike says.

Before long, they begin to make a concentrated effort to recruit a new member to the cult of nudism, touting the lack of tan lines, of laundry, of pretension; promising "freedom," "stress-relief," and above all, "acceptance." No one is judged on their muscle tone - as Jim puts it: "You don't have to have the body of some 18-year-old surfer girl."

This much is indisputable: From what I could slyly gather from beneath my shades, relying on my peripheral vision alone (i.e., not much), the most attractive body in the club, hands down, was the statue of Michaelangelo's David sitting on the front porch.

There is, of course, one question we are dying to ask, but only my photographer summons up the nerve - what do they do if they get aroused?

"Never happens," all four quickly agree.

"Most of us are raised (that) if you're nude, you're going to have sex, but this is not related to sex at all," Jim, a veteran of 21 years who met his wife at a nudist colony, explains.

In fact, in this topsy-turvey universe, it is the presence of clothing that seems to drive them to distraction.

"When I talk to her," Steve says, gesturing to the nude woman sitting next to him, "I just look at her face. But when I talk to you, I keep looking at your top, wondering what's underneath."

I was left wondering myself what it might have been like to catch that "squiggly-wiggly" breeze.

Then again, some things, I suspect, are meant to be left to the imagination.

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