Hold the Dressing

My night at an all-nude New York dinner party.

"If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini and don't take it off until you're 34." This is Nora Ephron, reminding us that now—right now—is the peak naked moment of our lives, the highest point on a steep slope of sagging. I remembered this rule when my email dinged with a dinner invitation. The invite contained details about the host (a friend of a friend), the cuisine (Indian) and the attire (none). A nude dinner party.

I was petrified. I am an enthusiast of other naked activities—skinny dipping, showers, sex. But unlike dinner, those all start with ‘s.’ This seems important. Also, they all involve doing something. A lengthy swimming career taught me that many people are attractive naked not because of their bodies’ particulars, but because of the way those bodies move. It’s why the prettiest people are not always the most sought after. Movement is important. When stationary, my lower body looks like a bean bag chair.

Looking at her breasts six inches from the bread, I lost my appetite.

But I wondered. Nudity is something I can deal with. Perhaps I am a closet nudist. Perhaps nudism is my new untapped outlet, ready to occupy the empty space in my life between knitting and Netflix.

I rang the bell, and a geeky, middle-aged man in bifocals stuck his head around the door. Richard. He pointed to a stack of towels next to the door. The only rule of nudist events is that you sit on a towel. These were hand towels; I was expecting beach.

I was on Richard’s email list because I’d heard that a computer programmer arranges all-expense-paid trips to Florida and the Caribbean for nudist rookies. Richard, the programmer, is a sort of ringleader for New York City nudists, making frequent trips to naturist resorts in Tampa, Palm Springs, St. Maarten's and Maine, bringing along groups of four-to-30 people.

Behind him, another naked man with long brown hair sat with a laptop at the kitchen table. Richard informed me that the female guests were running late. I wondered if stripping with two strange men in a strange apartment was unwise. I scanned. They seemed passive, and I decided they probably wouldn't attack me. On the wall, a digital picture frame flashed group shots of smiling naked people. They didn’t look like they’d been attacked recently. I went into the bathroom, stripped, and took out the beach towel I'd brought from home.

I emerged and gingerly sat down on the towel on the couch, legs tightly crossed. Naked dinner is sort of like public speaking: it takes a couple minutes to win over the crowd, except you’re the crowd. Richard told me about his gig as an extra on Fur, reenacting famous Diane Arbus portraits, while I struggled to find a flattering or comfortable upright couch position. Richard didn’t hold back: one leg out to the side, balls in full view. It wasn’t lewd. When you look at Richard, you understand why he's naked: He looks like he should be naked. Dressed, he would be a 2.5; naked, he's a 7.0. He's rotund-yet-firm, tan everywhere and fully comfortable in his nudity. He says he spends most of his home-time in the buff.