Jamie Murnane

It's one way to get back to nature.

At the end of a winding back road in suburban Chicago rests a large gate connected by two large stone pillars. If it weren't for the address marker, the place would be nearly impossible to find, hidden by lush green trees and tall, sweeping weeds. Just inside the gate, Carol, an elderly woman with glasses much too big for her small face, takes names of new arrivals. Just first names: Frank, Ellen, Maude. Dressed as though she's just come from church, Carol's a polite, fragile-looking woman. Her husband George stands near a towering pine tree nearby, completely, shamelessly naked.

"Go ahead and take your clothes off," he tells me just seconds after our first handshake. "You can put them under a lawn chair."

"Next time," I promise, knowing there won't be one.

Sporting only a pair of worn black sandals and thick eyeglasses, George, the owner of the Chicago Sun Club, looks surprisingly fit for a man in his late sixties. The only evidence of his age is the flaccidity of his flour-white skin, his thinning sand-colored hair and a few missing teeth. He smiles widely while greeting partygoers at the club's barbeque.

The backyard seems to stretch on forever, except to the right, where it slips into a large greenish-brown pond. A hammock hangs stationary between two large oaks in the shade. Three or four deer frolic far out in the neighboring field. It is amidst this tranquility that roughly twenty other club members are trying to soak up what little sun there is.

One of the nearly 250 organizations affiliated with the American Association of Nude Recreation, the Chicago Sun Club is the area's leading nudist club. It's considered a "non-landed" organization, which means the members are nude nomads who travel the city and suburbs for their events. George says during the winter, the club hosts "Buff Bowling" at a suburban bowling alley once a month. In the summer and for special occasions, the club occupies a health club or a private residence, much like this one.

Half of the people are wandering around the deck where 50-year-old men tend to the grills. A scrawny tan man bends over to put more ice in a water-filled cooler--revealing his hairy behind. Guests are nibbling on Doritos and olives, sipping Diet Coke and water, when a tall beer-bellied man with a bearskin rug for a back offers up shriveled hot dogs and charred chicken, tongs in hand. A towel is wrapped around his waist snugly, for protection from the flames.

The others are stretched out on striped towels draped over lounge chairs, every inch of their bodies, including every wrinkle, pimple, scar and hair, fully exposed. As the pool is as cloudy as the afternoon's sky, no one is swimming. A few older women sit quietly to the side, reading paperbacks--the kind with the seductive illustrations on the cover. Others are chatting casually, to no one in particular. And others aren't saying a word, but simply reveling in the opportunity to show some skin.

A few people seem uncomfortable with me there, turning their heads, avoiding eye contact, smiling sheepishly as if to say "Please don't come near me." Perhaps it's because I'm dressed, with ripped jeans and a purple and orange T-shirt, the only skin showing on my arms and face. I'm the outsider. Some, like Shirley, a thin older woman with a dirty-blonde mullet and blemished nose, don't want to talk. "No comment," she says when I say hello.

Becky, a plump forty-something, sits next to her husband Bill. They're not saying much to each other. But she proves to be the conversationalist of the two as I have a seat next to her, trying to keep my eyes on her eyes or the ground. "We saved you a seat," she says gregariously. I begin to feel nervous, thinking she's going to try to recruit me. Uncomfortable enough with my clothes on, it takes me ten minutes to even set my bag down.

"We just got these chairs--on sale," Becky states proudly, referring to the neon blue and green folding chairs with cup holders that their bodies are sunken into. Bill nods and smiles awkwardly, while picking at the chicken wing on the paper plate he has resting on his lap. Becky says she and Bill live "near the Brookfield Zoo," explaining that club members respect one another's privacy, for some are closeted nudists and would not want their neighbors, co-workers or sometimes even family members to find out about their exposing activities. "Not too many specifics," she says firmly.

"I just read this book, 'The Quality of Life Report.' We're readers," Becky says authoritatively. "I'd suggest you check it out at the library--don't waste the money on buying it." She flips her long chocolate brown hair over her shoulder with a snap of her wrist and it hangs over the back of the chair. I keep thinking the book she's recommending is some nudist manual--a how-to of sorts--but later, I discover it's just a harmless chick-lit novel about a New York City reporter who moves to the Midwest.

Becky changes the subject back to nudism, something she and Bill have been familiar with for nearly thirty years. "Our kids think we're crazy. But they're grown up now. We didn't really do it much when they were younger, so now we're getting back into it," she says. Bill tries to chime in but his shyness leaves him practically inaudible. He smiles, sweat building up under the gray hair that swoops down to his scrunched forehead. Becky laughs sharply. "Oh yeah. The rule for first timers is don't point and laugh," she says, only half kidding.

"We've been in the Chicago club for about six years," Becky continues, clasping her hands over her belly, concealing the few stretch marks. "We started by going to the nude bowling." Bill stares at the pool and never makes eye contact, and occasionally backs his wife with "yeahs," chuckles and nods.

Bill gets up to get the two of them something to drink from the deck, where George is sitting, cross-legged at a patio table. Across from him sits a man with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair and tough-guy accent straight out of "The Sopranos." He taps his fingers on the table rhythmically. Warm pasta salad at his side, George fans out a small stack of brochures on nudism. One is surprisingly enticing--like a pamphlet for a tropical vacation, the Bahamas, maybe. Instead, it's for AANR, what George calls "ann-err." Inside, it illustrates clips from national magazines and newspapers, an indication that nudism has recently increased in popularity.

Soprano man asks if I'm having fun. Still unsure, I say yes anyway. "See, there's nothing of any sexual nature going on here," George says. "That's not what it's about. We're just normal people."

Lionel, a man with a face like a bulldog who appears to be in his late seventies, easily the oldest man there, shuffles over to join the conversation. "Nudism has nothing to do with sex," he tells me. "If I wanted sex, I'd go to a sex club--like Jack Ryan."

George turns back and tells me that people are born nudists--that that's what Mother Nature intended--but have been trained by society to be ashamed of it. "Since you were a kid, you were probably told to keep your clothes on by your parents," he rightly assumes. "That's why so much of society has a problem with it."

With the sun beginning to set and some people starting to gather their belongings, it's time to leave. While saying goodbye to Becky and Bill, a somewhat familiar woman approaches me. It's Carol, relieved of her gate duties and her clothes. She's thin, except for a small belly comparable to a kangaroo's pouch. Her skin is so pale it has a hint of blue and it wrinkles and sags. She says she wishes we could have talked more and hopes to see me again soon.

"Come on out to Valparaiso next weekend for the big event," George says. "Maybe we'll all get to see more of ya." His shoulders thrust up and down as he laughs.

A week later, I'm debating whether to drive forty minutes east of the city to Valparaiso, Indiana. Since I'm still curious why these people choose to run around--in front of other people--with no clothes on, I go. After all, the last experience left me thinking it was just something for retired people who had nothing but time on their hands.

Turning off a main highway, I spot the entrance to the Lake O' the Woods Club, the closest "landed club" in the area and one that George says many Chicago Sun Club members go to. The sign is very small and says nothing about nudity, so I wonder if it's the right place. The gate is open, so I pull in. Even the people in the parking lot are naked; this is it. A short, stocky man with curly brown hair is carrying a cooler to his SUV. He nods a hello. On the other side, a curvy woman is walking from a car toward all the people, her cheeks jiggling with every left, right, left.

Making my way past the fenced-in pool, I'm wearing cut-off khaki shorts and sandals, attempting to fit in. If everyone else is walking around with genitals exposed, the least I could do is show some leg.

Seeing there's more than geriatrics at this gathering, I feel somewhat more comfortable today. I ask for Catherine, the club's publicist and treasurer who George put me in touch with. The nude, gray-haired woman at the sign-in table calls to a short woman wearing only a hot-pink visor.

I realize Catherine is also a participant as she sprints over, making it clear why women wear sports bras. She shakes my hand and leads me under a large yellow and white circus-style tent to a picnic table to introduce me to a group of people whose names I won't remember but whose bodies will be ingrained in my memory for life. One of these people is her husband, Ken. He's a tall bookish man who looks as though he's never been out in the sun. Catherine explains that he fixes copy machines, fax machines and other electronics in the Loop. She then turns and walks toward the sparkling pool, indicating that I follow. Her back and shoulders are covered with freckles and she is tan all over--an indication that she spends most of her time outdoors in the buff.

At the pool, small children splash old men and women in the face and everyone laughs. Catherine calls to Mary, a tall, athletic-looking woman in her mid-thirties, to ask if she can borrow her golf cart to give me a tour of the club's 130 acres. Key in one hand, Catherine picks up the Chicago Bears towel from the seat of the golf cart, using only her thumb and index finger. Then, she lays her own pink towel on the driver's side of the cart, fumbling the first time.

"You don't need a towel, but I do," she says.

Catherine turns the key, presses her sandaled foot to the accelerator and we're off, careening through paths and over rolling hills, around the twenty-acre lake. We go by a sand volleyball court, where it looks as though children have been building sand castles.

On the opposite side of the lake from the pool area, some people are tanning out on a pier. A teenaged boy sits wearing headphones as an older man casts line from a fishing pole out into the middle of the lake. A few rowboats glide through the still water in the distance.

"It's a very clean lake," Catherine says reassuringly. "We don't allow any boats with motors--well, just trawling ones, but nothing that will pollute the water. Other than lily pads and stuff, it's very clean. Perfect for swimming." While these clubs are clothing-optional, nudity is required for swimming.

Driving along the bumpy trails, Catherine talks about how she first encountered nudism. She speaks of frequent trips to places like England and Spain when she was younger and all the nude beaches found overseas. "It's so common over there," she says, strongly emphasizing "there."

"If you look at advertising here--it's all about sex and shock value," she says. "In places like Europe, it's very different. Like, the way they'll advertise something like bubble bath--they might briefly show a woman reach for a towel while here, there's candles, music, and a woman standing there dripping wet. At the same time, people here are so uncomfortable when it comes to real people being nude."

We wind through rugged paths through the trees, past some quaint and some exquisite summer homes. "Some people even live here year-round," Catherine says as we drive by a small burgundy home. There's a man balancing on a ladder in front of the garage fixing a light, au naturel.

We drive by a tiny white cottage, which Catherine says is hers and Ken's. "We come up usually every weekend," she says. "It's all we could afford, but it's really cute. Oh, and that's our rich neighbor's place," she adds, pointing to the summer home that's four times bigger than hers. "They just put an addition on. They also own a home in downtown Chicago and somewhere in Florida." The entire front is glass and inside the wall is covered with abstract paintings.

Eventually, we make our way back to the clubhouse for lunch. A gourmet feast including a seafood salad and odd-colored meatballs is set up buffet-style. Three different kinds of punches are in large glass bowls on a table. Naked men and women from ages 7 to 70 all cram into a stifling room to form a single-file line. Everyone is sweaty, extremely close to one another and hungry. I grab fruit and a bottle of water and go back outside where it's not as hot. Everyone piles onto the picnic tables under the tent to eat and someone makes a comment about not wanting to go back to the city.

After lunch, Louise, a woman in her early fifties whose skin is evidence of far too much sun, reveals proudly that she's a rarity in the world of nudism. She's a third-generation nudist. "Nudism is a lifestyle choice," she says. "Except for me. I was born into it." She grins and her red face glows. A Forest Park resident, Louise jokes that her parents spent so much time at Lake O' the Woods that she was probably conceived here.

"It's just very relaxing here," Louise says, running her long fingernails through her platinum hair. Even her scalp is red. "And you know, some members are very rich and some are poor, but here, everyone looks the same so it doesn't matter. It's like an extended family out here. A really huge extended family."

Louise walks away to find some much needed shade. I head toward the pool, where a group of fifteen women decide to start a bout of water aerobics, ousting the one man who was enjoying the water. He pulls himself up the ladder, dripping wet, a sight that would have sent me running the other way last weekend. Now, it's no big deal. Only an hour has past since my arrival and though I notice that people are nude, it seems eerily normal, almost, yes, natural.

I kick off my sandals and have a poolside seat next to Joanne, a heavyset woman from Joliet. She's sitting in one lounge chair and resting her feet in another, knees bent. When she smiles, she flashes a wide gap between her front teeth. Her skin is wrinkly from the water. "I'm probably in the pool from the minute we get here until it's dark," she says with a laugh, pushing her dark plastic sunglasses up her nose. "I love it out here," she says, cracking her knuckles nonchalantly. "My husband Ken was a member of the Chicago Sun Club when we met in '91. I told him, `I don't care what you do, just don't expect me to do it too.' Our first date was Buff Bowling with George and them and I was just a spectator," she says. "Not long after, he brought me here. I looked around and was like `There's a fat lady, there's a skinny lady. Oh, there's another fat lady.' So I figured what the hell. Ken's friends said since it was my first time, it was okay if I wanted to keep my clothes on, but I was naked before he was."

Joanne sighs heavily and says, "We come out here three or four times a month. It's nice to be around people who don't care what you look like. And, it's just so relaxing to lay out with the sun hitting your entire body. There's nothing like it."

Just outside the fence of the pool is a younger nudist. This is Benny, the 30-year-old who looks as though he could be the long lost member of Poison or Motley Crue, complete with long dark hair, which the wind keeps blowing in his face, and black tattoos. His eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, the Chicagoan explains he's here with his wife, Eddy, who was the reason he became a nudist at 26.

"My wife and I went on vacation to Key West and she wanted to go to a nude beach. I was like, `No way.' I just didn't get it," Benny says. "Then, I found this book on nudism my father had and that's where I learned what it's really all about," he says. "It's about being yourself; that there's nothing to be ashamed of but at the same time, there's nothing to be proud of. There's no perfect body--just different shapes and sizes." Benny continues with what, if heard in a bar, would seem the most inapt pick-up line: "I know what you got. I don't need to see you naked to know. We're all the same."

Addressing what his friends think about his involvement with nudism, Benny says he's no nudism zealot. "I'm not a closeted nudist like a lot of these people," he says, tilting his head toward the crowded pool area. "In fact, we practice nudism at home and I encourage my friends to participate... we sit around and watch movies or have a few beers just like anyone else, except we're nude."

Benny's even gotten some friends to go with them to Lake O' the Woods. But not all have been so accepting. "This one guy came out and seemed to have an okay time but then he said he thought it was sick that people would raise their kids around this kinda thing. I can't even be friends with him anymore. I've had to cut ties. I just can't stand closed-minded people," Benny says. "I don't think it's much different from some of these Middle Eastern cultures who make the women wear all the scarves. Our culture is so uptight and brainwashed to believe we have something to hide." He heads toward the clubhouse, now clear of food and punches, where Eddy sits at a table, looking out the window. She's a pretty, petite blonde with a deep bronze tan who says little but smiles much.

Walking back outside to have a cigarette, Benny says he and Eddy spend almost every Saturday of the summer out there and in the winter, they bowl in the buff. "It's cool. But, I mean, look around you. These people are great, but of course, we'd love if more people our age were around," he says. Before walking away, he gives me his and Eddy's phone number, in case I ever want a ride out to the club. "Don't worry, we're not swingers or anything. Sometimes people get the wrong idea when we invite them," he says.

It's getting late, so I decide it's time to go, although I feel more comfortable being there than I did during my first nudist experience. I say goodbye to everyone I've met and they all say things like "Come again soon." One man seems disappointed and says, "Aww, aren't you gonna try it yourself?"

"Next time," I say, knowing I might.

(2004-07-20)

Also by Jamie Murnane

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