CHAPTER TWO

So that was how I got involved. Jack was a little surprised when I popped the question, but after I explained about the leave-of-absence deal and the novel I planned to write he got very enthusiastic and told me he'd see what he could do for me.

An hour later, he called back.

"I just had a talk with the director of the colony," he told me. "He says there's room for you, provided you pass the interview."

"Interview? What kind of interview?"

"Oh, nothing much," Jack said. "Just a sort of screening that they put you through to make sure you aren't perverted or queer or anything. They want nice healthy-minded people at their camp. They don't want anyone going there out of evil impulses."

"I get it," I said. "Okay, when's the interview?"

"Are you free tomorrow night?"

"I suppose."

"Good. I'll meet you downtown for dinner and then I'll drive you out to his place. He lives in Cicero."

We had a good dinner the next night, and by half past eight we were speeding over to Cicero. The last place I expected to find the director of a nudist camp living was the staid, ultra-conservative suburb of Cicero, but you never can tell. Jack drove his shiny Mercedes 300-SL as though it were an old Ford he had picked up on the junkheap and souped up; he came within an ice of knocking dents in the little rocket half a dozen times, but he didn't seem to let it bother him. I told myself that if I owned a car that cost $13,000, I'd treat it with more respect than Jack did. But then I figured that if I earned Jack's kind of money maybe the price of the car wouldn't matter much to me either.

At any rate, a little while later we zeroed in on a quiet, suburban street, and I found myself marching up to the front door of a nice-looking stone-walled house about twenty-five years old. I don't know what I was expecting to answer the door—somebody in the nude, probably—and so I was just a bit startled when a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, fully dressed, answered the bell.

She beamed at Jack. "Hello, Mr. Meehan. And this is your friend, Mr.—ah—"

"Fieldston," I supplied. "Al Fieldston."

"Yes. Won't you both come in. Dr. Richards is on the telephone just at the moment, but he'll be with you right away. I'm Mrs. Richards, Mr. Fieldston. I like people to call me Elinor."

I nodded and smiled, and Jack and I went in. We were led into a nicely-furnished place, the tables and chairs in modern decor but having an agreeably used look about them. There was an enormous bookcase jam-packed, spreading over two entire walls. I sat down in an armchair, Jack took the couch, and Elinor Richards beamed at us both. A moment of awkward silence ensued. I was a little startled by three framed photos hanging on the wall of an alcove. One of them showed Elinor Richards, looking plump and bosomy, wearing absolutely nothing at all. The second picture showed a tall, lean man that I took to be Dr. Richards, and he was without a figleaf too. The third picture was the killer, though. It showed a dark-haired girl in her teens smiling sweetly into the camera. She was wearing the nicest pair of mammary protruberances I had seen in a long while, but nothing else, but nothing. It was the daughter of the house, I guessed. It seemed an odd way to do things, leaving nude photos of the family hanging up where casual visitors could get a look at the nubile daughter in the altogether, as well as Dr. and Mrs.

I was still pondering this point when the girl herself appeared. She was dressed, incidentally. She looked to be sixteen, maybe seventeen. She was the willowy kind, but her sweater was tight and well-filled. She was wearing a plaid skirt and bobby-sox. A regular teenager, I figured. Automatically I glanced up at the wall, where I could view her without the encumbrances of the sweater and skirt, and I turned red and looked away guiltily. She saw me flick my eyes from the picture to the real thing, but she didn't show any trace of embarrassment.

Elinor said, "This is my daughter Sandra. You've met Mr. Meehan, dear. This is a friend of his, Mr. Al Fieldston."

"Hello," I said.

"Very pleased to meet you," she husked in a siren's voice, deep and throaty. She looked straight into my eyes and I squirmed. Maybe she was only sixteen, but she was pure concentrated sex. She was saying very-pleased-to-meet-you with her body as well as her lips, and let me tell you, it's a discomforting thing to get that kind of greeting from a teenager. It's something like picking up a piece of rope and discovering it's really a high-voltage power line. I sizzled.

She floated across the room, giving me the full benefit of her figure in profile, and another quick glance at the photo on the wall made it evident that everything she was showing me was genuine. Sitting down demurely, she crossed her legs and her skirt rode up above one knee. That struck me as funny. Here was a teenage nudist, accustomed to walking around completely bare-bottomed, but as long as she had clothes on she was determined to pull little coquettish tricks with her sweater and her skirt this way. Funny people, women are.

At that moment Dr. Richards appeared. In clothes, he looked extremely dignified. He was a spare, lanky man somewhat past fifty, with thick grey hair and a conservative taste in clothing. He smiled at me and said, "Ah. Mr. Fieldston."

We had a couple of seconds of hand-shaking and greeting. Then Elinor took orders for drinks, and while we were waiting for them Dr. Richards began to fill me in on the Sunland Health Colony pitch.

The colony was fifteen years old, he said. It had been founded by some philanthropic old codger from Valparaiso who had enjoyed sunbathing himself, and who left a tract of land and a non-profit organization to administer it. Dr. Richards—who mentioned that he was a professor of math at one of the local universities—was the current director, the top man of a board of five.

"My academic year ends early in June," he said. "I'll be going up there then."

"With your whole family?"

"Of course. We're all devoted outdoors people. Sandra has been a nudist since she was old enough to walk."

We got down to the important part of the interview. He wanted to know all about me—what I did for a living, where I had been educated, on and on and on. Mostly he was trying to find out about my motives for wanting to go to his little skin-camp. I told him about the novel I wanted to write, and how I wanted peace and quiet and fresh air while I wrote it. He didn't exactly ask me about my sex life, but by skirting around the subject he managed to get told that I was a reasonably normal bachelor who wasn't likely to engage in obscene acts in the mess hall or to creep around at night pinching the other colonists.

After about forty minutes of this sort of stuff he seemed to be satisfied with my sincerity.

He said, "You must understand that we have certain rules that have to be observed. If you think any of them are too harsh, say so now and we'll have to consider your application withdrawn."

"What are they?"

"First," he said, "we don't permit the use of alcoholic beverages in the colony. This is strictly enforced. You see, we can't run the risk of being accused of sponsoring wild orgies, Mr. Fieldston. Beer is available on request from the kitchen.

"Second, we prohibit unauthorized picture-taking. You can bring a camera with you, but all film must be developed on the premises and permission must be obtained from any person who happens to be in the picture, or else the negative will be destroyed. Obviously we must protect the privacy of our members."

"Obviously," I said.

"Third, you must obtain permission before bringing any outside guests into the camp. This should be self-explanatory. We don't want our grounds over-run with curiosity-seekers.

"Fourth, the matter of dress. We don't require complete nudity. When the weather is inclement, naturally, our people dress accordingly. As for the rest of the time, we naturally prefer complete nudity, but no one is forced to adhere to it. However, we do object to dressing in a manner calculated to arouse erotic sensations—as, for example, a woman wearing an extremely scanty bikini. And likewise, if you show a total reluctance to remove your clothing at any time in public, we'll have to assume that you have come among us as a voyeur, with the intention of spying on us. We reserve the right to request your departure at any time."

"I understand that," I said.

"All right, then. These are the chief conditions under which you'll live. Such minor regulations as we have are posted in each cabin. The fee is $40 a week, which includes lodgings, linens, and three meals a day."

"That sounds extremely reasonable."

"We're not interested in profit, Mr. Fieldston," Dr. Richards said piously. "Our only aim is to provide a place where those people free of the shackling inhibitions of society may bare their bodies to God's own sunlight. Do you find our company appealing?"

"I'm very anxious to enroll."

"Very well, then. Would you fill out this blank?"

He gave me a mimeographed questionnaire, and I went through it quickly, checking off the boxes that asked whether I had ever had a venereal disease, whether I had ever been convicted of a sexual offense, and such. While I was filling out the form, I noticed that both Sandra and her mother had quietly left the room. I was wondering why, and I found out quickly enough.

Dr. Richards looked at the questionnaire and smiled. "There's only one formality remaining. Would you please remove your clothes, Mr. Fieldston?"

I frowned. "Right here?"

"Please. You'll notice that my wife and daughter have left the room. We understand that exposure is a matter of some difficulty the first time, especially when other people are fully dressed around you. So we spare you the sometimes embarrassing necessity of having to disrobe in front of fully clothed strangers of the opposite sex. But I must ask you to remove your clothes now."

"All right. But why?"

"For—ah—esthetic reasons, Mr. Fieldston. We try to avoid unpleasantness in our colony. If your body should be seriously scarred or deformed in a way that would make you repugnant to our more sensitive members, I'm afraid I would have to reject you."

Shrugging, I peeled out of my clothes. The livingroom door was ajar, and I glanced uneasily at it, half expecting Sandra or her mother to come strolling back in after I had peeled all the way down. They didn't—but I was almost certain I saw Sandra peek around the edge of the door momentarily.

In a few seconds my clothes were neatly deposited on the couch, and I was turning in a slow circle in front of Dr. Richards, feeling mildly silly. But I knew I had nothing to worry about. I don't have any scars or deformities or anything like that, and I've kept myself in pretty fair trim over the years. So after I had completed one full turn, Dr. Richards told me I was accepted for membership, and could put my clothes back on.

When I left there that night, I was a full-fledged member of the Sunland Health Colony for that summer. Jack and I were sharing the same cabin. On the way out, Sandra gave me another how-about-a-roll-in-the-hay? look, and I felt myself starting to fog up.

As I buckled myself into Jack's car I said, "Fill me in on that Sandra item. You know how old she is?"

"Sixteen last month," he said impassively.

"Did she give you eyes like that when you had your interview, Jack?"

"Yep."

"She's really built, too. Did you see that picture of her in the raw, up in that alcove? She's got a pair of knobs that really catch your eye."

"Yep."

The monosyllable kick he was on was beginning to bug me. I said, "Hell, man, it's too bad she's jailbait. If she means those glances she throws around—"

"She does."

"You think she's been around?"

"I know she has, man," Jack said flatly.

"You know?"

"Not me personally. But I hear things from others. The guy who told me about this place warned me about her. Watch out for the director's nympho daughter, he said. It seems she's been laying for the membership since she turned fourteen."

"What do her parents say?"

"They don't say a damn thing. Either they don't know or else they think it's terribly modern for her to be rolling in the underbrush."

I nibbled my lip, thinking of that eight-by-ten nude print, unretouched, hanging on the wall. Then I thought of the eighteen-year gap in our ages, and I felt ashamed of myself.

Jack dropped me off at my place, and I started right in making lists. For the next ten days, I was busy doing all the things you have to get done before you can go away for a couple of months. You know—pay the gas and electric bills, arrange to have newspaper delivery stopped, tell the post office where to forward first-class mail, give the one-day-a-week housekeeper her vacation money and tell her not to bother coming in for a while, and so on. At the same time I was busy at the office, getting things wrapped up on time.

By the first of June I was ready. I had severed all my ties with the outside world. The phone was shut off, the windows were shuttered, my suitcase was packed. I didn't take very much. Some socks, a sweater, a couple of changes of underwear, a shirt or two, and three reams of typing paper. You didn't need swimsuits or neckties if you were going to a nudist colony for the summer.

At half past five that evening Jack stopped by with the Mercedes. We crammed my one suitcase and my portable typewriter aboard and took off. We put away a couple of steaks at a restaurant ten miles up the road, and then headed out toward the Sunland Health Colony.

We got just a little bit lost. Just a little. The colony was on a dirt road that branched off a country road that stemmed from a big highway, and we missed a couple of turns and found ourselves practically in Wisconsin before Jack decided we weren't heading the right way. We dug out the roadmaps and retraced our path, Jack goosing the car up to 80 to make up for lost time.

It kept getting darker and darker, until by half past eight it was pitch-black, and I had panicky visions of us wandering around back roads all night. But just before nine Jack muttered, "This looks familiar"—the first words he had spoken in half an hour—and he swung the car off the road and straight at what seemed to me to be the trunk of a tree.

It wasn't, though. There was a little bit of a path leading into the woods, and a chain strung across the path. A hand lettered sign nailed against one of the trees informed us, PRIVATE ROAD. DO NOT ENTER. HONK HORN FOR ATTENDANT.

Jack honked, good and loud, and the yap of that horn must have been audible all the way up to the St. Lawrence Seaway. We waited two or three minutes.

"Maybe they didn't hear me," Jack said.

"It's a nudist colony, not a retreat for deaf mutes," I told him. "Just be patient."

A couple of moments later, we saw a lantern making its way toward us out of the woods. A slabjawed man of about forty became visible, approaching us. He was wearing a yellow rain-slicker, but he had buttoned it hastily and I could see he wasn't wearing much underneath it.

"Yes?" he said.

"We're new guests," Jack said. "Jack Meehan and Al Fieldston. Dr. Richards knows about us."

He nodded and pulled a fraying index card out of a pocket of the slicker. Consulting it by lantern-light, he decided we were okay.

"Meehan ... Fieldston. Yeah. Just a minute, now."

He unwrapped the chain that blocked the entrance to the little path. Then, walking in front of us and guiding us with the lantern, he led us inside.

The Mercedes inched ahead, over what must have been three quarters of a mile of winding, weed-infested dirt road. Jack travelled at about eight miles an hour, and the Mercedes seemed practically insulted to be going so slowly. At length we came to another chain stretched across the road. This time the sign accompanying it said, SUNLAND HEALTH COLONY—WELCOME!

Our taciturn guide removed the chain, and we passed between what looked like the one break in a high, gloomy wall, into the camp itself.

Over to our right we saw a building of sorts, well lit, and we could make out people moving within. They seemed to be dancing. We heard music. Our guide said, "You fellows are in Cabin Nine, down near the lake. Drive your car over to the Social Hall and I'll get you Miss Baker. She'll take you down to the cabin."

Obediently, we drove across the broad lawn and pulled up outside the Social Hall. Our man went inside. We walked up on the porch and I saw the most fantastic sight I had ever beheld.

There were about a dozen people in the building, and they were square-dancing. Men and women, and their ages seemed to range from ten to seventy, with a heavy concentration in the thirties. Two or three more—including the caller—were as naked as the day they came into the world. The rest were partially clad, and I mean partially. A couple of the women were wearing sweaters only, and another had on a pair of trousers. One of the men had a shirt, another a hat and a pair of socks. Quite a sight.

Quite.

They took as much notice of us as though we were two spiders crawling on the wall. We stood there, waiting for the dance to end, watching them bounce gaily around with various parts of their anatomies flapping up and down. For the first time I began to have real misgivings about my choice of a summer retreat.

"There's the blonde I saw," Jack whispered, nudging me.

I saw and gulped. She was one of the women wearing only a sweater. As I mentioned before, it covered her down to about the navel, leaving all the rest bare. I stared at the exposed beauty of her, at the firm flanks and the trim buttocks and all the rest, and somehow none of this seemed real to me. But there she was, what looked like two eye-popping breasts going up and down with each swing of her hips, under her sweater.

The dance ended, finally, and our friend with the lantern went over and whispered something to her. She nodded and came across the dance floor toward us, smiling amiably.

Perhaps you've never had the experience of having a glorious looking blonde about five feet ten come striding toward you, naked from the navel down. Let me tell you, it's a stunner, especially when she's a total stranger. She came up to us and thrust out her hand.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Joanie Baker. Glad to meet you fellows. Which one of you is which?"

"I'm Jack Meehan," Jack said. "I was here as a visitor a month or so back—"

"That's right. I remember. And so you must be Al Fieldston. Glad to know you, Al."

"A pleasure," I mumbled, trying desperately to keep my eyes above the hem of her sweater. I didn't want to be thrown out right at the start for lascivious ogling, or something like that.

But she turned around and stepped back into the hall, while we remained sheepishly on the threshold. My eyes came to rest on her shapely rear. The night air was chilly, but I felt sweat dribblets running down my body.

She clapped her hands and said, "Attention, everybody. I want you to meet our two new members. Jack Meehan and Al Fieldston." She pointed to each of us in turn. "No use introducing you to everyone tonight, fellows. Suppose I take you down to your cabin and you can get settled right away?"

"Fine," we said in chorus.

So she walked in front of the car, leading us to our cabin, while Jack's headlights nicely illuminated her buttocks. It's a pleasure to watch the muscles in an athletic woman's rear as she walks, and I didn't ever remember having had such a thorough opportunity. She led us down a narrow road for perhaps two hundred yards, and then we turned left into a little clearing where some other cars were parked.

"Leave your car here, fellows. The cabin isn't very far."

My eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, and I saw a string of fairly widely-spaced cabins running down the side of a gently sloping hill. At the bottom of the hill were trees fencing the area in.

As we walked, she pointed out some of the geography. "The lake's right down there behind those trees," she said. "The tennis courts are over there ... the baseball diamond ... the handball court...." In the dark, we couldn't see a thing, but we nodded anyway.

We stopped in front of the ninth cabin in the row. Joanie went in and turned on the lights, and we carried our luggage in. It consisted of two fair-sized bedrooms with narrow beds, and an adjoining head shared by both us. Simple and rustic, but agreeable.

She said, "The dance will be going on for about another half hour or so, till ten o'clock. That's when our organized activities usually end. Breakfast's at half past seven, and if you're not in the mess hall by eight you won't get served."

"Suppose we can't find our way up front again by ourselves?"

She grinned. "I'll stop by in the morning and get you," she said. "Any problems now?"

"Not yet," I said.