Nude Attitude
by Baroness Sheri de Borchgrave.

Shed more than your clothes at Desert Shadows naturist resort.

READY TO VENTURE VIRTUALLY ANYWHERE AND WEAR almost anything for a story – whether an Arctic explorer's parka for dogsledding in Lappland or Alpine gear for trekking in Patagonia – I took the assignment of uncovering for the nationÕs top nudist resort, Desert Shadows, a journey which required, naturally, only my birthday suit.

Two weeks before departure, the packing anxiety dreams began – the inverse of the recurrent nightmare of being caught naked in a crowd – along with jitters over what to expect. I reread Thy Neighbor's Wife, in which Gay Talese speaks of his experiences at a nudist retreat where experiments in open sexuality were conducted. Talese went for an overnight visit and stayed two months, a fact which compelled me to buy industrial quantities of condoms to take along. Not quite believing that a nudist retreat required being naked 24 hours a day (it did!), I scoured my closets for transparent clothes with diminishing levels of camouflage, from gauzy cover-ups to crocheted and fishnet peekaboo dresses (traditionally worn with a slip beneath); I figured I'd work my way down to the epidermis gradually. Then I practiced being naked, keeping my clothes off at odd times. I had always slept naked and cleaned my apartment in the nude, but rarely was clothes-free at other times. Finally, I got a Brazilian bikini wax and felt ready to go.

How can I describe the feeling the first morning, as I'm about to proceed to breakfast stark-naked, when opening the door of my villa to the blazing Palm Springs sunshine? In a hyphenated word: panic-stricken. My self-consciousness takes hold of me like a boa constrictor. I quickly shut the door again, concluding that I'll have to be medicated to attempt this stroll. When I crack the door open again, the maid is standing there. I sprint for cover, then still my reaction. The resort's owners, Ray, Sue, Stephen, and Linda, who are always naked, had informed me upon my late-night arrival that because of licensing regulations, most of the staff is clothed but are themselves nudists and so are comfortable with the guests' state of undress. Indeed, I later discover that the chef, the receptionists, the waiters, the masseuses, and even the lawyer for the resort are all card-carrying nudists.

Having faced the first human, I take courage, slip on my clear plastic thongs, grab a towe – essential for sanitary sitting and for men to mask the occasional inappropriate male reaction – and set off on the path full of brilliant flowers and waterfalls over rock sculptures and past the penis fountain. I am waylaid by the sight of a boutique. Clothes for nudists? I enter and am directed to try on a minuscule hip sarong at the mirror (there are no changing rooms) by the salesperson, who informs me that this is the one item of clothing women are allowed to wear. The flimsy wrap, covering only third base, is worn to obviate the need for the ubiquitous towel when sitting.

I enter the dining room, which is chock-full of naked people sitting or perusing the breakfast buffet. Fetching French toast next to a six-foot-tall, buff guy brings on my second knee-jerk reaction. When I get near a naked man, I jump into action. The oddest feeling is that nothing is required of me beyond a pleasant "good morning." ("Lucky you learned this early on or you would have been really busy here," Ray Lovato, the owner, later told me.)

Having grilled Lovato on the rules of etiquette and behavior for this strange new world, I know it's considered impolite, even rude, to look people up and down, the clothed-worldÕs familiar once-over. Ray instructs me to look people straight in the eye instead. I look around at this naked dining assembly, many of them milling around, and try to fix my eyes at their face level while feeling their eyes all over me. I am clearly not one of them, having a bikini of white emblazoned on my tanned skin. (I would be labeled a "cottontail" with "headlights," a mildly mocking appellation from those who esteem a full-body tan with nary a hint of white.)

Obviously the performance anxiety I'm feeling couldn't be calmed by envisioning the audience naked. I once interviewed a Sultan in Indonesia and was told by the prep team never to cross my legs in his presence because it was a vulgar breach of native etiquette. I remember fighting the magnetic drawing together of my legs the entire session. Now my eyes are uncontrollable, the force of gravity pulling them downward to the many penises around me. It has always been my fantasy to be surrounded by male genitalia, but not like this. Rarely have I seen penises at rest, and I decide they definitely look better the other way. My eyes ricochet to the festival of breasts, all bigger than mine. The boa squeezes tighter. How I miss my Wonderbra.

As planned, a friend whom I had hand-picked to join me for this adventure (specifically as a partner in the event of couple switching) enters the dining room after his drive from Tucson. Jon, a 30-year old ex-model, has been a close friend for many years, though never a lover. Naked, he rushes toward me and we embrace in the buff for the first time, hardly able to contain our glee at this unusual reunion. Geoff, the Brad Pitt look-alike son of the owner Stephen, with his statuesque, Heidi-of-the-Alps-looking girlfriend, soon joins us. Aged 21 and an absolute knock-out, Carly tells of how only recently she first met her boyfriend's parents here at their resort; both she and the potential in-laws were naked. "A little unnerving," Carly confesses. "Ever since, I've adopted the nudist way of life, although my parents really don't understand it." Geoff smiles proudly at her. "I would only get involved with a girl who's comfortable enough with her body to adopt a nudist lifestyle."

Mystified by the appeal of this nudist lifestyle and resort – nude recreation being the fastest-growing segment of the travel industry, with an astounding six nudist cruise ships sailing every year – for the next four days, wearing only my emperor's clothes, I set out to discover just what drives people to become naturists, a politically correct term promulgated by the American Association for Naturist Recreation. "It has to be sexual thrill" is my working thesis. After all, for most people naked spells ready-for-sex. A volunteer from the AANR just happens to be there, a 60-year-old woman. "We don't have to hide out here," she says enthusiastically of the Desert Shadows Resort, calling it the jewel in the crown of the nudist empire. "Most nudist venues are far away from civilization," she explains, "usually deep in the woods, down the long, unpaved road. Naturists joke that these places are where "you don't go down the road when it rains."

Instead, the upscale and exclusive Desert Shadows, a condo/hotel smack in the center of fashionable Palm Springs – albeit an enclave surrounded by six-foot-high walls and 10-foot-high shrubs and a further encirclement of high mountains in the distance – is a new concept in nudist recreation. The controversial 59-villa /33-hotel room project was approved while Sonny Bono was mayor of the city. Palm Springs is not only a town of tolerance – there are 38 gay hotels – but the happening place right now. Once the glamorous home to big-screen movie stars such as Kirk Douglas, Gloria Swanson, Bing Crosby, and Lucille Ball, it's experiencing a sweeping revival spearheaded by people like Jim Moore, the creative director of GQ magazine, and the many showbiz people, including Elton John, Goldie Hawn, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, and Barbra Streisand, who've recently bought homes there. Sophisticated clubs and restaurants, like the spectacular Muriel's with its 10-piece salsa dance band and world-class chef, are opening at the rate they once did in South Beach. Having the option of sightseeing in the basin range or enjoying the nearby nightlife attracts first-timers to this alternative vacation resort, people who would never get "nekkid" in the boonies.

Of course, the real hard-core hate to get dressed and leave the complex. Diversions for such devotees include hot air ballooning; nude, full-moon walks in the canyons; tennis; golf; volleyball; swimming at three pools; a Saturday-night nude dance in the Boom Boom Room; and daily dining that features the Northern ltalian-Afro-Caribbean cuisine of blond-dreadlocked chef Theron Collins. Formerly of 2 Bunch Palms, where he served Madonna and Mel Gibson, Collins left the celebrity haunt to live at the resort. He calls nudism "the ultimate freedom." "And besides," he says, "it's the perfect climate to do it all year round in Palm Springs." That clears up another misconception: that all naturists are vegetarians and into natural foods.

For cottontails, the principal diversion is figuring out who these skin-loving people are. I soon found out that the whole thing had little to do with sex. Alas, what I thought would be wild nakedness is instead quite tame. Not exactly a fat farm full of granola-munchers, but an older crowd of mostly fit individuals who feel pretty good about their bods. For sex, it's the wrong place. Nudism is about deep relaxation, freedom, and a complete sense of liberation from society's rules. Its phases: naughty at first, then sensuous, intimate, calming, and finally, freeing. Many people describe it as shedding layers and layers of pretension along with the clothing, which then releases unbelievable tranquility in them – nude nirvana, if you will.

It takes guts to go nude. I guess you just have to be born with a proclivity for it. Oddly, a majority tells me that in childhood they just couldn't keep their clothes on, with their parents always admonishing, "Put something on right now!" Many tell of always seeking out places to get naked as children, from fields of high grasses to skinny-dipping sites.

After five days of this, I'm still in the naughty phase, with fleeting moments of feeling truly liberated. Playing tennis in the buff is a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. (I won, probably because Jon couldn't keep his eye on the ball.) I also get into the Dionysian spirit, dancing naked at the Saturday-night party, but insist on putting on my high-heeled strappy sandals; Jon teases, "Unlike the Barefoot Contessa, you're the bare baronessa – with shoes." He, on the other hand, is a natural at nudism and actually makes it to level five, although after the dance, while in the hot tub, a nubile assistant D.A. rejects his sexual invitation and brings him reeling back to the debutante level with me. No score for naked Jon in the Jacuzzi.

But not unexpectedly, it is while enjoying a Swedish massage at the spa that I get the real skinny on what motivates people, putting to rest Jon's and my suspicion that if we open the right door, we'll finally find the orgy. Not one profile, but all sorts comprise the mix: exhibitionists there to show off surgically sculpted bodies; voyeurs in it for the heady sexual buzz of so much nakedness around them; self-help types shedding negative body images; power players casting off pretensions and general misanthropy; activists dedicating their lives to fighting against the demonization of the act of nudism; discreet swingers out for lascivious liaisons; post-hippies viewing this as communal living; and pure sensualists savoring the sensations of their skin exposed to air and water. I also find that once these people have found it, they never let it go – i.e., they plan all their vacations around nudist venues. Kind of startling to think they prefer this to Paris.

And what do they want to know about me, the cottontail? Confident they face a convert, they inquire, "Now will you spend all your vacations at naturist resorts?" I answer that anyone who enjoys adventure must try this at least once, that visiting the land of the nudies is an exhilarating new zone in which to explore oneself. And while exploring, it suddenly dawns on me why the nudist concept clearly feels so alien. My life has always been centered around clothes. For years I've worked in the epicenter of the fashion magazine industry, its raison d'etre to enlighten millions of readers on how to achieve an image through clothing. Like so many females, I consider dressing with style a form of creative expression, not a restriction of my freedom. I decide I feel unfinished, unsexy, and lost without my clothes, especially without my countless Brazilian and French bikinis. (Nudists scoff at the hypocrisy of those who cover themselves with minuscule swatches of cloth attached to dental floss.)

At the spa, I discover one more difference between this and other vacations (other than you can't show anyone your vacation photos from Desert Shadows): the afterglow. The afterglow won't apply to me, I immediately think, because, ironically enough, I remained in the nude five days without getting laid. But Dan Hampton, the spa's owner, explains that being naked for days has a lasting effect on your sense of self; you gain a state of ease with your nakedness that permeates every aspect of your life. He just might be right. This past week I've notice a need to yank off my clothes as soon as I enter my apartment, much to the delight of the binocular-bearing neighbors in the building across the street. In fact, I'm sitting here in the buff as I write this article.

Though I might be experiencing an afterglow, inner voices are not luring me back there so soon; of course, had every guy looked like 27-year-old Geoff I'd still be there right now on a Gay Talese-type extended stay. Instead, the next trip will be back to the Arctic. For me there's nothing sexier than being covered head-to-toe in reindeer skins, feeling the toasty fur against my skin, and doing it in a sleeping bag in a tent in Lappland.