Yarns Without Threads 

Ebony MacKenzie wheeled her weathered Escort along Shangri-La's driveway, half expecting to see naked people dotting the surrounding green.

Instead a smattering of birds, squirrels, and assorted insects reveled in the warmth of a late-May morning. The car crawled ahead. Her heart rate accelerated. Nestled on acres of virgin forest and verdant meadow, Shangri-La Naturist Retreat appeared to be a world unto itself. A half-mile and a long lush row of Ohio buckeyes separated its vine-threaded entrance from Interstate 275 and the rest of civilization.

Ebony's mind had been made up-until reality drop-kicked her square in the gut: she might have to get naked!

After the forty-minute orientation tour all visitors were required to strip down to their birthday suits if they chose to participate in Shangri-La activities or mingle with Shangri-La guests. The unseasonably hot spring day, reminiscent of July, hardly made dropping trou more appealing. Why couldn't Reuben Renfro have more conventional pastimes? Golfing, fishing, water-skiing, heck, even big-game hunting and bungee jumping were preferable to what awaited her beyond the five-foot-high electronic fence encircling Shangri-La. Dread lodged in her throat, but a determination to focus on the positive kept the car rolling forward. She refused to lose her nerve. ...

She pulled up to a speaker on the driver's side of the narrow gravel path, then announced herself. She glanced around, surprised by the nearly full parking lot on a workday. Obviously nudists or rather naturists-the preferred term-didn't clock in at real jobs. ...

... Soon an approaching golf cart with an elderly driver rattled in the distance. The engine putt-putted as it approached. An old man wearing nothing but a bath towel cinched around his waist, sarong-style, navigated the cart, which came to an idling pause in front of Ebony.

Unnaturally white teeth, tube socks, and sneakers glowed against a backdrop of sun-roasted skin. "Climb aboard!" the old man bellowed then whisked her off toward the administrative office.

"I'm Bernie Herman, but everybody calls me Pops." He smiled, tipping his sun visor. Look Ma, No Tan Lines! gleamed across the bill in bold iridescent letters.

Ebony found her voice and a weak smile. "Uh, er, nice to meet you, Pops." Unsure how thoroughly he'd secured his towel, she had to decide where to aim her gaze.

...

The administrative office ... popped into view in the clearing just ahead. ... Pops took off toward the group of towel-clad people playing volleyball on a vast square of sand a few feet away. Yes! Ebony hadn't been as happy to see so many towels since Kmart's last Martha Stewart white sale. She hadn't encountered one butt-naked person yet. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

A brassy blonde with dark roots waited at the door. So far, so good. She wore an oversized Shed Your Threads T-shirt that reached mid-thigh. "Nice to meet you, Elaine," she said with a Kentucky-fried drawl, then extended acrylic talons for a shake. "I'm Trudie. We spoke on the phone."

"Hello." Ebony scanned the surroundings. Those in the office were busying themselves with mundane tasks, wearing more terry-tied wrap- or sarong-style. A petite brunette with a Betty Boop tattoo on her left shoulder answered the ringing phone at the reception desk. A sunburned guy with a screwdriver in hand and a tool belt swinging precariously low over his towel-covered hips tinkered with a VCR atop the old Motorola in the corner. In the recreation room to the right of the lobby Ebony heard tinkling laughter and the staccato click-clack of two chubby young women engaged in a vigorous table tennis match.

...

"So, you're thinking of joining Shangri-La?" Trudie lifted a clipboard and pen off a nearby counter.

Still uneasy about misrepresenting herself, Ebony avoided making eye contact as she served up one of many fabrications necessary to get the job done. "Sounds like fun."

"Have you ever been to a naturist retreat before?"

"No."

Trudie quirked a penciled-in brow as if she could see right through her. "Why now?"

Ebony evaded the woman's hawklike gaze and feigned interest in the cheesy watercolors of nude people adorning the wood-paneled walls. "I've always thought I'd enjoy the freedom of being unencumbered by all of this." She plucked at her blazer and the sateen tank top underneath it.

"You can always walk around in the privacy of your home without clothes. Why join a naturist retreat?" Trudie grilled her.

Ebony hesitated a moment too long. Waltzing in to poke around without someone poking back was obviously out of the question. Forced to look the manager in the eye, she replied, "Well, true, but... but... here I wouldn't be confined to indoors. I'd love to feel a soft breeze and the warm sun on every inch of my skin." She gestured toward one of the watercolors. "Like the happy folks frolicking in these pictures here."

Trudie went through the motions of a smile, clearly unconvinced. "We're a family resort. All sorts of good solid citizens of the community are members here-young, old, doctors, lawyers, teachers, housewives, even business tycoons. The atmosphere is clean and respectable. We can sniff out people who come here looking for... for... something other than what goes on here, if you know what I mean. There's tennis, volleyball, swimming, hiking, camping, and wholesome parties and get-togethers that all ages can enjoy. This is not nor has it ever been a swingers' or singles' club." Trudie stabbed Ebony with an accusatory glare.

The manager had obviously misinterpreted nervous energy as something lascivious, dirty, improper. Ebony squared her shoulders. She was a class act. She looked it in her navy business suit. Didn't she? Her skirt grazed her knees with unrelenting appropriateness and the scoop-neck tank barely skimmed her modest curves. She fumbled to button her jacket, but the bulging fanny pack strapped to her waist prevented that. She dropped her hands and bristled at the woman's nerve. Unlike bra-less Trudie, Ebony wasn't serving up bobbling boobs like Jell-O jigglers. But indignation would not get the best of her. "I understand," Ebony said, dulling the sharp edges from her tone. "Sounds like just the sort of place I'm looking for." She smiled with as much sincerity as she could muster to ease Trudie's suspicions. It appeared to be working. The stern lines of the manager's savagely tanned face softened.

...

"As I told you on the phone," Trudie explained ... "You're allowed to keep your clothes on for the guided tour, but if you want to stay longer to take part in the festivities you'll have to disrobe." She went to the wall shelf with her rubber flip-flops slapping the ceramic tiles. She removed a folded white square and held it out for Ebony's inspection. "You'll be given a towel like this one. Shangri-La rule number one, no bare bottoms are to touch any of the furniture, for sanitary purposes, of course. And besides, flesh sticking to vinyl can be dreadfully unpleasant in this heat. ..."