I didn’t realize at first that I would be cooking for naked people. The job ad simply referred to an upscale resort in the desert West of Tucson without any specifics regarding the type of establishment. I e-mailed a response to the ad and received a call later that day from the resort’s manager. After thirty minutes of telephone conversation, mostly about my skills, little about the resort, the manager asked if I would like to come in for an interview.

“Sure, I’d love to come in and learn more about the job opportunity and your establishment.”

“Super. Um…I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but this is a clothing-optional resort”

This was an unexpected twist. Like the moment between slamming on the brakes and the collision impact itself, a slideshow of images played in my mind: Visions of naked supermodels salivating over my food; explaining to my wife that I would be too busy concentrating on my work to notice any naked supermodels; accidents involving a dangling appendage and a meat cleaver.

“Are you OK with that?”

“Um, whose option is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean…I would be wearing clothes; right?”

Laughing, “Yes, the staff is always in uniform”

“Great, I looking forward to meeting you”

And so began my brief career as a cook for the wardrobe challenged community. I had never seriously thought about working in such a place, but I had heard of these communities and formed some preconceptions of what life in a “nudy camp” would be like. Most of these assumptions had been formed during my adolescence, so of course the nudists were all beautiful nymphomaniacs who looked amazingly similar. Sort of like living in a Robert Palmer video gone wild.

My first visit to the resort immediately dispelled the notion of the Playboy Mansion transplanted in Tucson. If you have such a misconception of the scenery at a clothing- optional resort, replace that image with this one: Take a stroll through your local Wal-Mart or State Fair midway. Scan the groups of people you see, deleting the 10 most attractive. Close your eyes and mentally undress the remainder. This is a more accurate representation of what I experienced.

Other assumptions also proved to be false. Sanitation and hygiene are topics that immediately came to my mind while thinking about a nudist resort. It seemed me that the lack of clothing would present challenges to the sanitary environment one expects in a dining room. One of the useful functions of clothing is to keep the microscopic flora and fauna we all carry relatively confined to our own bodies. Usually if we are amongst a group of naked people, it is in an environment made up of easy to clean surfaces such as shower tiles or sauna benches. This was not the case in the common areas of the resort. The dining room and indoor gathering areas were furnished with plush, overstuffed, microbial friendly upholstered chairs. The furniture was cleaned about as frequently as furniture in other venues, which is to say, rarely. Placing a towel or other covering on the furniture before sitting would draw disapproving looks from other nudists. Apparently it violated the spirit of sharing.

I mentioned earlier that the resort was located in the Sonora desert. Nudists are an invasive species in the desert. Rattlesnakes are not. These two species in fact seem to have a profound dislike for each other. I’m not sure why rattlesnakes are irritated by human nudists, the snakes being naked themselves, but they frequently showed up to hiss and rattle their displeasure. Several times a day the maintenance staff would get a frantic call to remove a rattlesnake from a casita or common area. Most people react with justifiable alarm to the presence of rattlesnakes; nudists react with mortal terror. Perhaps the thought of a bite to the exposed genitalia is more horrifying than a bite to the ankle.

I began working on a prank where I would mechanically imitate the sound of a rattlesnake during a busy dinner service but never figured out the logistics of the prank

to my satisfaction. Probably better for all concerned.

Another aspect of the subject of one’s exposed genitalia at the resort was the unwritten rule that its exposure was mandatory at all times even if other body parts were covered. I was surprised to learn that nudists “dress” for dinner. The garments, available for purchase at the gift shop, consisted of a bare minimum of fabric, usually to be worn over the shoulders or around the waist, but never under any circumstances to cover the naughty bits.

Although I eventually got used to working around naked people, I never got used to having discussions with them. I never mastered the art of not looking at someone’s privates without being uncomfortably conspicuous in the act of not looking. This was especially difficult during business meetings with the owners who were themselves nudists. I have a habit of looking at the other person’s hand before shaking it. This is difficult to do if you are trying desperately to look the person in the eye. A missed handshake is always a faux pas, but even more so when you consider what you might shake if you miss and the person is not wearing pants. I became a master of the shoulder height handshake.

It’s easy to forget while recollecting this experience that my primary function there was cooking. In this area my preconceptions included spa cuisine, miniscule portions of sprouts and baby vegetables, and a total absence of fried foods, desserts or anything else that might compromise the integrity of the beautifully tanned, perfectly proportioned bodies milling around. The menu was actually not dissimilar to that of a Burger King or the bar and grill of your local bowling alley. I was assured that this was mine to modify as I pleased, and that there was great interest in going to a more imaginative offering. This turned out not to be the case, and thus led to my moving on to other employment. My resignation had nothing to do with the lack of naked supermodels wandering through the kitchen. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.