Emily Yoffe had already posed naked for a group of art students, so why not visit a nudist camp on behalf of her Human Guinea Pig column, in which she tries things the rest of us want to know about, but are too scared to do. "You've already crossed that line. Now live the lifestyle!" her editor gleefully instructs her. And the nudists certainly make it sound fun: "As the gate to a nudist club closed behind me, more than my clothes would fall away," she writes on Slate. "I would experience a relaxation so profound by being around lots of other naked people that my vacation would have double the stress relief of a regular vacation."
What actually happens: She attempts to "act nonchalant" while staring at the penis of the man who checks her in; chats with naked people while watching her "pale flesh quiver every time I made a gesture" in the reflection of their sunglasses; goes on a naked tour; and discovers that she actually enjoys driving naked. Her foray into nudity ends with a naked tropical dinner, where she learns that "It turns out that a man in a Hawaiian shirt below which his genitals dangle is a much more disturbing sight than a fully naked man." Her conclusion? "Other naked people don't relax me. I had read that some nudists call people who prefer clothes 'textilists,' and I am one." (Click here to hear from one person who had an opposite experience.)