NAKED TENNIS

New Balls? Not So Much

The true adventures of a repressed Brit at a nudist resort

If you were invited to play tennis at a nudist resort, would you accept? I did and I don’t regret it for a second.

During the height of the pandemic, I was in the fortunate position of relocating my family from New York City to a wooded sanctuary in Eastern Pennsylvania. I began playing tennis regularly with a bunch of local guys and it felt great to dust off some of my old skills.

One sunny Sunday morning, I got a call from one of the guys:

Dave: “Hey Steve, wanna play tennis this morning over at Sunshine Place?” Me: “Really? Can I keep my clothes on?” Dave: “Of course! C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

At this point it was only 7:15am. When I told my wife where I was going, she gave me a sleepy laugh. Probably because she assumed the same thing I did: there would be a private naked area and a fully-dressed sports area. We were both very wrong.

Dave had previously told me about Sunshine Place over a post-tennis beer one night. He had been a DJ there for many years, and the fact this progressive, “clothing optional” place existed in a staunchly conservative area intrigued me. I had so many questions. The first being, “Were people naked in the nightclub?” Dave said that most people got dressed up at night, but there might be one random naked guy literally hanging out at the bar. “Can I get you a drink, ladies?”

Dave picked me up at 7:30am, and after only a twenty-minute drive through wooded side roads, we came to a gated area manned by a security guard. He recognized Dave and the gate opened. Five seconds into the resort, we passed a man who looked like he had just been to the onsite bakery to pick up a fresh baguette. Nope, that was his penis. He gave us a friendly wave — with his hand — and we cruised further into the resort. Dave had become my Willy Wonka and I was his wide-eyed and innocent Charlie Bucket.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I encountered. There was a mixture of little cabins, caravans, and motorhomes, all close together with their own plots of land. Most had wooden decks, some of which were adorned with naked brown statues. Nope, those were real people enjoying a lazy morning coffee. I felt like I was in a safari park driving through the enclosure of the lesser-spotted pot-bellied gibbon. A sunscreen protected species that was not as rare as I’d previously thought.

The location of the tennis courts was a relatively normal set-up, but surrounding the courts was a whole community of tents and motorhomes. These people were The Weekenders — those who were there for just a quick naked weekend. The Weekenders had to check out by 11am, so at 8am the area was beginning to wake up and pack up. Many were folding tents and loading up cars, and they were all doing it completely naked. The sight of normal middle-aged people doing mundane chores with emotionless expressions in the nude is extremely amusing, but I managed to somehow keep a straight face. The air was filled with the welcoming smell of frying bacon mixed with the occasional unwelcome whiff of the war-torn Porta Potty located nearby.

Dave and I arrived at the courts just as the regular tennis crew were advancing towards us. Some were on foot, some were in golf carts, and some were on ATVs. It was like a mash-up of the movies Cocoon and Mad Max: Cellulite Road. I was pleasantly surprised that the approaching hoard were all dressed in tennis gear and carrying tennis bags full of rackets, balls, and sunscreen — loads of sunscreen.

Dave introduced me and they were all very warm and welcoming. I could tell my British accent surprised them as it was already rare in that part of the world, let alone in this niche community. I was paired with a woman in her late fifties named Mary. The match started well, and I could tell they were all good players. Even though it was still early in the morning, the sun was already beating down on us, so with the score at one game each, Mary removed her top. Now, I’ve seen a fair amount of breasts in my time — who hasn’t? — but these were why the word bosom was invented. They were hefty, pendulous, and desperately trying to take advantage of their freedom. Unfortunately, the law of gravity had become a visible strain on their liberty. If a single apple hadn’t inspired Sir Isaac Newton, I’m sure a couple of melons would have done the trick.

As I tried to ignore my partner’s mighty mammaries, the rest of the set went like this:

2–1 them 2–2 Mary got completely naked 6–2 them

Yep, you could say I got a little distracted, but it wasn’t her body that ruined my concentration. It was the fact I was running around a tennis court with a naked partner who I had to pretend wasn’t naked. In that environment, it would have been less embarrassing if I had also been naked, but I was dressed like I was on Center Court at Wimbledon — even my crisp white socks were pulled up straight and true.

As I glanced over at the other court, their set had just wrapped up and most of their players were now also completely naked. We split into pairs again, and this time I was playing in a men’s four. My partner was Alan, a white bearded naked man in his late sixties. We were playing against Dave, who was now shirtless, but had kept his shorts on, and a naked bald guy named Frank, who looked like he was in his late fifties.

This match was far more competitive. The older guys were fit for their age and I was impressed with their movement, especially considering their testicles were swaying in the wind. Alan’s mid-thigh ballsack looked like it could have been hanging in a butcher’s window. At one point, he managed to reach a tricky drop shot and turn it into a winner.

Me: “Great shot, Alan.” Alan: “Thanks, I’m good with the low balls.” Me: “Yes you are Alan, yes you are.”

Alan took the game very seriously. When he was serving, he gave me tactical instructions about which side of the serving box he was aiming for and where he wanted me to poach the volley at the net. I, on the other hand, wanted to scream, “DUDE, YOU’RE NAKED!”

After a few sets, I was extremely hot and sweaty, so I relented and took my shirt off. I suddenly felt self-conscious — was this a gateway move towards full nudity? I had played tennis with Dave many times, but never removed my shirt, so why now? Maybe I was showing respect to the tribe by adopting their ancient customs? However, the band of my underwear was now visible, so I also felt like I was pissing in their sacred broth. My obvious double-bagging stated there was no way my Todger Federer was coming out to play.

Over the next few months, I accompanied Dave to play tennis at Sunshine Place every Sunday morning. I got to know everyone well and the “naked shock” quickly lost its luster. I simply went there to play tennis with a group of good tennis players. I stopped judging people by the swing of their genitals and more by the control of their backhand. I discovered that most of the players were successful professionals in the dressed world, working in the fields of medicine, law, tech, and engineering — normal people enjoying normal lives, until they escaped to this lost world of lost inhibitions.

Out of respect to them all, I have changed their names and the name of the resort, but out of respect to my sense of amusement, here are a few other bite-size incidents that occurred that summer:

The Breeze On one extremely hot day, a middle-aged naked woman named Glenda pulled up in her golf cart to watch us play. She was parked on a raised area adjacent to the court I was on. There was a refreshing gust of wind that gave us all a fleeting respite from the heat. To my right, I heard Glenda say, “Oh, that’s a lovely breeze.” I looked up to see she had one foot up on the dashboard with her legs akimbo. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if her pink abyss was absorbing all the cool air or was the cause of the gust in the first place? Either way, there was a strong chance that bay area had its own weather system.

The Toddler One day, I was introduced to a towering, naked man named Andrew. This god among mortals was about 6 feet 4 inches tall and looked like he would top 6 feet 9 inches when erect. As the sun beat down on his nakedness, he decided to cover up, so he slipped on a T-shirt. However, the tee was only long enough to cover his pubis, so his mighty genitals still hung below the hem. He resembled a scaled-up toddler you might see running around on a beach.

The Tattoo I often played with and against a middle-aged woman named Pamela who always had her boobs out, but never removed her tennis skirt. Then, one day, she did. Even from a young age, we’re advised not to stare at the sun because it would damage our eyesight. Now, here was Pamela with a large sun, tattooed on her pubic region, trying to blind us. The sight of her lady parts being melted by the fiery artwork was such a deterrent, it would have even changed the mythical fate of Icarus.

I have many more stories to tell, but just like Glenda’s unsightly gusts, Andrew’s short tee, and Pamela’s burning star, everything must come to an end. So, as I look forward to another summer of tennis at Sunshine Place, I’m sure I’ll collect new tales to share, and who knows, maybe one day I’ll remove my ironed tennis whites to reveal my double faults and expose my own naked truth.