NUDIST: Part 1 of 5
Woodland Hills, California
Saturday, May 10, 1986
Well into the thirtieth year of our marriage, I do not remember how it started or, actually, when it started, but once again Marsha and me were into one of our, seemingly, never ending, ongoing arguments...
Well, actually, by this day the argument had generated into the silent period.
Now, to be honest, I know I’m as much at fault as Marsha because I have the universal husband’s or, actually, the universal male‘s “foot’n’mouth disease,” meaning, at least for this husband: a thought would come to mind. The thought, at least to this husband, might be clever or funny or just a retort to something she’d said. I would then ponder the thought a moment or two, thinking: Don’t say it! Thinking, Let it pass, don’t say it! However, alas, I would open my mouth and, as the spewing of lava from a volcano the words would come and usually, although in my mind the thought now brought to the light of day might be clever or funny, however, alas, said aloud, the thought was usually not quite as clever nor quite as funny as it was in my mind and, if not immediately, within moments of my wife’s first verbal sally, my thoughts would go back to my earlier thoughts and I would think: Why did I say that! I knew I shouldn’t have said that!
Because I would usually feel extremely stupid for actually saying what I knew I shouldn’t have said, but, stupidly, said it anyway, in self defense I would respond to Marsha’s retort and she would respond to my retort and words would lead to more words... and yet more words then the words, along with the upturning volume would very shortly turn hateful, then more hateful, then we would evolve into silence... thick silence.
***
A bit of a word pertaining to some of our characteristics .
As for me, once the harsh, hateful words are said, my mind always shifts in the opposite direction and I want nothing more than to apologize for what I’d said – and maybe even for what I didn’t say – so as, as a means to end the argument, at this time I would become remorseful and do or say whatever possible to ease the animosity.
Marsha, on the other hand, would never just “let it drop.” The hatful words – at least my hateful words would be stored within the “Rolodex” of her mind to be dredged up and spat forward whenever she felt the need.
With me, all arguments should end with the “goodnights” of that day.
With Marsha, the end of an argument would come “over time.” Sometimes the time stretching into weeks.
Always on a short fuse, her anger easily ignited, Marsha was the original “make a mountain out of a molehill” lady.
A beautiful woman wanting to live the life of a Jewish American Princess (J.A.P.), Marsha’s expectations of me somewhat exaggerated because, to say the least, I’d always been a very moderate income earner.
In addition, Marsha was stubborn; not, “change my mind later or occasionally stubborn.” Marsha’s unrelenting, unbending stubbornness was an inbred characteristic.
Also, because she did not monitor herself properly, being an eternally thin woman that felt she could eat whatever food struck her fancy, due to her own lack of proper care, being diabetic Marsha did have constantly shifting blood sugar levels which continually left her tired and, at least from my point of view, minimally, “out of sorts”
***
In essence, take a fifty-two year old guy that has a hard time keeping his mouth shut and a, to say the least, easily angered, stubborn, fifty year old woman and, “voilà” we have explosive conditions.
***
The above information is the rationalization for doing what I did on...
Saturday, May 10, 1986
At this time being a rather avid bicycle rider, “Doing a bike ride today at the beach and don’t know when I’ll be back!” I spat out.
“Don’t give a damn if you ever come back!” Marsha spat back.
Going into the kitchen to make a brown bag lunch, “Fine! Maybe I won’t!”
“Don’t threaten, Mitchell, do it!”
***
The lunch, along with a beach towel and my bathing suit snuggly packed into a pannier – a canvas bicycle bag made to fit behind the seat – the bike hung onto the bike rack over the trunk of the car, my harshly said, “Goodbye!” met with silence, I left.
***
Once again I must digress.
Working as a Real Estate Associate in the eighties, at that time my license hung in the Woodland Hills office of “Country Club Realtors”.
Woodland Hills is located in the far south-western end of the San Fernando Valley.
Though sounding quaint, located north of, and actually part of the City of Los Angeles, with distinct boundaries, “The Valley” is three hundred, forty-five square miles in size and in the eighties was home to almost two million people.
***
Going back one day to,
Friday, May 9, 1986:
“Today, we’ve a home in Malibu to caravan!” Said Glen Harris, the owner and “Broker” of Country Club Realtors.
“Malibu!” One of the associates questioned, “Really?”
Most of our “listed” properties were located in the mid to western end of “The Valley.”
So, when on our weekly caravan day, Glen said, “We’ve a home in Malibu to caravan,” the statement was met with more than a slight bit of surprise.
Having a total of eighteen people, including himself, “We’ll head to the coast in three cars,” Glen said, adding, “by way of Topanga.”
***
A bit of geography here: Located on the far southern side of the valley, Ventura Boulevard is the main east/west street running from the far western end to the far eastern end of the valley and
Topanga Canyon Road is the far western road going from the valley to Pacific Coast Highway.
Driving Topanga Canyon Road, as the crow flies, it is eight miles from Ventura Boulevard to Pacific Coast Highway, however, with numerous cutbacks, the actual miles are closer to twelve and having but one lane in each direction, though a beautiful drive through the Santa Monica Mountains, the time spent covering those twelve miles can become rather tedious.
***
Back to
Friday, May 9, 1986:
Approaching a, not too large, but noticeable sign on the east side of the road reading:
“ELYSIUM FIELDS
814 Robinson Road”
“That’s a nudist park!” One of the guys said.
“Yeah? Really!” Someone said, adding, maybe, jokingly, “How do I get in?”
“I’ve a friend that goes there,” the first guy said. “He says, you go there and for a few bucks they’ll let you in for a day to see how you like it.”
Really! I thought. Further thinking, I need a change in my life! Never too bashful, the thought of being nude along with a bunch of nude people, particularly nude women, Really! I thought.
So, after caravanning the house in Malibu, after returning to Country Club Realtors in Woodland Hills, into my car to:
“ELYSIUM FIELDS
814 Robinson Road”
Taking a left turn into the densely wooded area, driving about an eighth of a mile on a twisting, gravel covered two lane road, coming to a large opening, the road ended at a parking area before a wide, one story redwood structure.
Leaving the car, I looked about the flat, tree and grass covered area that covered, in my untrained estimation, one or two square acres.
Not really knowing what to expect at one thirty on a Friday afternoon, I did see a number of scattered blankets along with a number of, Really! naked people.
Entering the building, becoming somewhat excited, thinking, Am I going to see you naked? “Hi,” I said to the fairly attractive, oh, maybe thirty-five year old woman wearing a light colored caftan sitting behind the desk.
“’Afternoon,” she said in a friendly tone. “I’m Elsa, can I help you?”
“Uh, yes, Elsa,” I said haltingly, “I’d, uh, like to see how I might like, uh, being here.”
Smiling at my bumbling, “You’d like a one day trial membership?” she asked.
“Yes.” I answered. “But not for today. Can I come tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Taking a pre-printed form from a drawer. “But we like to know who we’re letting in,” sliding it across the desk. “So if you’ll fill this out.”
Leaning over the desk, looking at the form: Name; address; phone number; marital status; reason for wanting to attend Elysium.
“This is private, isn’t it?” I questioned. “I mean, she doesn’t know I’m doing this, but I am married and want to try this first to see if my wife would like it here. But, no offense, but if I don’t think she will, I don’t think I’d like her, or, actually, anyone knowing that I’m even thinking of joining here.”
Having heard this before, many times before, smiling, “Of course we understand your reluctance, and absolutely everything you say,” gesturing to the form, “is one hundred percent private, and I promise, if you decide against joining us here,” now gesturing towards the doorway, “you’ll never hear from us in any way.”
Relieved because I really wanted to do this, I wrote my information onto the form.
Looking at what I’d written, “Thanks. Mitch. That’ll be fifteen dollars.”
Handing Elsa the money, “And I’ll be okay for tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yes.” Writing a receipt, she handed it across the desk, then, flipping one page in a loose leaf binder, opening to, “May 10”... “Mitchell Lipensky,” Elsa wrote beneath a number of
other names.
“Whenever you come, Mitch,” partially standing, leaning forward, reaching her hand across the desk, “just come here first so we can check you in.”
As she leaned forward, noting – by the swaying motion of her unencumbered breasts beneath the summer-weight material of the caftan – noting that Elsa was braless, shaking her hand, “I will, thank you.” I said, thinking, I can’t wait to see you naked!
