I Went to a Nude Beach

Come my little peach,
Together we’ll go down to nude beach . . .*

bandaid-on-foot-on-nude-beach.JPG

“What spirit is so empty and blind, that it cannot recognize the fact that the foot is more noble than the shoe, and skin more beautiful than the garment with which it is clothed?”

—Michelangelo

Clearly Michelangelo has never been to a nude beach.

I’ve read that the people you see on a nude beach are the same people you see at Wal-Mart. So if you’re like Dave, you’ll be disappointed not to see a bunch of tall and tan and young and lovelies (unless you go to Ipanema). If you’re like me, you’ll feel right at home.

Dave and I recently went to an all-inclusive resort in Negril, Jamaica, where, in addition to the big, beautiful, white-sand main beach, there was a dinky seaweed-covered strip of sand hidden by shrubbery on one side and a fence on the other. Dave was fascinated. I was . . . flabby. Of course we knew about the nude beach before booking our trip (it was, in fact, one of the reasons we chose this particular resort), so it’s not like I wasn’t prepared. But I’m realistic. Even 3 months on my self-styled “Nude Beach Diet” wasn’t going to make me feel completely comfortable.

We got to the beach. And . . . there were naked people there! Nay-ked! Dave’s main concern was that of every healthy, normal, naked male who finds himself surrounded by naked women—I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you. Suffice it to say that suntan lotion was applied most carefully. My main concern, as a woman, was not focused on any one part of my anatomy but rather all of it. Regardless, I hauled my Wal-Mart ass to a chair and began to strip.

I felt surprisingly good. This naked thing was kind of fun. It was nice not to have to keep tugging my bottoms down or adjusting my top. It was all hanging out already. And maybe, as I liked to tell myself, the chub looks better when it’s allowed to swing free rather than being squeezed out of the confines of a swimsuit.

The nude beach had its own bathrooms and bar. The bartender was clothed and, I’m sure, more than accustomed to seeing these crazy white naked people. For all his initial bravado, Dave felt it necessary to go to the bar and the bathroom with a towel slung casually over his shoulder. Mind you, it didn’t cover anything, but it made him feel less nude. For all of my initial nervousness, I was just all nude, all the time.

We later found out that “clothies” (our derisive term coined not 10 seconds after flinging our clothes onto a tree branch) are actually referred to by nudists as “textiles.”

It was a small group. And, yes, most of them were Wal-Mart people, except for a nice-looking and completely (and I do mean completely) hairless British guy and his “harem” of 2 pretty young women, one of whom we dubbed “Third Wheel.” At one point, Dave said, “Third Wheel stood up and I checked out her ass. Is that OK?” I was too busy discreetly gawking (oxymoron?) behind my mirrored sunglasses at an attractive older man who’d just arrived. How did he get his balls so tan?

I never knew I could be so interested in and curious about other human bodies. Look at that old skinny guy! And that lady over there . . . whoa! Does mine do that? I know it’s not polite and definitely goes against nude beach etiquette, but I couldn’t help staring. If anyone stared back, I didn’t notice. I guess if I were in my 20s or 30s not being stared at would bother me. At 46, I’m simply grateful.

We wanted to go in the water. That, to me, was the appeal of a nude beach. Floating in the clear blue ocean, unencumbered by a clingy suit. But to get to the water, we had to pass (naked) through the steady stream of tourists, hotel employees, and ganja salesmen walking along the beach. You see, between our little patch of nude heaven and the water was the “main drag,” where people from all the resorts walked. And gawked. The thought of dashing (naked) through those walking, gawking, clothed people to splash awkwardly into the water was unappealing. But we worked up our courage. I don’t know if Dave was screaming, but I was—in sheer terror and joy.

Woooooooo!!! We’re naked! Screw you, textiles!

And this is just Part 1. In Part 2, you get to hear about my Haulover Allover.

If you want to go to a nude beach

Don’t

    freak out over how you look. It’s not a beauty contest, it’s naked time! Have fun with a new experience and revel in the sun on your body and the sand up your butt.

Do

      find an

online forum

      either on the resort’s site or a travel site like

Trip Advisor

      and read what people are saying.

 

Don’t

      plan on taking pictures. Even of yourselves. We did take a few pix on the regular beach where some women went topless. I wanted a picture of me, topless but from behind, arms stretched out in celebration of my free spirit. Uh, bad idea. Even after heavy Photoshopping, that picture will never see the light of day.

 

Do make eye contact and conversation. Nudos are a friendly bunch.

Don’t stare, point, drool, or make innapropriate comments.

Do apply suntan lotion. This can be done in full view of everyone to ALL parts of the body (you don’t want to burn your bits).

Don’t indulge in PDA. Remember how grossed out you were by that couple making out in the movie theater? Now imagine them naked.

And remember: No one cares what you look like. Except me. If I’m there, I’ll be gawking.

* Today’s lyrics are courtesy of the B52s

Advertisements