This post is a part of a series on how we came to enter into the lifestyle. While Part One provides my overall sexual history with Jack, Part Two here explores my history with nudism, which ultimately became our segue into the lifestyle.
I have my husband to blame for all of this; he more kindly calls himself my muse. Jack has always been obsessed with getting me naked or at least scantily clad at every conceivable opportunity, which isn’t nearly as often as either of us would like, given the weather up here in the Midwest.
(Side note: somehow I still haven’t been able to convince him to move to a warmer climate where I would be happy to wear skimpy clothes on a regular basis. Instead, I find myself trying to appease his desires with leggings and cute hats. If I didn’t look cute in my Midwestern snow gear, would he be more likely to make the move south with me?)
Now, I’m quite sure that Jack’s penchant for nude women is not a unique trait in a man, but I think my willingness to entertain some participation in my husband’s fantasies drove him to a slight obsession.
Obsession is not unique for my husband, who has been diagnosed by both his primary care doctor and a therapist with a touch of manageable OCD. To give you a little insight on him, Jack likes routines, structure, safety, and sex.
Every night, Jack spends about ten minutes checking over every possible catastrophe that could hit our house at night, from the pipes in the basement (once he caught one leaking, ever so slightly) to every last knob on the stove (he pushes each of them gently back and forth to make sure there is no possible way any gas could leak from their valves and fill our home, thus killing us all). He checks all the doors to be sure they are locked (of course, that’s just best practice) and checks the fridge to make sure that both the doors are closed all the way (in the past six years, he’s found it to be slightly open a handful of times) and that the fridge temperature is still correct (he makes a mental note to check the temperature again in the morning if the temp is slightly higher than normal).
And every other night, he needs to have sex, or his balls hurt, or he can’t focus the next day, or he’s going to need it in the morning to relieve stress. He also has a tendency towards ADHD. Sex is like his Ritalin, calming him so that he can sleep at night and focus during the day.
Jack likes to fantasize out loud during the last part of sex, when he is about to come. For years, he’d said things to me like, “I want to see you walk around with that tight little body of yours, and show you off…in front of everyone” and “I want everyone to look at you just like this…” as he pumped into me from behind in front of our bedroom mirror, watching us himself.
I figured that the exhibitionist fantasy was quite common and I had no qualms. It was flattering that he wanted to show me off; it was his way of saying that he liked the way I looked. So I indulged his fantasies on occasion, mildly at first.
Over the years, getting nude together in the tropics became our thing. At the tender age of twenty-two, we booked a private villa for our honeymoon in St. Lucia, complete with its own private pool. We were officially and finally adults, together for over five years, married and with blossoming careers. We’d celebrate our adulthood by being naked outdoors (in paradise, no less), because we could.
A year and a half later we booked what was basically a second honeymoon, because we could and because we really wanted to. Who doesn’t want to go to paradise as often as possible? That resort was in Jamaica, another all-inclusive, this one with a private nature preserve right next to the resort. After a few cocktails, it’s not hard to convince me to go for a quick skinny dip when no one else is around. Jack watched and took some pictures so that he’d remember this happy moment in his life forever. I also tanned topless on the beach, because I could, and because I wanted to prove to Jack that I would. Stubborn.
And whenever we went camping — which we did a lot, in those early days of marriage, when we were so young and energetic and handled our alcohol so well — he would beg me to get naked and walk around the campsite. We’d go on a hike, find a private pool along the river, and Jack would beg me to go for a skinny dip. I still have the pictures to prove I did that one, too — even though the temperature of creek water near Lake Superior is hard to forget, regardless.
Nudity was an adventure back then, in our early twenties. It made me feel free, as well as bold and adventurous if there was a chance that someone (besides Jack) could see me. I didn’t see anything wrong with nudity then, nor do I now. It was the body that God gave me, and it was a silly little thing to do, to sneak in some naked time in “public.” Nothing wrong with it, but I certainly didn’t consider myself a nudist. I still voted Republican at that point, after all. And all of those experiences had been just me and Jack, with no other onlookers that we knew of.
Jack wanted more. He wanted to see me nude in front of other people. He wanted to see other women in the nude. And if it meant that he had to get nude, too, well, then so be it. Jack’s not known for being shy.
Dipping Our Toes in the Water at Hedo
After our first child was born when we were only twenty-five, we were feeling that initial sting of parenthood. We were shell shocked by how quickly our freedom had vanished. We’d really only fully had freedom for a couple of years in early marriage, after going to college paid for by our parents and then finally moving into our house together on our wedding night (my past innocence astounds me sometimes, I tell you). Until that moment, we’d been children ourselves.
After a hard first year of motherhood, it wasn’t hard for Jack to convince me to get away for a week, flying hours away from my baby, for rest, all inclusive drinks (we didn’t do cannabis back then), and a little sex (as well as perhaps a tiny souvenir sibling for our barely-a-toddler baby). Jack had it all planned out and researched. We were staying at Sandals Negril. The resort next door is Hedonism II, a nudist swingers resort. Oh, he knew what he wanted and what he was doing. And yes, I did, too. But I’ve always indulged him and I agreed, but flippantly, that I might just indulge him again. Ironically, back then I actually didn’t really want to venture over to the resort that now, over a decade later, I daydream about on a daily basis.
In 2009, Hedo was run down and only half empty. My perception of it, from my perch on the beach of the colorful, upscale yet Disney-esque resort we were at, was that it was a dingy dump with creepy, strange people.
I didn’t really want to go over there, through the fence barricade that separated the two resorts. I didn’t want to talk to the guard and give my name and admit where we were headed — though it was obvious, as the beach really ends at Hedo and there’s nowhere else to go.
I also didn’t want Jack to pester me about going over there anymore, nevermind be able to call me on my bluff. To be fair, I wasn’t bluffing when I originally agreed to skinny dip at Hedo while we were staying at Sandals — I just said that “it would depend.” I think a lot of things really depend on the situation, the timing, the mood. And I tend to like to have possibilities rather than absolutes. It’s possible that we could quit our jobs and move south, if it all falls into place. It’s possible that I might write a book about my sex life, if we get the time. And in 2009, I told Jack it was possible that I’d visit Hedo and get nude in front of whomever happened to be there and then go frolic in the ocean. All possibilities.
Jack is the opposite — if I say it’s possible, he takes it as absolute. I have to tread lightly when I discuss ideas. If he doesn’t like the idea, he won’t even consider it. If he does like the idea, he’ll slap his right fist into his left palm and proclaim, “Let’s do it!”
So Jack had brought up taking a dip in the nude at Hedo, I said maybe, and now Jack had focused our entire trip on that one small excursion. His OCD took over, and there was no way that he would allow either of us to relax and enjoy the trip until I conceded. So off we went.
We wore our swimsuits, as everyone does walking around the beach in Jamaica (except those nudists beyond the fence, of course). Our room was only a stone’s throw from the northernmost point of our resort and right on the beach. We literally stepped out of the doorwall and onto our patio, then off the patio and onto the sand. In less than twenty steps, we passed Hobie Cats and lounge chairs and a giant pile of seashells next to a cabana, and we were at a chain link fence surrounded by vines and tropical foliage. A security guard took our name, should we become lost and …? I wasn’t really sure at the time, but it felt like an admission of guilt to verify my identity.
“Ya know it’s a nude beach over der, right, mon?” the security guard boomed in his Jamaican accent. “Ya gotta be naked over der!” Sigh. Fine.
At this point the resort was still under the old ownership. The resort was neglected and near empty, a far cry from the garish grandeur of our Sandals. The beachfront rooms that we first saw as we walked through the narrow fence opening were made of concrete, perhaps once a calm cream but now just drab, resembling a prison more than a tropical getaway. The beach was unkempt and desolate. Clouds uncharacteristically covered the sun as we trudged through the sand, hovering long enough to color this experience gray in my memory.
Jack pushed us to walk down a little further, where nudity was expected (the southern side of Hedo is clothing optional, as Jack had learned in his research). We easily found an available, old white lounge chair to set our things down. Jack didn’t seem quite as confident any more, but he did still challenge me. “You ready? You’re not going to chicken out on me?” he razzed.
“I’m fine,” I lied. There was an older — maybe in their 50s? — couple sitting further back on the beach. They were both naked, of course, with crisp orange tans and dark bushy hair on their heads and down there.
I took off my bikini top, acting bolder than I felt (I do have extreme willpower). Jack took off his bottoms. I took off my bottoms, showcasing my carefully waxed Brazilian. I had begun getting Brazilian waxes for all of my vacations beginning with my honeymoon a few years prior, so itI looked like I knew what I was doing, even if I didn’t feel like it.
We had chosen a lounge chair close to the water, so it was only a few moments of darting across the sand before we were shrouded by the salty, dark ocean. No one could see much of me at all, but I felt exuberant at the sensation my body experienced without any clothes on in the ocean. This feeling never gets old for me; I adore the feel of the ocean and its waves. I felt everything and yet nothing in the warm, salty water. Few things in life feel as natural as swimming nude in an ocean.
I relaxed a little and let myself have fun. We giggled, kissed, swam, played, and floated. The couple on the beach watched us the whole time. I watched them back from the corner of my eye. When it looked like they were about to join us in the ocean, I abruptly ended our rendezvous. “I’m done. Let’s go back!”
We left a little quicker than we came, but a little bolder, too. Did we go back again? No, I never agreed to it again, and Jack promised that he’d drop the issue. I wasn’t ready for Hedo then. But people grow up and figure themselves out. Let’s just say that I’m glad Jack is persistent…
Naked and Pregnant at a Sandals Nude Beach
We got pregnant with our second child very shortly after returning home from our trip to Sandals Negril. Jack got a new job. Our sweet, newlywed bungalow became too small for our family, and we moved to a bigger house in a new town. We had a third child. I breastfed her for nearly two full years, both mom and baby reluctant and perhaps too lazy to give up nursing with nothing important looming on the horizon. Finally, she got distracted by life and stopped asking for my breast.
I was free. I hadn’t taken a maternity leave in over a year, and we had money saved up. Three kids, a bigger house, and careers…we needed a break. It was time for us to take another trip, five years after our last one. This would become a regular thing again for us, we promised ourselves.
I wanted to get away. I wanted some time to myself, where I wouldn’t have to make meals for everyone, clean up, or have work and house projects looming over me constantly. I didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night to care for a child. I wanted warmth and sun and delicious meals and all the drinks I could handle. I wanted to pretend that I was newly married with no responsibilities again, just for a short while.
Jack wanted all that, too, but he also wanted to see me naked as much as possible. Same conversation as before, but he came up with a better plan. A Sandals resort in Montego Bay had offered a short complimentary boat ride to their private island just off shore, where a small slice of land was reserved for nude sunbathing and swimming. This didn’t sound awful, I admitted. My body confidence had grown, skinny dipping felt amazing, and I was convinced that the clientele would be less swingers and more just naturists, making me more comfortable.
And then, I got pregnant again. Obviously, not on purpose. That’s a story of it’s own, and I already wrote about that.
So, off we went to Montego Bay anyways, because who knew when the next vacation would be. I was about eight weeks pregnant and already miserable with morning sickness. I spent most of the plane ride trying not to vomit in the seat. There was a lot of deep breathing on the flights and, onced we arrived, a lot of time spent wandering around the resort looking for just the right comfort food for my nausea.
It rained nearly the entire trip, so we were only able to spend two rather chilly days out on the “beach” on the island — it was practically in a little jungle forest. I laid nauseous under a towel for much of the time, Jack constantly trying to pull off the towel to my utmost annoyance. I only felt better when I got into the water.
Let me just say that I’ve always enjoyed skinny dipping. There’s not much to debate here — if you’ve ever gone for a swim without a bathing suit, you know how much better this feels on your body. With a swimsuit, it’s like you have a weight dragging you down, if not physically than definitely metaphorically. You worry if your bottoms will slip off, or if your top will come untied. Something is pressing into your body, somewhere, whether it be a knot from bikini strings or the elastic that’s holding your suit around your waist. Worse, when you get out of the pool, you’re in a wet bathing suit. Chafage, cold, wet, miserable.
When you swim naked, it takes you back to something primal. You slide into the water. You feel that water move around you, gliding and soft. When you swim, you’re like a seal. It feels natural, evoking some connection to the waters you developed in long ago in the womb. You feel connected to the earth and to so much humanity that’s gone before you. You also feel a little risque, a little naughty. Your husband looks at you with admiration and desire. Maybe some other guys, do, too. You begin to feel confident in your skin. You see the power that your confidence can wield, rather than the danger and vulnerability of your nudity. There are many forces at play. I was enjoying them all.
At Couples San Souci, Where I Began to Bare It All
Three years later, we were beyond ready for another vacation. I just wanted all-inclusive again, an amazing view, and people feeding me without me worrying about a thing. I wanted to get away. Jack wanted to go somewhere that he could see me naked. And again, Jack did his research.
Couples San Souci in Ocho Rios looked and sounded as beautiful as any resort in Jamaica could hope to be. It also had a nude beach area, complete with its own pool, private beach, and grill. Clothes were strictly prohibited — no one but staff were “allowed” to be dressed in this area. Jack was sold. I was tentative.
We got to the airport too early. We had stayed at a hotel near the airport the night before, so that we wouldn’t be rushed getting to the airport for our early morning flight. We breezed through security, then picked up Starbucks. It was my second cup that morning — which, for a one cup a day coffee drinker, as I was at the time, was a huge mistake. Do you know how much caffeine is in one of those things?
As we sat next to the terminal in plastic chairs linked together by a metal bar, I shook from the caffeine. And…was it nerves? Was I nervous about being nude for a whole week, as I knew Jack wanted? Or was it just leaving the kids?
Time flies when you’re on a nonstop flight.
We pulled up at the resort by 2pm. Glancing out the window, I didn’t see much more than a white lobby with orange pavers outside and in. We were guided off the shuttle and over to a check in desk, where we were told that our room was not yet ready.
Jack had been plotting our arrival at the resort for weeks. “It’s okay if the room won’t be ready…we can just leave our bags and head right to the pool! We don’t need anything first!” My response? “We’ll just play it by ear.”
“If you like, you can go to the restaurant while you wait,” the young Jamaican woman at the desk offered. “Charles will take you there.”
I smiled. “I’d love something to eat first!” I told Jack. “Let’s go plan out what we’re doing this afternoon.”
We hadn’t sat down for more than a moment before Jack repeated himself. “Let’s go to the nude beach after this.”
“Let’s just check if our room is ready. I’d love to get changed first.”
“But you don’t have to. Just go in that. You look fine. You’re taking it all off anyways, so what’s it matter?”
“I’d like to pack a beach bag first. I need sunscreen and stuff.” Sun protection had indeed become a big thing for me since I began using tretinoin the year before, immediately battling hormonal acne after giving up breastfeeding. I had packed SPF 110 for the trip. I’d done my research, of course, and I was aware that a higher SPF isn’t necessarily better, but it certainly couldn’t hurt, I had reasoned.
Jack rolled his eyes, sat back, and relented. I was trying his patience.
We walked back up the hill to the resort, to find our room ready. We walked further up the hill to the most spectacular hotel room I could imagine. The walls were painted a stark white, and the floors were the same orange tile as the lobby. The minimalist room extended from a lovely little bedroom to a living room opening up onto a huge, private corner room balcony on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The hills below were dotted with other light peach and white resort buildings, stone pathways and wood bridges crisscrossing the land, and so much lovely green foliage. On one side of the balcony was a chaise lounge built for two, and the other side had a table and chairs. I could have stayed right there all week.
Meanwhile, Jack was thanking the porter who had brought our bags to the room for us.
“Any-ting else you need, mon?”
Jack had been waiting for this. “Yeah, actually! You got any ganja?”
“YEAH, Mon! I’ll be right back!”
Jack turned to me. “He’s running away, but I think he’s going to get me some weed.”
“Okay, we’ll just wait here. I’ll unpack.”
The porter was back within ten minutes, and $40 later we had ourselves enough weed to last the week and then some. However, we had no way to consume it (save for eating the flower, which is obviously not a good idea, as far as I know).
But again, Jack had done his research where it counts. We knew they’d have things in the gift shop. “We should go there now,” I pressed. “They might not be open later.”
“They’ll be open,” he said, firmly, though his eyes betrayed him and I could see that I had caused him to waver for a moment. “We are going to the nude beach now. You promised.”
I hadn’t promised, actually. I had always said, not promised, that I’d try going to the nude beach and then pool with him. I had also said that I would try it, and if I wasn’t comfortable then we’d go to the regular beach.
Besides, being naked wasn’t a huge deal, I assured us both several times. I’d done it before, remember? One thing I hadn’t promised was when we would go, but Jack has the patience of a two year old, so really it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he would be pushing like this to go the moment of our arrival.
I was annoyed by his pushiness, I imagine in the same way that my five year old is annoyed with her eight year old sister for bossing her around. I am an oldest child, and the indignity that someone else should push me into doing something — or/while forcing me to admit my insecurities — is …I want it to be my idea; I don’t want to be told what to do. I think I’m stubborn for the sake of being stubborn. While acting annoyingly nonchalant about it, as if I don’t really like you anyways.
Ugh, me. This is something I’m working on.
Being an older child, I had to be cunning to get my way. Jack doesn’t understand why our oldest child is sneaky, always debating, disrespectful when politely asked to be the opposite. I get it. Jack, however, is a youngest child, and with enough whining and pushing and poking the bear, he gets his way. Our youngest child screams, loudly, when her sisters are pissing her off. Jack’s reaction is not far off.
I relented. It was time. This was not worth a fight, on vacation no less. Time to get naked.
Plus, I didn’t want to smoke weed right after having a dirty banana at the restaurant earlier. So it just worked out that way.
Our room turned out to be the farthest possible room from the nude beach — just the way Jack and I like it. Walking through the whole resort, we feel the space of the place, explore nooks and crannies and shortcuts, form a map of the resort in our brains and bodies (Jack does this in about 2 trips, for me it takes about 16).
It turns out that, for a moment, you actually walk outside the resort, down a dirt road to the gate of the nude beach. Sunset Beach. Between Sunset Beach and the resort is another beach that caters to locals, and we see them through the fence, grilling spicy foods and playing music and chatting while kids splash in the water. Then, we turn the corner to the next gate, with a sign: Sunset Beach, Couples San Souci. Clothing Prohibited.”
We open the tall wood gate and go through. We walk in about five feet, and Jack says, “Ok, let’s take them off here.”
“Let’s get a chair,” I push. Act natural, I think. Like I do this all the time.
At a set of lounge chairs on the beach, we strip down. I pay attention to how I take clothes off, and how fast I do it. Not too fast and not too slow. Natural.
Why was I nervous? At that point I was not the type of girl to walk around a resort in even just a bikini. First, about half the time I was cold. Still am. I detest being cold. Cool is sometimes nice, warm is ideal, and hot is just fine as long as I’m not too sweaty. I typically used a cover up while up and moving.
Second, I was a little apprehensive about looking too, well, naked walking around. I felt very on display if I walked around in a bikini. I feel like I’m trying to draw attention to myself, and I wasn’t sure that I was allowed to enjoy doing that. I’m not someone who enjoys speaking during meetings. I’m more of a one on one person. I feel a little shy if I look too good, like I should be toning it down, not hamming it up. At the same time, I worried about my so-called flaws, the long list of insecurities and oddities. I didn’t want people to stare at me.
Anyhow, I had worn a cover up down to the beach, so I had to take that off first, over my head like I was stripping down for bed. I didn’t want to look too sexual. Underneath, I had worn my bathing suit, of course, because I couldn’t just saunter down to the nude beach naked under a cover up. So now I had to undo the ties behind my back and slip the top off over my head, revealing to the world my 34B boobs, looking nothing like the perky 34bs that I had in college. These 34Bs were a bit deflated from a cumulative total of 6 years of breastfeeding, which is 72 months all together of my breasts being drained. No wonder they were smaller, and a little flatter, than before. Jack and I often bemoan their college days, and Jack often bemoans their D cup lactating days, but I do have to say that they’re mighty convenient and appropriately petite and waify to match the rest of my post-childbearing body.
I think there are a good number of girls who would agree that showing off boobs is not a huge deal. Girls flash their boobs all the time, and guys go nuts. It’s a great power for very little cost to us ladies. So that part of my body on display wasn’t much of a big deal. Slipping off my bottoms, well, that’s where it gets different for us all, right? We reveal a part of ourselves that is so rarely shown to others. They’ll see the shape of my vagina, or if you’re a guy they’ll see your dick. They’ll see how my hair looks. They’ll see my white ass. They’ll see how silly I look. Do I look too sexual? Too lumpy? Too bushy, or too waxed?
Even then, I was rational enough to know that everyone thinks these things, and we must all get over ourselves. I was pragmatic, forcing myself to be slightly detached from those bothersome worries. So off my bottoms went, and onto the lounge chair I plopped.
The lounger was under a brown grass umbrella that seemed to grow out on a rough tree trunk-like piece of wood from the soft sand. About a dozen or two of these umbrellas, each with two chairs underneath, speckled the beach. There were several other couples facing the beach, reading, talking, drinking, and one couple sharing a joint with another couple by the water. All naked. All just chilling.
Behind me, the beach stepped up onto a tile paver patio surrounding a blue pool. Loungers under umbrellas encircled the pool about halfway, some with bags and towels saving spots. A grill and some tables and chairs was at the other end of the pool, with a spot where you could walk up to order a drink from the pool bar, but on dry land.
I noted that I was one of the younger people on the beach. The sun was still out, though it has dropped enough on the horizon to give everything that golden tone. Sunset was an hour or two away still, but the pool crowd was starting to dwindle, only but a few still partying at the pool bar. They had all befriended each other already, it seemed.
The pool wasn’t giant, but it was plenty big enough for a pool bar on one end, a slow zero entry on the other. There were built in cement tables and chairs, plus an underwater ledge to sit on, along the side of the pool by the pool bar. Between that area and the zero entry it was open and clear, with a pool volleyball net pulled to the side, at the ready. It looked like it could be nice.
Back on my lounge chair on the sand, I plop down and look straight ahead at the ocean. Jack is already relaxing on his lounger; he pulled off his suit and had gotten settled in about ten seconds flat. As soon as I sit down, Jack reaches over for my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing it.
“We’re here!” he announces, big smile on his face. “Thank you. I love you.” He squeezes my hand and kisses it again.
Jack has always been better at expressing emotions than I have. I express frustration and anger most often and usually quite poorly, but expressing excitement, joy, gratitude, or regret don’t come naturally for me. I’m an awkward apologizer. I’m like this even — perhaps most especially — with my family.
With co-workers, I do a darn good job being who people expect me to be. I know when to smile, when to be happy, how to express frustrations or “concerns” in a helpful and constructive manner. Being an educator is very much an acting job, and I, apparently, can act.
It’s exhausting, though. I long to just be myself, to speak my truth, while at the same time learning to express myself in a way that makes me feel good.
Well, I had come to the right place.
Our gazes had drifted to the ocean, and Jack let them linger there for all of about one minute. He grabbed my arm again and said, “Let’s go get a drink.”
I resisted the urge to snap at him. I’d claim to be annoyed that I had just sat down, but really? I’d be snapping because I was just a little nervous at parading myself by the pool on the way to the bar. Already? Yes, just go, woman.
I gave him a look that was probably reminiscent of a mother giving into her child. Relenting. Yes, fine, you can have just one more piece. Then go to bed.
Walking over to the pool bar, I felt … naked. I was keenly aware of the feel of my labia in between my thighs, catching the breeze with each stride. My boobs were right there, nips pointing forward, my with my tiny postage stamp haircut completing the triangle. I became aware of my posture, so I stood up straighter.
There were people in the pool, and we were probably the youngest people there. Most were probably in their fifties, a few older. We stood out. People looked, a few smiled and nodded, politely. We walked up to the bartender, who surely had more experience with naked people than maybe anyone ever. We got drinks.
We started to bring them back to our seats, but were interrupted by a friendly British guy who chatted it up with us for about ten minutes. He was nice, polite, interesting, and friendly. How lovely. It felt perfectly fine to say hi. Not bad.
Leaving that conversation and heading again to our chairs, I paused by a lady reading on her own lounge chair. She was reading a book that I loved. I said so, aloud, and she responded by putting down her book, excitedly, thus beginning a lively conversation. Her husband joined in and we sat around chatting for what must have been another half hour. Then it was time for dinner.
The next morning, we went back to the nude beach, no problem mon. After a morning of reading aloud interesting quips from large print editions of Reader’s Digest (seriously, that’s weirdly relaxing, try it), we went for a dip in the nude pool. Jack struggled not to get a stiffy while I floated on a raft in the pool, tanning both sides, on full display of everyone else there.
And after lunch, we made life changing friends who, as it turns out, were swingers. But that’s a story for Part Three.