Get the VICE App on iOS and AndroidMy girlfriend Kelsey isn't just a nudist—she's a nude activist. She's a regular fixture at body freedom events around San Francisco and was once detained at city hall for stripping in protest of the recent nudity ban. She even suggested that our first date be in the buff (at a "leathermen/nudist rally").I declined that generous offer, opting instead for the much lamer first date of drinks at a bar. Because I am not a nudist. If anything, I'm a prudist. I feel risqué around cleavage. I keep my eyes fixed to the floor of my gym's shower at all times, as if savoring the fallen strands of hair and Clif Bar wrappers there.
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So when a rep from Hedonism II—a clothing-optional resort in Jamaica—invited me to spend five days "pursuing pleasure" in my birthday suit, I said, "No thanks!"They asked a few more times, and it so happened that the next press trip fell on Kelsey's birthday. Nothing made her happier than nudity, and if I selflessly got an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Caribbean out of it, then by gum, I guess I could try being a nudist for a week.I never thought I would travel to Jamaica, because I am a queer person and TIME once called the country "the most homophobic place on earth." That was ten years ago, however, and many activists and artists say the country is making strides. So we decided to go, anticipating severe cognitive dissonance while attending one of the most progressive resorts imaginable in one of the most homophobic countries around.A resort pamphlet notes that Negril, the town where the resort is located, is "popular for watersports," forcing me to briefly reconsider what I've gotten myself into before realizing that they're referring to wakeboarding.Before I can blink, a mimosa appears in my hand. Hedo's staff is bend-over-backward accommodating (not a euphemism!) and our room is pimptastic. Steps from the beach! Ceiling mirrors! Private jacuzzi! Mini fridge stocked with booze! All of it free and positively, well, hedonistic.We're given a daily agenda of activities and encouraged fetishwear ("school attire" on one day, "leather and lace" the next). Kelsey strips down to her birthday suit immediately, and I, emboldened by vodka, take off my top on our private patio, which isn't actually so private, as anyone can walk by and say "hi" (and MANY do, and SOME don't leave for a long time).
Day 1
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What I notice immediately is this: When nudity is the norm, it's easy to follow suit (or suitless, I suppose). Why? Because I'm a follower. As much as I might consider myself an artsy type who flirts with the EDGE, I am 100 percent lemming. Jump off this cliff, you say? Sure! Way better than what I had in mind. I defer to you, group of strangers!I only last ten minutes in the buff, however. I am freeeeee, yes, but also self-conscious because our room has mirrors on every surface except the floor. I now know what my back fat looks like from four unique angles, and this knowledge is not comforting.I remind myself that everyone else at this resort is comfortable (celebratory, even!) with their imperfections, and try to force myself to not to think of my physique as a "block of cheese on toothpicks." But I struggle. Judgment-free nudity cannot make up for a lifetime of being a woman in the world.I do receive a surprising amount of attention from strangers, which is intoxicating. But it soon becomes apparent that the real star of our vacation is Kelsey's bush. A selection of unsolicited comments she received from men:"DAT BUUUUSH!" (Followed by vigorous pointing.)"Can I give you a compliment? I just loooove them hairy pussies.""How do I put this? You are the first lady at the resort I have ever seen to be, uh, unshaved.""Can I shave that? No? Can I lick it for you, then?"I begin to feel weirdly competitive, wondering why nobody makes denigrating, sexist remarks about my bush. Admittedly, Kelsey's bush is resplendent—a fluffy cloud of curly tendrils you could comfortably nap upon for several hours. Mine, however, looks more like a 13-year-old's valiant attempt at a beard.
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Day 2
Day 3
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Truly, where else can an otherwise respectable fellow wear a shirt that reads "ASS: The Other Vagina" in public? Hedonism II might be his only chance in the world. I sympathize, and to each his own and all that, but I find it hard to smile at a sweet sexagenarian whose shirt reads, "Let's play a coin game: If it's heads, I get tail. If it's tails, I get head."
Watch "A Flair for Fetish: Sploshing"
On our last day, we meet Beth, who runs Wild Women Vacations, which specializes in erotic trips for bi-leaning ladies. She tells us about a lady-focused party that night in the resort's sex play area, and we get excited, because Hedo is largely straight. When we arrive, Beth greets us excitedly."You came!" she says.Another host chimes in, "Well, they haven't come yet."Sex toys are scattered about the rooms, including the Hi massager, a vibrator about the size and shape of an electric mixer that can give women orgasms through their clothes. There's a vibrating saddle-plus-dildo apparatus named the Sybian, and a Womanizer, which is like a benign vacuum cleaner hose for your nether bits. A fisting demo takes place; the woman lending the helping hand is also the dominatrix of the evening. She's mostly retired, with kind eyes, and wears a hat with sparkly stones that read "SEXY." While she flogged me, she ran her fingers lightly along my back and said, "You're so delicate. I don't want to hurt you."
Watch "A Flair for Fetish: Sploshing"
Day 4
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