Thank you to everyone who voted . . . for Dave’s snail! Dave looks pretty pleased with himself, doesn’t he? I hope there aren’t any real snails crawling around there in the sand. Anyway, now that you’ve all taken a GOOD look, won’t you please enjoy these journal excerpts from our Jamaican vacation? (Oh, yes, I really DO write like this in my journal.)
All Women Are Not Created Equal
I think I once blathered on about how the people you see on a nude beach are the people you’d see at Wal-Mart. That was true until the day we saw . . . Candy-Bambi, so named for our fantasy that she must be either a stripper, a Hooters girl, or a prostitute. In fact, she was a very nice woman who just happened to be young and gorgeous and married to an old fat guy. Dave pronounced her perfect, except for the tattoos: one on her butt and one on her lower back. “If only you could just rub them off,” Dave said wistfully. Seemingly minutes after he said this, we saw her husband doing just that: rubbing off her fake tattoos. Dave had to stay in the pool for a long time after that.
All Men Are Not Created Equal
After a few days of looking at naked men, they all start to look the same. Actually, no, they don’t. Take Long Dong Tonto, for example. Why “Long Dong Tonto”? Well, he dressed as Tonto at the fantasy costume party. As for the other part, let’s just say that a snail would be totally inadequate. Maybe an eel. A giant mutant eel.
Nudists Have Manners, Too
Sometimes I take a big mouthful of coffee and promptly choke on it, spitting it all over my keyboard. Annoying. This happened while I was on the beach one morning, looking out at the ocean. I’m just going to pretend those people sitting behind me didn’t see me spluttering and spitting coffee all over the beach and then walking purposefully away. Well, what was I supposed to do?
“What famous 1970s actor . . .”
I fully expected to win the poolside movie trivia contest. “Where did two lovers plan to meet . . . ” “EMPIRE STATE BUILDING!” “Who played Wyatt . . . “ “KEVIN COSTNER!” “How long did . . . “ “TWO YEARS!” “Where . . .” “WHAT’S EATING GILBERT GRAPE!” But I was counting on Dave to win the sports trivia contest. However, with such answers as “chicken cordon bleu” and “heart surgery,” I took that one home, too. And I WOULD have won the music trivia contest if the guy playing the songs hadn’t been so bone-headed. After playing snippet after snippet of “Dancing in the Streets” (after which everyone in the entire resort and universe yelled “DANCING IN THE STREETS!”) he smugly announced, “Sorry! That was “Sixties Medley.” Argggh.
The World Is Their Litterbox
Two stray cats lived on our resort: Hortense and Buddy. Apparently their job is killing lizards and rats, tho I don’t see how they worked up an appetite for vermin after the platefuls of chicken and fish they were given by the guests at lunch. “I wonder where they go to the bathroom?” “Oh, probably back there in the woods.” As if she’d heard us, Hortense showed up at our patio later that day. After meowing loudly, she headed across the lawn to the beach and began to . . . dig. Of course. The beautiful sandy beach we’d walked over barefoot so many times. She covered it up and proceeded to climb a palm tree. Aw. Just like our cats. I wore sandals on the beach from that point on.
One Cool Day
I succumbed (gladly) to wearing clothes on the one day that was cloudy and cool. Dave remained nude for as long as possible, then reluctantly put on his Lablatt Blue fleece pullover . . . and nothing else. Walking around bottomless isn’t such a good look for most men. When it started to rain, Dave added to his already fetching ensemble the sheer plastic rain poncho he’d gotten at Niagara Falls. The thin plastic had the unfortunate effect of clinging to his exposed region, which . . . I don’t even know how to complete this sentence. Just go back and look at the snail. We’ll all feel better.
“I’m Sorry, But I Have to Say . . .”
I love to create a playlist for each vacation and have my iPod shuffle me up some tunes for the day. The first song of the first day of vacation is the most important—it sets the tone for the entire trip. Would it be “Lovely Day” by Bill Withers? “Sunshower” by Ocean Blue? “Montego Bay” by Bobby Bloom? The first song of my Jamaican vacation? Buckcherry’s “Too Drunk to F*ck.” Hmmm.
Bats Are NOT Mythical Creatures
I got up early enough most mornings to be terrorized by bats. I’d dash to the clubhouse for my coffee as they wheeled and swooped overhead, occasionally getting close enough to almost touch my hair. I told Dave about the bats, but he seemed skeptical. “How do you know they’re not birds?” Why are people so reluctant to believe in bats? They’re not actually vampires, you know. Bats live among us!
Here’s a tip: don’t develop a blister one hour before a pedicure. Especially if that blister plans to burst. Even if you make it through the clipping, the sloughing, and the buffing, the pouring of nail polish remover over the tender, exposed skin of your blister will cause you to scream profanities, which doesn’t go over well among the nice Jamaican manicurists.
Into every naked vacationer’s life come naked milestones. On this trip, it was to be the Naked Inauguration. The televised ceremony was shown in the clubhouse and was probably the only thing that could drag me inside, away from the sun. As we watched, I liked to imagine that, among the shots of the people in Selma and Kenya, there would flash on the screen a shot of a bunch of naked people with champagne and sunburns, with the caption: “Nudists Forego Sun to Watch Inauguration.” This would coincide Obama saying: “It has not been the path for . . . those who prefer leisure over work.”
If you’re going to fall asleep on the beach, ask your husband to take his emtpy glasses with him when he deserts you to go swimming. That way, when the beach waitress wakes you up to ask if “you’re OK, darling,” that tableful of empties doesn’t make you look like such a derelict. (Although the drooling and disorientation are your own damn responsibility).
“And then Edward stepped out from the trees . . .”
Every woman on the beach, at the pool, on the patio, at the breakfast table . . . ALL of them clutched a certain black-covered book. Yes, even me. No wonder I was so afraid of bats.
Someone’s Reading this Blog
The buffet counter at the Naked Pool Lunch has been moved to higher ground! The food is now placed at chest level to alleviate the chances of doodle dipping. (Thank god. I’d hate to spoon up some Thousand Island dressing for my French Fry Salad after Long Dong Tonto had been there.) Guests are still asked to cover their unmentionables before eating, which, according to some online forums is a matter of contention. According to one angry nudist: “If I want to cover up, I’ll stay on the prude side. I certainly don’t drag my genitals over the food.” Gross! I think “genital dragging” is much less appetizing than “doodle dipping,” don’t you?
I hope these journal entries helped you feel that you were right there with us: relaxed, naked, running from bats, and spitting coffee on the beach. If you’re still not feeling the vibe, take off your pants, drink a Red Stripe, and watch the Inauguration on YouTube. Everyone should have at least one naked milestone in their lives.