Adult Nudism
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Hedonism II Wife Picture
NUDIST WIFE AT HEDONISM II

The Caribbean's Most Popular Nudist
Resort For Couples & Singles

A FANTASY DISNEYWORLD FOR ADULTS

Jumping off cliffs, gulping Herculean amounts of alcohol, feasting on buffets of Olympian proportion--these are but a few of the distractions offered by a variety of all-inclusive resorts dotting Jamaica's Negril coastline.

One may also sail, snorkel, scuba-dive, play tennis, golf, or, if so inclined, engage in a vigorous round of clothing-optional leapfrog. If this last activity spikes your interest or gives you a telltale tingle, by all means, forget your thong, grab your toothbrush, and head to Hedonism II, only fifty precarious miles from Montego Bay's scruffy airport.



Hedonism II is a destination with a dubious but celebrated distinction. While neighboring mega resorts (such as Grand Lido and Sandals) offer all-inclusive weeklong packages designed to ignite the romantic flames of couples in love, Hedonism II takes another tack. Hedonism II's romantic fancies include lust, lubricants and latex. It's is a broad focus that has much to do with group activity. Forget the wine and roses and intimate dinners. Hedonism II doesn't need to bother. It's the most booked-out resort in the Caribbean. If you don't believe me, call your travel agent you'll be lucky to get a reservation for next season. Maybe.

If leapfrogging without the coddling comfort of bottoms sounds amusing, it is perhaps too energetic for some. How about some coed clothing-optional Twister, or the more placid pastime of bare-bottom shuffleboard? Participating in these activities resolves immediately any question about why the sun elects not to shine in certain places. Sometimes it's a difficult spectacle to witness, depending upon the sun's position. However, one quickly acclimates to this particular brand of sunshine, and after a short time, hardly notices. This is not the timorous naturism one might find in St. Tropez. It's the sort of nudism you might discover in an upscale neighborhood pub if everyone suddenly went clothing optional.


Hedonism II succeeds unabashedly in the liberation of prurient preoccupations. Imagine your best fantasy come true. Is this bad? Not at all, but at times the random courting habits do resemble impulses common to the Middle Pleistocene period. It can happen when urges are given a free reign. The daily ritual is both pagan and urban, a sometimes confused medley of desires played out beneath the chafing fronds of complacent palm trees. Imagine a place where private fantasies are realized in a non-virtual holo deck (a la Star Trek) now, wouldn't that be a swell place?

Everything I mention here is true. Debaucheries that would send Bacchus scrambling are commonplace, though no one takes offense. The mix of broiling flesh marinated in booze can sometimes brew an indelicate and libidinous stew, but this is exactly what some urban folks need. At Hedonism II, desire and carnal-mindedness are free to erupt in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon, spilling into the nooks and crannies of the resort, but well within reach of a wandering eyeball. Standing at the shoreline, innocently saluting the horizon in search of your mate, you risk witnessing vivid displays of salacious undulation or simply an application of tanning oils to a willing breast. Why not? This is the tropics, and every one knows how populated this part of the world has become. Seemingly, something in the dense tropical air frees the spirit and emboldens the soul into uninhibited expression.

As the photo essays reveal, there is something essentially soothing about nudism that releases tension and eases the mind's burdens after all, we carry this peculiar aspect (our nudity) with us regardless of destination. In the world of mundane duty we continually attempt to wrestle control over our privates (it isn't like we can leave them at home), and Hedonism II resembles, if anything, a Disneyworld for our nether regions. "Your Genitals Are Welcome Here," the sign should say.

In the course of our stay we met, among others, a firefighter, a bank teller, a postal clerk, a waitress, a dental assistant, all born and raised in suburban sprawls seemingly confined to the New York, Chicago and Atlanta metropolitan areas; the same people one tends to meet as a daily habit. Of course, seeing these same people in nothing but footwear somewhat confuses the course of conversation. However, if anything, standing naked within a group of strangers is far less inhibiting than mingling fully clothed. I have no idea why this is other than that, perhaps, clothing provokes a degree of separation, sheathing our naked sin. Communal nudity unravels this sin and shuttles pretense out the window. We are what we are.

Charles is a forty-five-year-old insurance adjuster from Chicago. A Hedonism II veteran, he is enjoying his fourth go-around. On Monday (our second day) Frank is amusing himself at the pool bar (a bar in the swimwear-challenged pool) quaffing Red Stripe beer. He is the friendliest fellow in the world with his shorts off, eager to glad-hand you and know your whatevers. He is built to survive harsh winters, perhaps on the Russian steppes. He is generally hairy, except on his head, which has begun to peel. His eyes are friendly, and he takes you in with a sweeping bottom-to-top appraisal peculiar to Hedonism II (or any nudist environment). He has a Donald Trump wince, which is hard to imagine without the hair but once witnessed is locked forever in memory (Honey, remember the Donald Trump guy?). When he exits the pool to tend to natural duties, he seems to have befriended a dead mouse, which clings to him beneath several rolls of loose baggage. We wince in unison, like Donald Trump. But so what? Not everyone is Adonis or Aphrodite. Charles is simply a man exercising his freedom to enjoy the party, a man who likely keeps tightly bundled-up in his native Chicago. His mission here is to put a great distance between that Charles and the one now frolicking naked in the pool. We see him later that night passed out in nature's way on the beach. Someone has attempted to disguise his various features under strategic bundles of seaweed. Unbothered, he sleeps as Bacchus beneath a star burdened sky.

Nightly activities are robust. The Pajama Party Disco puts everyone back into their clothes, but of the intimate nighttime variety teddies and sheer nightgowns or simply underwear for women, and thongs or creative pimp-wear for men. Or nothing at all. While one quickly acclimates to nudity, when the same people one stood naked with hours before on the beach suddenly appear in a suggestive tease of lingerie, well, the tables turn. This is erotic fair for most, and the turmoil of desire inspires another dimension of human harmony. The Grand Toga Party, for which people prepare all week, is a similar affair. My companion decides exposing one breast will do. Why this carries with it an eroticism the nude beach denies is beyond explanation.

The day after the clothing-impaired disco party, where bosoms large and small defied, terrifyingly, the perfect symmetry afforded them by gravity when not gyrating to the beat, we meet Judy, a flight attendant with immaculate teeth. I try not to make other assessments. She inhabits the beach during the day, and frequents the hot tub by night. Back in suburban Atlanta she keeps her Hedonism II secrets to herself. She is not a "swinger," but brings a casual attitude towards sex when she visits. Otherwise, her two lives are completely separate. She knows Charles from an earlier visit, and, as we learn during our stay, is one among many regulars who keep in touch during the year and plan for their visits to coincide.

Of course, all-inclusive means no charge for the booze. Sobriety under these circumstances seems improvident. By the second day many have become a bit hazy, and begin curing their hangovers by drinking more exotic concoctions. By the third day there is a distinct decline in the quality of interaction, but the fun seems to be on the rise. The staff, used to the dwindling intellects of their guests during each weeklong Bacchanal, are suddenly the only people able to carry on a comprehensible conversation. No one seems to mind, and people are left to indulge themselves as they see fit. I can't imagine more than one week at this pace. I don't drink, but feel exhausted by the energy of those intent on maximizing their return on investment.

With an anthropologist's zeal I observe the daily beach activities, which whirl into a high frenzy once the precisely scheduled mid-afternoon thunderstorm passes over the sizzling parade of flesh. The brief rain feels like a burst of perspiration that inspires a new tempo. Organized activities often lose their legs under the treacherous gravity of alcohol, which turn some attempts at civilized play into haphazard sessions of pawing and bawdy pranksterism. Lotharios and paramours prove helpful to each other in their communal applications of tanning lotions and oils. I note the men lingered at this task with Zen-like determination, exercising a precision subscribing to peculiar rules of navigation. Water play is suggestive but non-conclusive. Such is the beat of this daytime drum, which grew louder as the week wore on.

I conclude it is only fair that women be allowed to absorb the sun's goodness topless wherever they choose to do it, preferably in a gently reclining position, and plan to petition the city council upon my return to the quotidian affairs of citizenship back home.

From a distance, these activities soon seem epicene. The bodies resemble so many melons, variously arranged in pairs, like moguls on the fine sands or bumps on the happy face of the moon. By the fourth day the absence of clothing is unremarkable. As scientists have learned, particularly with whales, surface features, which in this case means moles, divots and birthmarks, serve as useful identification aids. I never forget a name, but I have trouble matching them to faces. Thus, it is a fairly useless talent. Birthmarks and moles are another matter and, I soon discover, they may lurk in the oddest of locations.

These Hedonists know that people come in all sizes, colors and shapes, and respect their right to enjoy themselves in whatever dress lends them the most comfort at the seashore. And while no one actually stares or stalks, it is impossible not to appreciate the beauty of the naked body, even if their dimensions fail to comply with Hollywood's preferred vintage.

Though I am not a prude, I do wonder about the prudence of men standing waist deep without an organizing brief in the wilds of the ocean. Most fisherman are familiar with the efficacies of variously sized lures. I can imagine the horrific damage a swift barracuda might bestow on the unwary with a quick pass along the shoreline.

But that is neither here nor there. My conclusion is that people, even the least spectacularly fit, look happier with their clothes off. True, the fig leaf titillates, this is no secret. But its absence isn't necessarily a cause for dismay. Nudism, even in large groups, does not suggest leering audiences, but simple communal enjoyment of nature without sexual overtones unless the consenting wish to indulge themselves. If a man wishes to stand next to his nude wife at the pool-bar with strangers or fresh acquaintances, and in doing so revivifies his sexual attraction to her well, what harm is there in that?

Hedonism II is the world of Penthouse letters exposed to the fever of tropical sun. It is also about pleasure and the opportunity to explore one's sensual-self without danger of incrimination.

I feel certain when God handed us the keys to this planet, he did so thinking that aside from a few wars and tragedies of inhuman scale, we would otherwise not get too strange with it.

Hedonism II makes me wonder.  Hedonism II Pics


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