Nudist In The Office
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Nudist In The Office
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Michael Hines — April 10, 2011 — Naughty
Male computer programmers are probably going to lose it when they read about Nude House. Nude House is an English computer company that sells software solutions online -- completely in the nude.
The only dress code at the offices of the Nude House is that there is no dress code. All work is done online, which means that sales personnel and engineers don't have to worry about conducting meetings with prospective clients in the buff. Business is booming at Nude House; the company is contemplating opening up a new office and is currently looking for more female computer programmers to balance out its male-dominated offices.
The company's head, Chris Taylor, has been a practicing naturist for 20 years and is heading up the interview process, screening out those who just want to see others naked or try and flirt with them.
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(Image credit: Courtesy Hedonism II)
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When I tell people I'm going to a naked resort in Jamaica, they respond as though I've just revealed my salary or the details of my last menstruation. It's a long blink or a visible shift backward in their seat. Several ask, after a pause, "Are you a naked person?"
I don't know. What's a naked person? A naked person probably owns more beads than I do, just beaded necklaces every day. A naked person probably sleeps with crystals under her pillow to ward off negative stuff and leaves candles burning and pees with the door open. I think I'm naked the appropriate amount. I'm naked in locker rooms and in front of my friends when we're getting dressed and in front of sexy friends when we're not. A naked person? Me? It's relative.
I watch as they cram into the bar, probably casually touching their genitals to each other’s thigh areas.
But I decide to go to Hedonism II (opens in new tab) in Negril, Jamaica—a clothing-optional resort that bills itself as "the world's most iconic adult playground"—because they invite me and I'm devoted to having experiences. I'm a professional experience-haver.
At the front desk, the receptionist gets me a Red Stripe beer and asks if it's my first time to "Hedo," as everyone calls it. Yep! "So you're a virgin," he says with an eyebrow up. First time to Jamaica? Yes. "A double virgin!" Oh god. So this is where I am.
Guests on the beach raft before disrobing.
There are two sides to the resort: the prude side (where you can be naked) and the nude side (where you must be naked—a policy put in place to stop fully dressed creeps from coming over just to stare). My room is on the nude end, with a little deck that lets out onto the sand and the Caribbean sea, which means that my view will include the unadorned masses. A mirror on the ceiling captures me sleeping alone.
When I roll over in the morning, I'm greeted by two flaccid dicks and the dawn. My next-door neighbors, who are gay men or maybe just naked man friends, are strolling the beach together outside my sliding-glass door. I go to yoga (clothed) and breakfast (also clothed; it's a health violation otherwise). In the omelet line I meet the guy I sat next to in yoga. "That was really a great practice, huh?" he says, trying to engage. I nod and devote my entire gaze to the eggs. I'm not ready to make friends yet. What kind of people even come here?
Like a wuss, I start the vacation proper by reading in a hammock on the prude side. But then it starts to rain, so I rush back toward my room—at the same time everyone else on the nude side also dashes for cover. Forty to 50 middle-aged naked people are running to the beach bar for shelter. I stand on my deck watching the rain and their 80 to 100 butt cheeks all in a row as they cram into the bar, chatting and laughing and probably casually touching their genitals to each other's thigh areas.
It's around then that I start making some fresh observations about the human form. Men naturally have more muscular butts; their default is toned, even as they get older, which is so unfair. Most women just look like their torsos were sliced toward the bottom. We also all have the same roll of fat below our belly buttons, provided by God and Darwin to protect the uterus, and it casts a shadow over our crotch. For all the mental and financial and cultural effort put into maintaining the pubic-hair trend du jour, you can't even really see what women are doing down there unless you're at close range. Nature put in a portico.
When the rain blows over, I decide to wade into the proverbial waters of my own nakedness. I start by just hanging out on my patio topless with a bikini bottom on, which is easy. Topless is basically my preferred state of affairs already. Then I inch out further, past my deck, so I'm sitting on a lounge chair in just bottoms and a large, floppy, necessary-not-just-for-privacy-but-for-sun-protection hat. I am armed also with my favorite kind of book, a hefty 500-page novel about college kids coming of age. After sitting still for around four minutes, I rip off my bikini bottoms quickly, like I'm about to pee behind a tree.
No one so much as shifts their gaze. I'm naked in public by myself. There are beach breezes alighting on areas of my skin that have never felt breezes before.
I wade into the actual water, a turquoise sea that is partitioned off so people from nearby resorts can't make marathon snorkeling treks over to gawk. A little yellow plastic island floats toward a deeper end, so I swim out to it and then climb up. I lie on my back in the sun like a cat, or maybe a seal, in view of the entire resort or any low-circling airplanes. It's a kind of peace and relief I didn't know I could feel.
My deck also offers a private hot tub, and I'm sitting in the bubbling water alone watching the sunset with a champagne flute when a muscular man and his penis walk by. I'm admiring it when he pivots toward me and asks if I would like to get dinner with him and his girl tonight? A bemused "sure" falls out of my drowsy, sunburned face. What the hell have I just done? , I wonder as he saunters away.
I lie on my back naked in the sun in view of the entire resort. It’s a kind of peace I didn’t know I could feel.
Getting ready for this date resembles how I get ready for others: shower and blast Beyoncé and text my friends about what could go right and wrong. Dressed and wearing what I think is the right amount of makeup for Jamaican humidity, I head to our meeting spot at the bar, where a woman in a pageboy wig and a dress cut to her belly button comes up to me immediately and says my name. It's my date! We head to the Italian restaurant on the property and settle in. Come here often?
The couple tells me some things. They met while in a threesome—he was dating her friend and she stole him away but all three people are cool now! They've been together for eight years but aren't in any rush to get married. He has a school-aged daughter from a previous relationship, she has a son in law school. They've been to Hedonism a few times, not so much for the swinging but for the thrill of public sex and nudity. They ask me about my romantic life and career, and are more engaged in my answers than most dates I've ever had.
I feel extremely comfortable with these middle-aged people. They ask what I wa
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