A Nudist Adventure
A MEMBER SHARES A CHAPTER FROM HIS NUDIST LIFE WITH WOMEN. IF YOU'RE IN A RUSH BOOKMARK IT FOR LATER. ADULT CONTENT
The Black Nudist Woman
COULD I BE MAN ENOUGH FOR A BLACK WOMAN? WOULD I EVER FIND OUT? NUDIST JAMAICA
A beautiful black woman arrives on a nude beach, undresses, and lays down naked too close to be even a stone's throw away. I can fling a potato chip and reach her nude bum, even in a head wind. Her face, breasts, buttocks, and slender long legs are all stunning. I wonder if I've just passed through the pearly gates. In a few minutes she's going to start a conversation...
But let me bring you up to speed first. After five years as a software analyst for a company I didn’t believe in, they deemed me redundant (lack of capital can have that effect), and gave me a generous severance to skedaddle. I fell into a male version of an “Eat, Pray, Love” despondency, said goodbye to my apartment, which cost more in monthly rent than my first car, and said adios to my girlfriend, a sweet, pretty woman but of decreasing interest to me.
Perhaps “despondent” is too strong, but I was caught unawares. A recent pep-talk assured us new funding was on its way. Apparently not. The severance meant I could take some time to decide on my trajectory. I enjoyed the work but not the contrived camaraderie of cramped office life. I was more a loner than a joiner. From time to time I had hired freelancers to do handle some of our work load, persons equipped with my skills but somewhat more at liberty to employ them where they wished. I could that, I thought. It would keep things interesting, and myself free of the boredom of having to getting along with people.
"She takes off her casual dress to reveal Alpine white panties and bra, which she then promptly removes before falling onto her towel in a way that makes me think her local gravity is less than mine."
I would need to live somewhere cheap until fully set up with reliable clients, preferably ones who would not need face time (I rarely met the freelancers I hired). Also, a warm climate would be nice along with some pleasant atmosphere. A friend suggested I look around the Caribbean. I did, and settle on Jamaica, where a friend once lived for a year writing a novel that quickly became a non bestseller. Live and learn.
I land on Jamaica’s western flank, near Negril, and rent a cottage a few rows back from their Seven Mile Beach. Negril is famous as the home of several adult resorts featuring unmediated debauchery. Its appeal may be self-evident to you, if you’re a man having an “Eat, Pray, Love” crisis. The antidote of burning through my severance under a tropical sun where rum and cheap beer arrive with stunning efficiency made complete logic. I’m not a heavy drinker but do enjoy the sun and general ambiance of beach life. When not working on my new life I would be surrounded by vacationers prone to mischief. The bonus of a nude beach sealed the deal.
It quickly became my custom to grab lunch at a beach hut roofed with fronds from the ubiquitous silver palms. Conch fritters or fried grouper and a sweet potato and pea combination did the trick, along with a beer or two. I would follow this with a nap on the beach, which offered both suited and nude sunbathing. A few hundred meters down the shore was the infamous resort, where firemen from Chicago get frisky with housewives from Denver – not my scene, exactly, but not void of interest if loaded to gills and curious as to the depths of humanity.
The woman who serves me at the hut is a local, or so I then thought, black as a moonless night and stunningly attractive and tall, and always friendly but silent. Nods and smiles make up her vocabulary. To me, she seems the most exotic creature on Earth. I’ve always been fascinated by black women, but had barely met one. Where I grew up there wasn’t much mixing. It wasn’t segregation. It was just that not many people of any color wished to live where I grew up.
"She studies my erection, touches it gracefully and says, 'Oh, this is fine. You don't need to worry. Is it for me?'"
One day, after wrapping up lunch, I head to my usual spot on the beach, drop my shorts, and proceed to have my nap after a quick scan of the surroundings. There are always other Americans and some Europeans who, like me, sprawl out of the cottages or meander over from the resorts to break their routines. Most of them are nudists, at least while in Jamaica, so, though a single man, I could see naked women by the dozens every day. That is not a typical feature of life in New York City.
As I was finishing my scan, the black woman from the lunch hut walks by, gives me smile of recognition, and tosses her bag and towel about twenty feet from me, or about the length of my former apartment. I mention the distance to suggest it was a cozy one. She stretches her back with her arms outstretched, surveys the ocean and the sun, and sets out her towel properly.
She takes off her casual dress to reveal Alpine white panties and bra, which she then promptly removes before falling onto her towel in a way that makes me think her local gravity is less than mine. She descends as if in slow motion. Everything is tight about her and as near perfect as I or anyone else could wish for. She turns on her side revealing a bottom that would have sent Renaissance artists scrambling for their brushes.
At this point, I feel the nap is somewhat less important. As long as she has her backside to me I will liberally imbibe the view. As it often happens, when one is as lost in concentration as I am, they enter into a daze and do not react quickly when the tableau before them is amended. I’m startled to hear, “So, where are you from?” come out of her backside, which is now her front side.
I regain control over consciousness and shoot back, “New York. You?”
She's turned over to face me, lying on her side. Her breasts are full and firm, her belly flat, flanked by a nice curve that rises over her hips. She's slender. Her legs reach forever.
“Brooklyn,” she said. So, not Jamaican after all.
I become sternly aware of the state of my affairs, reminding myself that I am nude and, as these things go, vulnerable to exercising certain biologic mandates. I am happy with my male paraphernalia, and woman have told me it's attractive, its extra length and girth, even when not aroused, being something they admired (some independent study confirmed I should be pleased with my good fortunes there). But even so, those studies revealed that black men tend to set bar even higher, much to my chagrin now.
“So, I guess you work down here now?” I said.
“I’m just helping out a cousin while I stay in Jamaica. My family is from here.” So, Jamaican after all, at least as far as origins.
She brushes sand off her breast. I feel myself responding. A nude woman has just touched her breast. That’s the telegraph my brain just sent to the frontier. As I contemplate my choices and fear a perfect storm of misjudgment, she proceeds to her knees, gathers her things, and says, “Mind if I come over?”
“Sure. Come over here,” I say. “Or I could move.” She laughs at that because it is a stupid thing to say as she is already on her way. Seeing her full-frontal and in motion encourages me to make a strategic move to my stomach. I don’t land quite right, and have to make some manual adjustments.
“What do you do?” she asks.
I draw a momentary blank, unsure of my next move, let alone my occupation and life trajectory. I’m not particularly suave, and being naked doesn’t help matters as I feel this girl is both stunning and exotic, which tends to add some pressure.
I’m relieved when she forfeits the opportunity for me to reply by informing me of her occupation.
“I’m a textbook editor,” she says. “Freelance,” she adds. “Exciting, isn't it? I love to read. I came down here for a change of pace and to clear the pipes. I’m not sure about my next move.”
“I’m sort of doing the same, though someone else decided my employment future for me. I was considered redundant. I did software analysis for a social media company that will in all likelihood go bust.”
“Stressful, eh? Or are you set? You don’t seem too stressed.”
“They offered a nice severance package so I’m set for a while at least. I’m saving the stress for down the road when it runs out.” I have five and half months of pay and insurance so I wasn’t really stressed at all, but I admired her thoughtfulness.
“What do you think you’ll do? Your next move, I mean,” I ask.
“I haven’t decided. I’m set up workwise. I’ve got ten years experience so I’ve got cred and good references if I need to make any new connections.” She examines something apparently biting the side of her left breast, and brushes it off much more brusquely than I would have thought comfortable.
This breast action is hard to deal with. Then she opens her legs and brushes them briskly, with not an once of modesty.
“Sand fleas. It’s the season but they’re only really bad when there’s no breeze.” She says, smiling.
I’m thankful for the breeze, both for its cooling effect and its power to dim sand flea activity.
I’ll try to be delicate here mentioning that I always wondered why black people sun bathe. Then again, I did notice that this woman has paler skin around her breasts and bottom, so maybe she’s trying to even things out from having before gone to the beach wearing a swimsuit. I am afraid to ask her about it, but not completely.
“Why do black people sun bathe?”
She laughs, saying, “Black is beautiful, baby!”
I agree with her.
“But really, I like the beach and the sun and being naked, so where else can I go? Have you been to any of the nude beaches around New York?”
“No,” I admit. I had not. With this trip I’m having my first nudist experiences, part of the new me I’m crafting as a hedonist. Also, it means I can email friends back home that I’m getting naked on the beach with naked women, all true.
“The New York scene isn’t so laid back but still nice on a hot day. You see all types. There are lots of gays,” she says.
“It that a problem?” I asked.
“No. They don’t bother me. I just mentioned it to be informative. Are you gay?” She laughs.
I had proof that I was not but simply say no.
“I’ve never met a woman who was already naked,” I say. “Have you met many naked men here or in New York? Is it strange for you? I admit it’s a little strange for me. I’m not sure where to point my eyes.”
She laughs again. This is a happy person.
“There was a white guy from the resort that hit on me but I nixed him pretty quick. He seemed pretty drunk. I met a few guys on the nude beach in New York, black guys, but I mainly kept to myself and my girlfriend from Puerto Rico. Boy, she is pretty. She drew men in all the time. Some would just stand there and stare down at us.”
“What made you decide to be a nudist,” I ask.
“Why would anyone choose not to be?” she says. “Anyway, it gives me the control, you know, over my body. I own it. If I decide to be seen naked, it’s my choice. Get it. You tell a guy in New York you’re a nudist and he’s like, okay, you’ve got the power, woman.”
I got it.
I’m still lying on my stomach. My mostly erect penis is now not as much a problem as the two beers I drank at lunch. While I’m wondering if just peeing into the sand beneath me is an option she sidetracks me with an offer.
“Want to go for a dip? It’s hot. Or maybe I’m just absorbing the rays a little more than you are.” She laughs and smiles with her comment.
I consider for a moment. The prospect of frolicking in the waves with a naked black woman I’ve just met was sending mixed signals to both my bladder and penis.
New experiences are often fraught with question marks, which is why learning curves were invented. The best way to handle this situation is to be direct, I surmise, my options being limited. It was hot, after all, and I needed to empty my bladder. Two birds, one stone, with a minor complication.
“Sure, I’d like to, but let me honest. I have a bit of an erection going on here, plus I have to use the bathroom.”
Of course, she laughs again. This woman was very agreeable.
“Hey, I’m flattered that you have an erection!” she jokes. “Look, I’ll go down ahead of you and then you follow. I won’t see a thing (more laughter). You can pee in the ocean.” With this she stands up, also in slow motion it seems, and takes off for the shore. She is grace in motion, being very athletic looking. Her muscles activate in ripples throughout her body as her hair sways with a come-hither suggestiveness. When she reaches the shoreline she bends over from the hips to splash water on her upper torso, which she strokes suggestively, or so it looks, as if offering some instruction. Then she dives in and I make my way over.
She graciously leaves me alone for about ten minutes then swims over like a smooth dolphin with the water gleaming off her exotic back as it tends to do on black people (I’ll forgo the glistening diamonds in her hair, which is not to say they weren’t there). When she reaches me she submerges, then comes up holding her head back to sort out her hair. Water streams down over her breasts and drips from her nipples, which are taut. She pinches her nose and with a big smile says, “Can you believe this ocean? It’s like bath water.”
It is warmer than I used to in the ocean, maybe eighty degrees or more. Shrinkage shouldn’t be a problem.
“It’s great,” I say. It was. I feel its warmth streaming around my genitals and then think it’s like we’re sharing a bathtub, and we’ve just met.
“I’m ready to go back in,” she says. “How are things shaping up down there?” She grins and nods toward my submerged crotch area.
“I think I’m good to go now,” I say. “It must have a newbie nudist thing.”
“I’m a little hurt then,” she jokes. “I thought maybe I had some Goddess thing going on and you couldn’t control yourself.”
She starts back to the shore, the water slowing performing a striptease as its depth lessens. I decide she has the world’s most perfect buttocks.
I’m still not over my tumescence problem, but I decide to ignore it. By now I’d seen other nude men with near erections walking the beach and the sky didn’t fall on them. When I get back to my towel I sit with my knees up and wrap my arms around them. It gives me some partial concealment but not completely. The sun is now angling from behind and I can feel it searing my back.
“Do you like rum and cokes?” she asks.
Not really, so I say, “Sure.”
“Wait here.” She stands up, skips the underwear and slips into her wrap, just a sun dress affair that belted in front, and scampers off toward the lunch hut. Her underwear is now just lying there staring at me. I love simple, white underwear on women. That was all my first girlfriend’s mother let her wear. White panties and bras from J.C. Penny. The bras were lacy and the panties between full briefs and bikinis. It’s funny how “first times” can set preferences in stone. I thought about inspecting the labels, then thought I should let some mystery prevail. I was already seeing her naked, which is sort of a reverse course of how things usually unfold. I still didn’t know her name, what TVs shows she watch, or anything about her cell plan.
She returns in about five minutes carrying a dark bottle of Jarumba Rum, two cups and a six-pack of Coke. The Coke here has real sugar and none that corn fructose syrup. She didn’t bring any ice but the Cokes are cold and dripping condensation.
She makes two drinks, hands one over and says “cheers!”
“Cheers!,” I say and take a long gulp. Rum is not my favorite but in Jamaica it pours like water and is cheap, so I’m going with the local flow, as it were.
It’s about two thirty and the sun is ferocious. Heat, humidity and booze – and a naked woman. Clearly I’m living the dream.
But the sun is becoming a real problem. I can feel the extra crispy occurring on my back.
“I don’t know your name,” I said. “Mine is John.”
“Hi John. I’m Kate.” I love the name Kate, which I think is an unusual one for a black woman.
“My mom loved Katherine Hepburn. That’s where it comes from.”
I love Katherine Hepburn, though I never understood the Spencer Tracey attraction. He gives hope to all men.
We finish our drinks and she prepares two more. I can already feel the first one’s effects. I feel looser.
“You better lie down or your back’s going to get really nasty,” Kate says, with an genuine tone of alarm and concern.
I’m feeling more self control in the nether regions but the idea of lying face up with my penis flopping about gives me some concern. I then think fuck it and ball up my clothes as a sort of pillow and roll over on my back. My penis then flops over to point in her direction, still somewhat tumescent.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It has a mind of its own. I bet you’ve never heard that before.”
“Just chill. I think I can handle it,” said Kate. Of course, with a smile, and a tone that seemed to be veering on the smoky, perhaps even predictive. She can handle it.
I roll onto my side because lying on my back isn’t working for me as I fear giving myself a double chin while bending my head forward to talk to her. One must think of these things when trying to appeal to naked women.
She’s sitting up, half facing me and half facing the ocean, which is picking up some motion with the increasing afternoon breeze. There are a few dark clouds on the far horizon, possibly over Mexico. I’m not a good judge of distance.
“Your back. You’ve got it the sun again. Move to my other side,” she says. As I did so she shifts her legs in a kind of open manner to face me on her other side. I hadn’t really noticed before but she was completely shaved and I could see what I thought was a hint of some enthusiasm. The manuals say it involves the circulatory system.
This emboldens me to ask why she said hello when she arrived, and then offered to come over.
“You’ve been coming by the stand for what, a week? And never hit on me. I think you’re only guy who hasn’t. So I thought you were cool. And safe.”
“Me, cool?” I say. “I don’t hear that much.”
“Cool as in not hitting on every woman you meet. It means you’re not a player. I don’t like players,” she says.
After this comment she takes a deep breath and seems contemplative.
“Have you ever been with a black woman?” she asks.
I hadn’t, and went with the truth. “No. Never. Though I’ve thought about it. I find black women very exotic. Foreign women too, but black women especially.”
“Well, I’m black and half Jamaican, so I score on two counts.”
“You have a point.”
I guess it is then my turn to ask her about white men. “Have you been with a white man?”
She’s quiet for a few minutes, clearly thinking about this most recent bit of conversation. For my part, I am too. I don’t know if she is opening up a point for further discussion or just shooting the breeze. With my right arm acting as a tripod for my body, I’m about eye level with her breasts, well with my reach, and I’m having trouble not staring at them. My tumescence is becoming exaggerated as a consequence so I look sternly to the ocean for some relief.
As were both thinking, couples from the resort are passing by, most of them naked. The promontory of rock a few hundred yards further on is the end of the nude beach, so they pass, then a few minutes later pass by again in case we missed them the first time.
Suddenly, Kate releases an “OMG,” puts a hand to her mouth to suppress her laughter, and points discreetly to naked fat white man passing with his wife or girlfriend.
“That guy doesn’t have a dick,” she says, in whisper fashion. “Well, not much of one. It looks like a mushroom without a stalk. With that gut I doubt there’s much he can do with it.”
Indeed, his toolbox did look a little empty but with this mention of “size” I feel a little insecurity coming on, alluding to my earlier mention of black men.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve wondered how fat people do it. I don’t mean to cast aspersions but it’s an interesting engineering problem, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t even want to think about that. Poor guy. It’s not something he can’t not know about himself. I wonder how she feels. She’s not too bad looking.”
We begin communing over other couple’s shortcomings as they pass and our observations are proving somewhat in sync. We agree on the men or women who could be considered “hot” though there really weren’t many in that category. In comparison, I was feeling better about myself. A dude went by with a penis about my size and Kate said he looked pretty good. I wanted to ask what specifically qualified him in that way but let it go.
We had drunk about half the rum by this point. She was pouring a little lighter on the Coke so there would be tie finish between the rum and the Coke, which struck me as sensible.
As we get a little more tipsy we explore each other’s pasts with a few of the low points mentioned. It feels like talking to an old friend I haven't seen in a while who completely understands me. There are lots of similarities in how we process things, meaning the events in our lives and life generally. It makes us feel very cozy together, like we’re on the same team.
Finally after about an hour of this, she starts thinking long term.
“Have you been to the resort yet?” she asks. “It’s crazy over there.”
“Not yet. I'd thought of going but think it’s for staying customers only anyway.”
She lays down on her tummy so her rump makes another appearance, which is very distracting. There is some sand stuck to it and I consider reaching over and rubbing it off. I can't decide.
“Do you want to go? I know somebody that can let us in. It won’t cost us anything. Drinks are free. There’s music every night and those white folks go crazy with the rum and reefer” She gave a big smile to show I shouldn’t take offense at the “white folks” comment. I don’t.
“Won’t that be a date? I’ve never dated a black woman," I say. I think I’m trying to be ironic, or something similar. Wry?
“What’s this we have going on here? We’re both naked, drinking rum, and you keep getting erections. That’s a date in my neighborhood.”
With that she leans over and kisses me full on the lips and it feels like I’m being completely inhaled by another being. It’s a deep, smothering kiss that lasts far longer than first kisses do generally. It was full of information, the sort of kiss that telegraphed we were heading into some new territory.
She scoots her over to my towel and we lock in a rolling embrace that ends with her half on top of me. I am fully erect (how could I not be?). She glances over my body, holds my erection for a moment before giving it a short pump, then smiles in a womanly, seductive way and says, “Yeah. This is a date.”
She rolls off but stays next to me so our bodies rub and our hands are on each other. We kiss some more, or rather, she does some further inhaling, and then she says, “Okay. So we’ll meet up later and go to the resort, right? Let’s consider this a warm-up date for tonight.”
We wrap things up. The sun is about done for the day and the beach has emptied. She stands up, brushes off what sand she could find, then puts on her underwear and dress, all with the grace and pace of a woman who knows how to work a crowd.
Seeing her fully dressed was as titillating as seeing her naked. I couldn’t wait to see her naked again, and she’d only been in her clothes for a minute. We all wonder how a girl will look naked. It’s all vice-versa when you start by seeing her naked first, then dressed, then re-wondering how they’ll look nude, as if you missed something the first time. Life can be confusing and wondrous all at once. I had seen her dressed before at the lunch hut, but hadn't formally met her.
I would meet her in an hour at her place, just down the road from my rented cottage. I would need a shower and some time to think to get in shape for the evening. Once she finished gathering her stuff she gave me a final kiss and said, laughing as always, “looks like I have me a white boy!”
By the time I get to my cottage it’s dark and I’m feeling tired and exhilarated. I was beginning to doubt my myself with this Jamaica sojourn, and I’m now I’m thinking it’s one of the best decisions I’ve made. It’s my boldest move ever, having pretty much stuck with the standard script of becoming an adult. I wondered if there was any going back?
She said men at the resort just wear swimsuits or shorts with T-shirts, and women go as they please. She promised I’ll be weirded out. Did she mean by the crowd or her? Maybe both. The rum was drifting into headache territory.
I step into the shower and the hot water on my back feels like being pelted with scorpions. I turn it to cool and finish up, then sit on my veranda to dry off.
An hour ago a black woman I’d just met had my penis in her hand, and in a very friendly way. The memory of that very brief moment had a predictable effect. I wondered if I should masturbate to settle down, then decided I wanted to save that energy in case I would need it later. I really didn’t know what the evening would bring.
As I said, I find black women very exotic, and this one particularly. In New York I wouldn’t have felt any confidence approaching a woman like Kate, me being a dumb cracker from Ohio. She seemed to be in full control, and her looks meant she did as she pleased. She held the upper hand on such matters. Her figure and smile and easy manner would mean she’s had no shortage of interest. I wondered why she was single, or how things stood generally in that department. On the beach she did give me a brief outline of her prior love life. As she did so, I looked at her naked body and imagined what her other men must have imagined, that she was hot as hell, and they would do anything to have her. So why did they eventually let go?
Frankly speaking, my girlfriend in New York was good looking but in a plain, generic way. Her body was nice, but her passions weak. She was not adventurous in bed nor would she do things without heavy hinting or having a fair number of drinks inside her. I can say she was compliant, but not avid. She went along with me but seldom instigated love making. She came to bed every night in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms.
Her personality was also rather weak. When we went to dinner it was like going out with a blank stare. She would respond to questions or make light chat, but never had curiosities of her own to ponder with me over food and drink. If I didn’t make conversation we would sit in silence.
At home it wasn’t much better. We drifted into our media or binged watch TV.
I asked if she could improve her lingerie, go with my preferences instead of choosing those sculpted bras from Victoria’s Secret that fit like a prim bathing swim suit top and weren’t sexy in the least. She also wore boy panties, or whatever they’re called, that did nothing for her. Underwear is important to me, obviously. It’s one of the layers of mystery surrounding a woman.
She never went along with my wishes in terms of her underwear, or taking the initiative in bed, or being more enthusiastic about oral sex.
I didn’t really know any better but I did wonder if what we had was it as far as relationships go. You work, then you go home and share your space and agree to be agreeable without expecting much. She was my first live-in girlfriend, after a couple years of dating. I’d only been with three other women in my life. I didn’t miss her. I didn’t miss any of them.
But at that moment I missed Kate.
I left the veranda to get dressed, selecting shorts and a plain Hawaiian style shirt from Banana Republic. I bought the shirt in New York thinking it’s what people would be wearing here for dinner’s out but quickly discovered I was the only one with that opinion. I put in on anyway.
I made a quick espresso to lighten the rum fog, checked messages, then buttoned up the place and headed for Kate’s.
Her cottage was grander than mine, but not by much. I could hear reggae coming out the windows, which were all open. I knock on the door and she opens it wearing a towel. Seeing her in this context, at the front door, tall, dark, with a slender and beguiling body, almost makes me swoon. God she is pretty. Her towel just barely conceals her bottom, which flirts at me as she turns to let me in.
“Hey there,” she says.
I go in. It’s decorated Caribbean style, lots of flowery cushions, dark wood furniture and tropical accents everywhere, but in a nice way. It’s very tidy. I’m happy to see some books on the coffee table with bookmarks hanging out of them. Off the living room is a patio area. There’s a rack with some clothes drying as well as some lovely lingerie. No sculpted bras. No boy panties.
“You find me okay?” she asks, drawing my attention back.
“Yeah. You’re just where you said you’d be, and yes I find you better than okay, if that’s what you mean,” I guess I’m trying to sound suave. “It’s always a good sign, when a woman gives you the right directions or correct phone number. It means they like you.”
“I like you so far,” she says. “I’ll keep you apprised if that changes. Drink? We’ve still got some rum.”
I note the “we” as in ‘ours’ as in “us.”
“Sure. With some ice if you have any,” I say.
“We’ve got ice.”
Again with the “we.” I’m feeling at home after three minutes. I could turn on the TV, I suppose, if I saw one. There was just the stereo in view, and a closed laptop.
She brings in two drinks and points to the floral sofa. We sit down. Her towel drops from her breasts and she very casually restores it.
I say cheers and then lean back, feeling relaxed. I wasn’t sure what seeing her again would be like. I’m happy to be wearing clothes this time, which makes me feel more secure for some reason. I wonder if she’s comfortable being just in her towel because I’ve already seen her naked. Or is this the way she entertains? Did it matter?
“I didn’t know if I should kiss you when you came in, then decided I’d wait to see if you kissed me,” she says, without any emotion, aside from a sly look as she sipped her drink, one of those half-lidded affairs.
“I didn’t even think of that,” I say. “Should I have kissed you?”
“It would have been okay. Nice. I think we’re both on new ground here. I don’t usually pick up naked men on the beach and invite them over.”
“Well, it wasn’t really a pick-up, was it? You just said hello, and it made sense to come over if we were going to talk.” This strikes me as true.
“It wasn’t exactly that casual. I’d scoped you out a bit. You rented your cottage from my cousin, Clive. He said you signed a six-month lease, and had a good credit report, so I knew you were solid and sticking around for a while. I didn’t want to hook up or whatever with someone just passing through.”
“So that’s your cousin, Clive. He’s a nice guy.”
“He’s the best. I wouldn’t just land in Jamaica as a single woman without knowing anyone, and then pick up a white dude on the beach with an erection problem,” she says, with the usual mirth.
“I’m sorry about that, but you should be flattered, as you said, because I have complete control over that situation.”
She nods, stands up and then says, “I’ll go get ready now. Just take a minute.” She crosses the room into what must be her bedroom and flings her towel off before she’s completely out of sight. Her buttocks work the same magic as before.
In a few minutes she comes out in a casual, somewhat sheer white dress, suitable for the tropics, and looks magnificent. No make-up, no jewelry aside from earrings, just a natural woman who looks great dressing in two minutes flat. I can see the outlines of her bra and panties, both white as before. She must have access to my secret diary.
She shuts off the lights and we head out the door. After we’re down the few steps she pauses, grabs my hand and gives me a kiss. Then she beams.
“Now we’re on a proper date. We’re both dressed,” she says, and we wander on holding hands.
The lights and music from the resort reach us before it’s in sight. Briefly, I feel like I’m heading into a school dance with the most beautiful girl in school. My heart beats a little harder as we approach. I’m imagining what we look like as a couple, suspecting envy.
“You might not believe what you see in here. These people have been drinking all day and now is when they really start cutting loose,” Kate says, instructively.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” I say.
“Just think of it like we’re going to the zoo and we’re here to look at the animals.”
In the reception area people are swarming, but in a languid, tropical way. There seem to be new check-ins arriving and I think they’ve been drinking all the way down. One woman is changing into her suit in the lobby while her husband or boyfriend coaxes her on and laughs with a bit of coarseness in its tone. She’s moderately attractive, fortunately.
The general dress code is as Kate said it be. Men are in shorts or bathing suits and T-shirts, the women who aren’t in T-shirts and shorts or in wraps of some kind over their suits, though there’s a topless woman in a sarong walking with some men heading to the pool area. Off the pool is an empty disco area. I can see a dining area further off that’s half full. It’s still early.
“Let’s go the beach bar,” Kate says, leading me.
Past the pool, which has a bar in its center with couples in suits, semi-nude or all nude hanging onto it, is a short trail leading to the beach lit with torches. We find the beach bar, which is crowded, and settle in. Kate gets a stool and I stand beside her. More of the older women are topless or nude than the younger ones. The young bride-types on their honeymoons must be saving up the nudity for later, though there are plenty of younger women both nude and topless. In short, it’s a mix, younger or older women who are naked, topless or in suits or clothes. I notice I’m noticing the young women in suits more than the older ones who are nude or topless. It’s funny how that works.
“No, I’ll give that rest. I’ll take a vodka martini,” I say.
She orders, and shortly there are two rums and two vodka martinis in front of us.
“They assume we’re in it for the long haul,” she says. She takes a sip of her rum and Coke.
I take a big swig of my martini, draining half of it. It’s way too sweet.
“Whoa cowboy. You’re not a lush, are you?” She kids, but with some tone.
“No. Not really. But tonight feels special, I guess. I’ll keep it under control.”
“Good. I don’t want to leave you on the beach past out. I’ve want to get you home safe and relatively sober.”
If I’m reading her correctly, a blissful, long night lay ahead of us.
She has an arm around me and my hand is on her shoulder. It just lands there without premeditation, as if it is where it belongs. I find myself looking down at her cleavage and she pulls her top open a bit and says, “It’s still there” and laughs. We kiss. I can already feel the martini. It strikes me that I hadn’t bothered with dinner.
From the bottom, the buttons on her dress are open almost right up to her crotch, and as she sits I can see a white triangle of panty as her legs are slightly open. As she looks around her movement raises her dress up and down, showing more or less panty. It’s mesmerizing. For a while she leans on her elbows on the bar and that pushes her cleavage up and out even more. There, her dress is unbuttoned right to the bra line.
She lowers her arm from my shoulders and puts her hand on my leg and starts moving it up and down, going under my shorts but not far. I reflexively open my legs a bit more, and she moves her hand closer up my thigh.
Both the music and general bar crowd sounds are getting louder. A couple comes in from the beach buck naked and stands a few feet from us, a proximity that is a little strange, though there are other naked people around us but not as close, yet. We are packed fairly tight and I notice the man’s penis bending on the bare back of the woman sitting at the bar in front of him. She doesn’t seem to mind.
Kate pokes me and nods across the bar. She whispers in my ear, “I think that woman is holding both men’s cocks on either side of her.” The topless woman’s arms, angled as they are, could only be landing on the men’s crotches. Both men look very happy. One reaches over to fondle the woman’s breasts and she kisses him.
I turn to Kate and say, “Should I pull mine out too?” I don’t want to be putting airs by not having my cock out.
“You want me to drop my top?” Kate says. “This is one of the few places in the world where I can do that not get arrested. Or at least paid for it.”
We both grin. However, the prospect of her dropping her top, removing her bra, and sitting there with her breasts out is driving me a little mad. Yes, I’d like her to do that very much, even though just a few hours ago she was completely naked and some of these same people had walked by and seen her that way. It’s all context, I conclude. It would be different here in the bar.
Even though we’ve already seen each naked, and cuddled nude, and she’s briefly held my penis in her hand along with our kissing, I’m not sure what my liberties are. Can I just reach out and touch her breasts? Can I slip a hand up her dress and fondle her pussy? I’m not even the kind of guy who says “pussy.”
Her hand has returned to my thigh and she’s now moving it high enough under my shorts to reach my underwear. When she does reach it, she lifts her pinky finger to gently brush over my testicles.
I slip my hand off her shoulder and down beneath her armpit and stroke the side of her breast. She takes a deep breath in response, and closes her arm over my hand to signal she approves of the move. We press together a little more.
“Kiss me,” she says. I kiss her and she goes deep with the kiss and our tongues mingle and she seems ravenous for more of this. We finally break and take some more sips from our drinks.
It’s getting too loud to talk, really, so we just occupy ourselves with the crowd as we continue to gently fondle each other, teasing here and there.
More people are arriving and the atmosphere is getting more flirty, or lecherous. There are hands on breasts and gales of laughter from the women thus abused. There’s a man with an erection two stools down from Kate, facing out. I wonder if he’s advertising. After a few minutes Kate and I are poking each other every other second to say look over there, or over there. It feels like we’re witnessing a pre-orgy, or at least the meet-and-greet part.
It’s contagious, plus the drinks are having their effect and I’m feeling bolder. Kate and I kiss some more and I finally reach my hand down to her thighs and swiftly up onto her panties. She moans and then thrusts her pelvis into my hand, arches her back, moans some more and drops her head back, like someone in church having an epiphany. I pull my hand back a little and she follows, thrusting back into it. I mean to just tease her, give her a brief introduction. She almost scoots off her stool chasing my hand, and then I remove it. She buries her head into my neck and laughs, giving me a good hug.
By now we’re finishing our third or forth drink and it’s getting hotter with the breeze gone. Kate feels very warm and humid, and I can feel sweat on my forehead. I ask her if she wants another round.
She says okay and I order. She stands up and waves her hand in front of her face like a fan. She’s moving to the music, her hips are swaying. I turn on my stool to face her, but she’s turning and now her back is to me. I reach through her arms and pull her into me and she succumbs and is now grinding into me. She lifts my hands to her breasts and presses them in firmly. Then I unbutton her top button, and the slack makes it easy to slip into her dress and cup her breasts over the bra. She presses my hands in again and grinds harder on my crotch.
I feel the clasp for her bra is in front, so I undo it and pull the bra away and I’m now holding her breasts directly. If I take my hands away they’ll be in full view, and that excites me and I think it excites her. I drop my hands and undo another button on her dress and then pull it wide open. This makes her grind harder and moan as I kiss her neck and turned up cheek. My hands are now on her hips, her hands are on mine, and she’s swaying back and forth and her breasts are fully exposed to the bar. She makes no attempt to cover them up, and I notice both men and women are admiring them. This makes me proud.
We stay like this for a while, then she turns to have more of her drink. This causes her dress to close up somewhat, but it’s still open almost down to her navel. She leans over and kisses me then looks down at herself and says, “Oh, my, look at me, I’m all undone.” She pulls her bra back over her breasts and does the clasp and closes one button of her dress.
I say, “Aw, gee, I was just getting excited.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I like when you undo me. This way you can do it again.” I agree this is a good idea. I like undoing her too.
“Do you want another round?” I ask.
“Let’s get it at the pool bar,” she says.
That can only mean that we’re going to get completely naked now, or else jump in with our clothes on.
“How?” I said. “It’s in the middle of the pool.”
“We’ll take our clothes off,” Kate says. The idea excites me to no end.
She takes the final swig of her rum and Coke and stands up. I drain the last of my martini. She puts her arm around me and leads us up the path.
Let’s review, though I know I’m becoming repetitive. I was just naked with this woman hours ago on a public beach and now we’re dressed and she says, “we’ll take our clothes off” and I’m thinking it’s the most erotic suggestion I’ve ever heard, despite have just exposed her breasts to the bar. Resort public is not beach public. There’s a difference, not that I can adequately explain what that difference is.
Kate, or for the evening, my Kate, wants us to take our clothes off and we’re surrounded by strange men and women in very close proximity, like in a crowded subway in some ways. She’s is going to stand by the pool in a moment, completely unbutton her dress this time, unhook her bra and then pull down her panties. Fifty or more people will be watching this intimate act, one that normally only boyfriends or husbands get to witness, as I may have said.
That’s going to occur in about fifty steps.
We reach the pool bar area and it’s packed as is the pool generally. There are couples in all forms of embrace, some very lewd in any other circumstances, and now more naked than not, meaning those in suits before apparently lost them. Kate finds an empty lounge chair under a torch no less and starts to unbutton her dress. All I want to do is watch. There are men passing between us, behind her, also sitting in chairs just a few feet away, or idling in the pool. I notice immediately that Kate is drawing a lot of attention.
She delicately drops the dress to catch it with a raised foot, pulls it off, and delicately folds it before putting it down on the chaise. Then, as predicted, she reaches around to unhook her bra, then pulls down her panties and folds them neatly on top of her dress. She then shakes her hair out and looks at me. I’m still dressed.
I have a full, painful erection in progress, a personal Everest, and I’m not sure what to do. I don’t think erections matter under the current conditions, but I’m still embarrassed. Kate must sense my difficulties. She comes over and lifts my shirt, grabs my zipper and slowly pulls it down.
“Don’t you want to get naked with me?” she teases. She’s now pulled my shorts down and is going for the underwear. She gets down on her knees to do it, and I can almost sense cheering from the crowd. She gently maneuvers the fabric around my penis so it can escape and with the palm of her holds it up against my belly. She keeps her hand there, twisting it around as she rises to do my shirt. But first, she gives me another of those deep inhaling kisses. I sense I’m emitting a bit of pre-lubricant, which her hand acknowledges as she moans approval.
“Is that for me?” she says. Then she unbuttons my shirt with both hands and leads me into the pool.
The water, almost warmer than the air, settles me down a bit. It rises to just my upper thigh. Holding my hand, Kate leads us to a slender opening at the bar. There are slightly submerged stools surrounding it, which I discover with my toes. Kate tells me to take the only free stool, which I do, and stands beside.
Her arm goes around my shoulders and her deforested and prominent mons verenis is at my eye level. It’s as beautiful as she is, and I almost feel a pang of jealously that it’s out in the open. I sense the barman staring at it deeply, after taking in the rest of her figure and exotically dark, pretty face. I now notice it’s more Caucasian than black in appearance, which strikes me somehow, adding to to her exoticism.
I order us drinks, same as before. As at the beach bar, there are lots of naked people here drinking and partying, but now both Kate and I are naked as well. She’s pressing against me in slow, rhythmic waves in sync with the music. I guzzle the drink and order another and the barman brings us each a fresh round.
Kate finishes her first drink, sets it down and then swings her bottom around to sit gently on my lap, which buries my penis between her thighs and in contact with her slit. She delicately lets out a deep breath as if exhaling strong peppermint vapors or slipping into a too hot bath. I again become fully, ruthlessly erect, and she starts to sway with the music as she grabs her drink. She takes a long pull and puts the glass down, turns back to me and holds my head in both hands and turns it up for another deep kiss.
“How does this rank with your other dates?” she asks.
“I don’t think I’ll ever top this.”
“I feel you, you know,” she says, wiggling her bottom. “What are your intentions?”
“I honestly don’t know. One wrong move and we’ll be screwing right here at the bar.”
She moaned and pressed her breasts into my face. I feet I could ejaculate if the beat of the music just picks up, causing her swaying to increase.
She is definitely swaying in a way to stroke my penis, and I feel it partially slipping inside of her along its shaft. With my hand over her thighs, I press her down and she starts grinding more aggressively, such as one can in that position. She’s rocking back and forth, and I’m pressing up against her as best I can in a sitting position, feeling I might slip inside inside her at any moment. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m sucking her right nipple, and then take my hand off her thigh to hold her breast as I suck on it. Her hand strokes the back of my head. There is no protest. I forget there are people all around us and disappear into an infinity of time and empty space. There are now just the two us.
She’s now moving back and forth over my crotch ever faster. She’s causing near white caps in the water around us. I hold her tightly with my right arm and follow her motion, steadying her. She picks up the pace, doing her best to stifle moans. She starts to shake all over, grabs and starts pulling my hair while the nails of her other hand dig into my side. Then, with a final shudder, she melts on top of me, erupts with a few more small spasms, then becomes limp. I start to hear the voices around us again and come back to the moment and the place. I’m almost afraid to look around, fearing stares of disapproval. Did anyone know what just happened here?
Of course they did if they were paying attention, but it’s also as probable that they were all lost in their own worlds too. I decided I didn’t care, and I was as charged up as ever.
I hadn’t come, but there is no question that Kate was riding post coital bliss. She gives me a deep, soulful hug and kiss. Her eyes seem to lose their piercing control, as if floating free. She gives me another kiss and rocks in my lap for a few minutes. I nod for the another round and the bartender smiles and nods back his comprehension without editorializing.
We rock together in silence until the drinks come.
“I think I better stand up and get my bearings,” Kate says, gently lifting herself off my lap. I’m still erect as ever. Kate looks down and smiles.
“You’ll have to give me minute. I’m not wonder woman!” She kisses the top of my head and then dives into the water.
I stood up completely ignoring my erection, which I feel like congratulating for endurance. I take a dip myself then restore myself to the stool. The frenzy of activity is ongoing, but no longer a novelty. I’m seeing attractive naked women all around me, wondering about their lives, what they do, and how it was they decided that they would enjoy this place. They’re normal people, I’m sure, until they get here and let it all out. If they really let go they’ll have the memories forever. That’s all you really keep from any journey.
Kate swims back and props herself once again on my lap, then takes a sip of her drink.
“I can’t even begin to tell you,” she says.
“What?” I think I know what she means but I want to hear it.
“I never, never, ever could imagine doing what I just did. Maybe you’ve got some magical power over me.” Another deep kiss.
“I think it’s working both ways, the magic. I’ve never even fantasized about this sort of thing. Well, not exactly this sort of thing.”
“Doing it in public?” Kate asks.
“That’s close. I’ve never defined the ‘public’ aspect exactly. All I know is seeing you naked here and having you touch me the way you do is magical, and I think that’ll work anywhere, even bedrooms.”
“It’s worth a try. But I was thinking the beach first.” She gives me a naughty girl face.
“Sounds a bit sandy, doesn’t it, especially when wet?” I ask.
“Just wait. I’ll show you. They’ve got canopy beds for the guests. It’s crazy. I guess white people like go to the beach to lie in bed. Let’s finish these drinks and get a few more in to-go in cups. Let's see what the next level is.” She gives me a sly smile.
We gets the drinks and head for the beach. But I have no idea what’s really up next, or how far we can take this evening. What I do know is there's some pent-up demand on my side of equation, and her hunger for the next level will spell relief. She's holding my hand and pauses, and turns me toward her.
"It's time to know how you'll feel and taste inside me." She points to her mouth then drops her hand to her crotch. She gives me a deep kiss and we continue to the beach...
Excerpt: Nudist Stories The Black Nudist Woman
PHOTOS: NUDIST BLACK WOMAN JAMAICA BY JOHN R.