Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Adventures at The Nekkid Beach - Part 1

Just last week I was talking to my friend T about how, oh dear lord, it was exactly eleven entire freaking years since we went to Jamaica and where does the time go?

Eleven years ago last week I quit my job at the Bubblegum Kittikat, South Florida's finest gentlemen's club, and hopped a plane to Jamaica, because a year earlier, when my fiance threw me out of my own house, sued me for it, and moved another girl in, all within the span of a couple weeks, I said to myself: "If I survive this bullshit, when it's all over, so help me, I'm going my ass to Jamaica and I'm going to sit on the beach and drink virgin pina coladas until I go into diabetic shock."

I'd always wanted to go to Jamaica for the following reasons: they speak English, I like patties, reggae is good and it's close enough that I don't need to endure a very long plane ride (I'm a horrendous traveler and I hate flying). Oh, and they have British kitkats there and British kitkats are way better than American kitkats. I have no idea why, but they are. I also remember watching "Wheel of Fortune" as a kid and whenever someone would guess the phrase and win a trip to Jamaica, they'd always show a short video of people climbing up Dunn's River Falls and I thought that looked precisely like something I'd like to slip and fall on my ass several times while doing. Which I did. So lifelong dream completed there.

My girlfriend T and I spent a week at an all inclusive in Runaway Bay, and how can you not immediately fall in love with a place with a name like Runaway Bay? It immediately sent me into fantasies about wearing a flowy, white linen sundress while riding The Black Stallion barebacked down the beach. I am prone to those sorts of fantasies and all those "Come Back to Jamaica" commercials that I'd been seeing on TV since I was little had made a major impression. Remember that song? I can still sing the whole thing, but I will spare you a YouTube video of my rendition. It would probably go viral, but for all the wrong reasons.

For the first few days of our trip, we sunned ourselves on the beach, swam, ate jerked chicken and went on an excursion to the hideously touristy Ocho Rios, which was filled with white people from Indiana all saying "Hey Mon!" while buying tacky wood carvings from street vendors. I am not that kind of tourist.

I am a different sort of annoying traveler. I'm a hipster tourist. I've watched far too much Lonely Planet in my life and every time I go somewhere I convince myself that I'm on the show and I eschew all things potentially touristy because I am just entirely too cool for that. So no red, gold and green crocheted beanies with fake dreads sewn on for me. I'd rather eat jerked chicken at a roadside stand and get diarrhea for a week, because it's just more authentic, you know? 

T and I sailed, snorkeled and hiked and we were getting, dare I say, a little bored. We'd heard rumors that our resort had a naughty side with a nude beach and even an adults only, nude pool area where at night, people did all sorts of unmentionable things. This intrigued me immediately because I have watched HBO's Real Sex, people. I love observing some good old fashioned perversion. I wanted to see what was going down while T and I were sitting in our room drinking Ting all night, wolfing down British kitkats and watching Jamaican TV.

Ok, I say that. Truth be told y'all, I am ALL TALK. I say I'd like to see some kind of crazy sex orgy going on in a hotel pool, but I think if it were to actually happen I'd be all like "EWWW! Stop! Don't put that there! Don't touch that! Put that thing away!!"  Because that's how I am and I'd also be very concerned that someone was going to get an infection.

So I chickened out about going to the adult pool, but I agreed to go to the nude beach. I had, after all, just quit working at a strip club. On one hand you'd think I'd have had enough of looking at naked people, but on the other hand it had kind of become second nature and plus, I'd only been looking at naked women for the past ten months. I wanted to see some men without their clothes on for once.

T and I had this brilliant idea that we were just going to go to the nekkid beach to look at other people and that we were just going to keep our bikinis on, but we were incorrect in assuming this was a "clothing optional" situation. It wasn't. I don't know what the opposite of "clothing optional" is, but I suppose it would be "nudity mandatory" and that's what this beach was. There was even an enforcer and she stopped us right at the entrance.

She was like something out of a Greek myth - an enormous guardian, gate-keeper of the nekkid. She was at least six feet tall and wore a head wrap and a muu-muu and carried a clipboard with God knows what on it and as soon as she saw us she put her hand up and said "AH NA YA NA CU GWIN TA LA NA HYA!" which is Jamaican for "Take your god damned bathing suits off and don't you for one second think you're going to set foot on my nekkid beach with your clothes on just so you can look at some other nekkid folk without being looked at your damn selves."

T and I looked at each other and shrugged and reluctantly took off our suits.

To be continued (not because I'm trying to make a cliffhanger for you but because I have to wake up my child, or pickney, as they say in Runaway Bay).

3 comments:

DD_DEL said...

No you didn't! I was really into this mini-drama. Get your pretty butt back here and finish this story!!! Please!

JoeinVegas said...

No, you meant for it to be a cliff hanger, and then make us wait days for part two.

Anonymous said...

Am I really the only one thinking "So, where are the pictures?"

Pictures. Or it didn't happen.

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