Destination: Breezes Grand Resort and Spa in Negril, Jamaica. The things I saw there will forever etch the sheets of my memory.
Here are a few scenes from the warm Caribbean for those who need a vicarious getaway to push them through this cold snap.
Scene I:
The nude beaches. When booking the vacation, the Web site noted several “Clothing Optional Beaches†were tucked away. Hidden but available. “I'll never see them,†I thought, and Lord have mercy was I wrong. Our hotel room directly overlooked the main clothing optional beach.
So as I sat on my deck, nudies walked by in all their nekkid glory, a good many looking like swine searching for the lost pack.
Here's the deal with nudies. Most of them are hefty, older and say they do it for the freedom. Personally, I don't even like Speedos, so to see a 60-year-old man, gut hanging like a puffy apron over his privates, is not much of a treat.
As for the ladies, or shall we call them Freedom Fighters, most were the same. Out of shape and lacking any modesty.
Call me a prude. It would be one thing if they just sprawled out on their beach chairs and stayed put. But no. They had to walk around, conversing with beverages in hand, and you never knew when you might bump into one.
“They should have read the sign better,†my new Canadian friend Beverly Ann said. “Clothing optional. They should have opted for clothing.â€
On day two of my Jamaican holiday, I walked down a different beach. Why were there security guards manning the perimeter? I wondered. It didn't take long to find out. Just a few hundred feet from my chair, I encountered another nude beach, this one with frolicking older women displaying rippled thighs and trophy teats. Oh, and there was Donkey Man. We gave him this nickname because he resembled a stretched-out, upright donkey as he flashed his goods for all the eyes to see and sear.
Needless to say, I kept on my clothes.
Scene II:
Hussy Granny. This woman cruised the beaches daily in her thong, her belly pierced, a tattoo on her rear. She began drinking booze around 9 a.m. and by noon was drunk and dirty dancing — alone — on the beach.I watched her for days, amazed at the lack of inhibitions. Since I'm a magnet for weirdoes, it didn't take long for her to amble toward my chair and strike up a conversation. I'd seen her the night before, pumping her flesh to “Brick House,†the official song for skanks and women who think their bodies are to die for.
“I was dragged to the bottom of the sea by a Portuguese Man-of-War,†she said, slurring and swaying. “If it hadn't been for the Jamaican on the Jet Ski, I would have died within seconds.â€
She also said that while in Cuba she was bit by the deadliest spider and hospital officials had to shove a broken off Coke bottle against her buttocks to start an IV.
Some people will say anything.
Scene III:
Rick's Café. This is a Negril hotspot known for its cliff diving and breathtaking sunsets. Several people we met said they were bruised and battered from taking the jump at the tourists' spot. We watched, but decided not to plunge. Pot smoke hung in the air like dank curtains.
Scene IV:
It's time to go home. At 6 a.m., I'm searching for coffee. “They make it real early at the Clothing Optional Pool,†an employee said. I figured I'd take my chances. No nudie would be up at that ungodly hour.
Wrong. I found myself standing right next to Donkey Man as I poured my morning java. All I could say was, “Do they have any Splenda?â€
In a way, it's good to be back home. Source:
http://www.citizen-times.com/article/20 ... 70016/1007
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