By Calvin Hennick
For The Inquirer
When I first heard about nude beaches as a young boy, I was intrigued. Not because I wanted to get naked myself - I wanted to see women's bodies, which were still a mystery to me.
Taking off one's own clothes just seemed like the price of admission.
Somehow, I made it into adulthood without so much as skinny-dipping. But a recent trip to Mexico's Caribbean coast for a friend's wedding gave me a good excuse to try it out.
I picked the clothing-optional beach resort in Tulum chiefly because it was affordable - at 26, I no longer found nude women all that shocking. But while I was there, I might as well see how the naked half lives.
At the front desk, I confirmed that nudity was allowed - this isn't the sort of thing you want to get wrong - then headed to the beach to see for myself.
I arrived with my swimming suit on, a towel in hand, and no plan. It was a sunny, flawless day, and the sandy beach and turquoise sea were the picture of paradise. But I was feeling anxious, not relaxed.
About 60 percent of the beachgoers were fully clothed, with the rest in some state of nudity. It seemed unfair that the women could score their naked points by going topless, while men had to take it all off. One man sported tight Speedo briefs, which seemed far more offensive than any amount of nudity.
The topless women were young and pretty, with perky breasts and trim torsos. The naked men, in contrast, were uniformly middle-aged, with ample stomachs and much less-perky breasts. If I did opt to disrobe, I would be the youngest naked man by at least 25 years, and the one in the best shape.
The "clothing-optional" policy was throwing me for a loop. I would have preferred that the beach be fully nude. If everyone was naked, then I would have to be naked, too. But with the option of keeping my clothes on, why would I take them off? My swim trunks represented not oppression, but freedom - freedom from awkwardness, freedom from worrying about where to store my cash and room key, freedom from having the worst sunburn of my life.
I needed a drink.
Returning to my cabana to grab some cash, I decided to head back to the beach wearing only my towel. (A start!) While enjoying a beer, I'd work up the courage to take off the towel, too.
My Corona didn't buy me much time - I finished it in two gulps. I took a deep breath, ripped off the towel, and spread it on the sand as quickly as possible. Then I lay on it face down.
This wasn't so bad. No one was staring at me. An older couple walked by, and their bodies looked nearly identical. We've all got pretty much the same parts, I thought. This was no big deal.
With my newfound confidence, I turned over and exposed my front side to all the world - or, at least, all the beach. I ordered another beer from a fully clothed waiter and wondered how many times a day the phrase "silly naked Americans" must go through his head.
I nursed the second beer more slowly. When it was gone, I stood up, walked to the water, and splashed around for a couple of minutes.
Then I grabbed my towel and headed back to my cabana, ready to scratch "nude beach" off my life checklist.
But, after a few minutes with nothing to do, I went back to the beach without putting on cold, damp, sandy swim trunks. All I needed was my towel.
I lay in the sun and ordered a piña colada - without clothes and without shame. |
