Natural Beauty Pt. 01

The distraction proved useful. Without thinking, I had pushed the straps of my dress and bra off my shoulders. But as I reached behind my back to draw down the zip, I could feel the gaze of the people, especially the males, around me. Most of the women in the room were already naked; but it's an interesting aspect of our psychology that the act of undressing seems to evoke an even stronger response than the resulting nudity. And as I stripped, I noticed how much I was focused on doing what one normally does without thinking. I allowed my dress to drop freely to my hips, and it fell into a heap around my ankles when I wiggled my backside. I slid the rear of my bra around to the front, undid the clasp and, sucking in a deep breath, I plucked it from my chest. I immediately regretted my flourish, because my breasts wobbled, welcoming their newfound freedom. This sensation, combined with my mood, had the inevitable effect. I felt my face becoming flushed and a telltale tingling in my nipples as they began to harden. But I wasn't alone in experiencing that.

I stepped out of my dress and crouched to neatly fold it and place it, with my bra, in my duffel bag. I don't really know if I was stalling, but I took my time doing it. I still wore my knickers, the final piece of clothing, small as it was, which attached me to the world beyond the shores of Palmira. When that was gone, I would be giving up a part of myself. For the next year, people would gaze upon my naked form, viewing my most intimate places, sharing my body. Taking another deep breath, I stood up, reached to my knickers and pushed them down my thighs. For a few seconds I remained slightly bent forward, partly shielding my nakedness from view. But once I'd removed my panties completely, I held myself proudly erect, clad only my Balenciaga slingback sandals.

It was a strange situation. There were around fifty people in the room and thirty were bare-skinned, so I was hardly on my own. It's the same throughout Palmira; more than sixty per cent of the adult population, local and visitor, are naked. But what made me a little queasy at being publicly exposed was that the men around me remained fully dressed. It might not otherwise have been so much different from back home, on topless and nudist beaches. However, there's a difference here on Palmira. It's compulsory, if you're a woman, and you experience it more intensely for that reason. Yet it's liberating. You feel flattered and honored, even privileged, because it is the raison d'être of the nude law "to celebrate the natural beauty of the female body."

Contemplating this, I'd become so lost in thought that when I finally looked about I saw that people had begun to move off. I reached down for my bag but my hand was politely brushed aside by a young man who picked it up instead.

"Welcome to Palmira," I heard once more.

The voice was familiar. Marcia is as striking in the flesh as she is on a screen. (And the expression "in the flesh" had now taken on a whole new meaning!) She has a sophisticated, dignified style, in a way rather intimidating, especially how she looks at you with luminous, hypnotic eyes under arched brows. Her inflections are as smooth as honey but she speaks with unmistakable authority. She introduced her assistant, Ricardo. He's a good-looking young man but was dressed like an apparition out of a vintage tourist brochure, wearing cream pleated slacks, a flamboyant Aloha shirt, Venetian loafers and aviator Ray-Bans perched atop a pink Panama hat. He spoke with a rich Jamaican accent and displayed not a trace of humor, so I couldn't tell if his attire was meant to be ironical. Of course, next to his naked boss he looked anything but outré.

Marcia stayed behind as Ricardo and I departed the lounge, crossing the terminal in silence. Ahead of us, the all-girl group crowded at the exit doors, laughing and mocking and daring each other to be the first out. We passed them, emerging into brilliant sunlight. Over the doorway, a sign in big red lettering stridently declared

"NO ADULT FEMALE WEARING CLOTHES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT."

***Palmira's airport commands exquisite views, in one direction an empyreal-blue ocean of startling clarity, in the other leafy hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses, and between them the picture-postcard town of Régate spread out along the arc of the bay.

The concourse pavement shimmered in the early afternoon heat. Lined up at the curb were several open-air taxis. These are rather quaint, customized pickup trucks, with bench seating along the sides of the tray facing inwards under a canvas awning. Ricardo led me to the third one in the queue, spoke to the driver and showed her a ticket. She was tall and gorgeous, lean but shapely, with skin that gleamed golden in the sun's rays, sparkling amber eyes and lustrous blond hair which cascaded across her slim shoulders. I was ready to believe the folklore that this island is home to the world's most stunning women.

She bid us welcome and announced herself as Catriona. Her taxi was the shuttle to where I'd be spending my first two nights, the Hôtel Andromède. (Quite a number of places on the island have French names, leftovers from a bygone era.) Ricardo and I climbed into the back. There was just enough room for us and the three couples already on board. One of the women, aged in her late thirties, was evidently comfortable with her nudity, although the way she pointed out the attractions to her husband when we were on the move made me think they were first-time visitors. Next to them were the two girls who'd sat in front of me on the plane. Even without their punk-goth garb, their hair colors, perforations and pallid features proclaimed their lifestyle. And there was something else, a secret which cannot be kept on Palmira. On each girl, amidst the silken tufts between her thighs, I glimpsed the glint of a small gold ring piercing the rose-petal folds. We exchanged smiles.

I could not help but squirm when I took my place on the bench. The faux leather was warm and sticky under my bare backside. I wished I'd had the foresight to get the packet of "wet wipes" out of my bag. It was too late now, but in any case the seat was spotless — literally squeaky-clean.

Our journey was slow through the downtown area, because pedestrians share the streets with the taxis (although no other vehicular traffic is allowed) and there seems to be no operational concept of right-of-way. So our buggy slowed from a crawl to a snail's pace in order to weave our way through the crowds. Whenever we swerved, and when we turned off the highway to head up into the hills, and as we climbed a gravelly, undulating road towards the hotel, I felt a delicious titillation as the skin of my bottom peeled away from the upholstery and clung again when I sank back down. It was weirdly erotic, and as my unconstrained breasts swayed to the rhythm, during the half-hour drive these stimuli united in a thrill of sensation. None of us women could suppress the occasional gasp and sigh.

I was seated between Ricardo on my right and the other female passenger on my left. The man sitting directly across from me every so often let his gaze wander over my body, though our eyes never connected. He was tall, and his knees grazed against mine when the vehicle rocked sideways. We weren't packed in; but Ricardo's thighs touched mine whenever we lurched forward, and those of the woman next to me when we jerked to a halt. The feel of her warm flesh and the men's trousers against my naked skin tickled my senses. Even if I'd wanted to put the nudity out of my mind, it was impossible.

While the other men were understandably charmed by our aroused reactions, Ricardo either didn't notice or pretended not to. It had perplexed me, before we started out, why he'd arranged the taxi-ride, but his reason quickly became obvious. What better introduction to Palmira could there be?

We drove eastwards through the town, which hugs the shorefront of Regatta Bay on the northern side of the island. Régate's western precincts merge into the Robina district, where the airport is located, and the Grandin enclave. The eastern fringe diffuses into the forested ridge which forms the island's backbone. The parts are linked by two major thoroughfares. The Esplanade follows the curve of the bay and is lined with cafeterias, bars and nightclubs, travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free stores, souvenir shops and refreshment kiosks. The broader Boulevard runs further inland but roughly parallel. Along it are located department stores and specialty shops, the fancier restaurants, offices and banks. Near the middle of town, the two avenues are connected by Patrick's Emporium, the historic marketplace.

In contrast to the cool, quiet calm of the airport terminal, the Esplanade was vibrant with exotic sights, sounds and smells. The day was pleasantly warm and the salt air wafting off the waves was infused with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, arguing, relaxing, loitering. It could have been any Caribbean resort, with perspiring men in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts, jocular men in decorative straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced salesmen in white suits touting their trade, jaded tour leaders shepherding their groups and organizing rides.

But then there were the women. Visitors, vendors, agents, guides; shopping, sightseeing, plying the crowds outside the storefronts; hanging onto the arms of husbands, boyfriends girlfriends; strolling or striding; wearing backpacks, carrying briefcases, toting shopping bags; dark, light, pale, black, brown, pink. All were stark naked. Some wore hats and shoes, but in between was nothing but plain skin.

After just a few minutes of observation, I could distinguish local women from tourists. The former carry themselves with self-assurance and self-possession which come with day-to-day experience. To any of these women, covering her body would be as awkwardly unfamiliar as nudity was to me that day. Meanwhile, among the visitors it isn't hard to spot the new arrivals, although not always by complexions and tan lines. The newcomers' bodies will be slightly hunched, as if against the cold, even when it is sunny and hot. They cling to partners and avoid eye contact with all who pass by. Those having a few days' acquaintance with public nudity hold themselves with more ease and confidence, but they nevertheless stand out from the locals in the way they move and how they look about, not yet entirely accustomed to the extraordinary scenery, and less so to being part of it.

We left the town and drove up a hill to the Hôtel Andromède. Overlooking Régate with a superb panoramic view of the bay, it is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pines. It's comfortable rather than luxurious. Chips of fractured granite on the driveway crunched cheerily underfoot as we disembarked. On a marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture of the daughter of Cepheus, chained naked to a rock and gazing forlornly to the heavens. The building's faux-Renaissance façade might seem at first a little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior's fine stucco decoration and period furniture do set the Andromède above the norm.

We thanked our chauffeuse and were met by a long-faced doorman who was a personification of the hotel, attired in a crimson uniform with copious gold braid, befitting the old-world charm. He politely cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, ladies." He pointed tactfully towards our feet.

I was uncomprehending at first, until one of the other women exclaimed: "Good grief, this place really is posh!"

We laughed and I took off my sandals. We approached the reception desk across a gleaming marble floor. In my bare feet, I tiptoed charily over the hard, cold surface.

The young woman behind the counter had sleek brown skin and eyes like black diamonds. She wore her hair plaited in elaborate, beaded cornrows. She spoke in a melodious voice with a subtle patrician overlay. A plaque on the desktop identified her as Regina. Like most Palmirene females I'd seen thus far, she was extremely attractive. So I do wonder if three centuries of nudity have given rise to a natural selection process that has made all the women beautiful, or whether the authorities give preference to the most attractive immigrants. However, that may be an illusion. In reality, as I'd seen on the Esplanade, the women — locals and visitors — are not all beauty queens, by no means supermodel-slim or triathlete-trim. But I was finding out that once you get past the initial reticence, being on display in public is a powerful and empowering expression of your womanhood. I have always believed that positive feelings about yourself radiate to everyone around you. (And I was soon to meet a woman who epitomizes that.)

All of us standing at the desk were spellbound by this vision of unadorned Caribbean splendor. I recovered and signed in, and was given two room keys and some brochures. Regina reminded us of the hotel's amenities, including a saloon bar and dining room, a swimming pool and gymnasium; and she bade us to have an enjoyable stay.

"I shall leave you here," Ricardo said. "I'll be back at nine tomorrow morning?"

It took me a couple of seconds to realize he'd asked a question. I nodded. "That's fine."

There was no attendant to carry my luggage, which was just the one bag anyway. I took the stairs, and found my suite on the third floor. It was modest but comfortable, with a balcony that offered a splendid view of the bay. I took a quick shower, and it was a funny feeling to realize that once I'd toweled myself dry I was ready without further ado to go downstairs. But I couldn't resist scrutinizing myself in the full-length bedroom mirror. I performed a pirouette, arms outstretched, and was not displeased. I'm rather short. My lips are a tad too thin, my nose slightly crooked, my eyes a fraction too far apart, skin perhaps in need of better care. My hair is rather unkempt. (A shag cut demands discipline.) My breasts aren't large, my hips are narrow, my rear end is small; but I keep in shape, the contours are in the right places, and I have nice legs. I'm told I have a lovely smile. My pubic hair bothered me, a little. Just a few wisps blurred the outlines of my crease, but I'd read that in Palmirene custom this is like wearing a wedding band. I decided that was not a bad thing, at least for now.

I went down to the bar. The place was almost empty, with a couple sitting at one of the half-dozen tables. The waitress waved her notepad to let me know that I'd been seen. She was streamlined and tawny-skinned. (I must say that I don't normally focus so much on women's physical appearance... at least I didn't, until Palmira.)

I eased myself warily into one of the big lounge chairs. In my purse I had my emergency supply of towlettes, but decided I didn't need them. But I couldn't hold back another gasp. Unlike the taxi's upholstery, the leather was cool and slick against my back and bottom. I felt my heart begin to race and my chest start to heave, and it took a few moments to regain my composure. It was extraordinary how something as prosaic as sitting in an armchair could be a new and exhilarating experience.

The waitress took my order for coffee, and while she was fetching it the couple came over and asked if they could join me. Feeling somewhat ill at ease — sitting alone naked in a bar in a foreign country can do that to you — and a little resentful that I'd been abandoned by Ricardo, I was happy to have company. Ted and Valerie are in their mid-to-late-forties. He is bespectacled and somewhat paunchy, with a florid face and a double chin. In his gaudy shirt and voluminous shorts, he was an endearing caricature of the jovial American tourist; and indeed he spoke with a broad Midwestern accent. She, on the other hand, is well-built and well-toned, with platinum-blond hair and a pleasant face, keen eyes and resplendent smile. She is curvaceous with an all-over even tan. When she sat, I noticed that she pursed her lips as her flesh came into contact with the seat. It's obviously something you never really get used to.

The waitress came back with my coffee. Ted inspected her body from one end to the other, his gaze lingering at the most interesting places along the way. He was utterly unabashed, and the young woman just smiled serenely, completely relaxed at having her every nook and cranny examined so thoroughly.

I had received only a cursory browse from Ted, but I wasn't offended. I could see he was showing restraint for the neophyte. Even so, I must have begun to blush, because Valerie leaned across and patted me on the knee. Then she did something that made me shiver. She gently pushed my knees apart, just a little. It might have come across as an invasively intimate thing to do, but I realized I had been clamping my thighs.

"First time, sweetie?" she asked indulgently. "It takes some getting used to at first, but it's the best feeling in the world, you'll see."

"This is our third trip." Ted explained. "We'll keep coming back, too. Can't get enough of it."

Val slapped him playfully on the arm. "No, you can't."

Their friendly enthusiasm was infectious. I started to relax, still somewhat tense but more at ease than I had been since flying out of Kingston.

"First time we came..." Ted began.

"I hid in our room for two days," Valerie continued. "By the time we left, I had almost forgotten what it was like to wear clothes. You get so into it." She took a sip of her cocktail. "There are basically two types of men here, and believe it or not they don't divide cleanly into locals and visitors. Some will look at you out of the corners of their eyes. They're self-conscious about it, but they can't keep their peepers off you. The other kind will stand there and take a good long look, and when they're satisfied they go about their business."

"A naked woman is as natural and as glorious as sunrise and sunset," Ted cut in.

"He gets poetic around pretty girls," Valerie scoffed, good-naturedly, "but he's right, you know. Take some advice. Don't be ashamed or embarrassed. If they're looking at you, it's because they like what they see. Treat it as a compliment. So don't try to hide anything. Let them see what you have."

She paused, letting her words sink in. Ted, meanwhile, was ogling two women who had just walked in.

"God made the man first..." he said.

"... and left the best for last," she went on. "But the island has lots of things to offer besides the obvious. Some very good restaurants. Wonderful scenery, especially when you get out of the town. Lots to do. Snorkeling and scuba diving — that's our hobby. One last piece of advice though. Sun protection is a must, particularly on your pussy."

I drew in a breath.

"You don't want him sticking it in there when you've got a bad case of sunburn." She paused. "There is a him?"

Ted and Val are an interesting couple; and I have no doubt who, back home, wears the pants.

After some time and a single glass of wine, I managed to extricate myself from the T-V show. I admired their forthright and comfortable manner, but they were the sort of pair whose joie de vivre will quickly exhaust you. Their natural habitat is the large gathering where they can pass, or be passed, from one audience to the next.

I retired to my room for a nap but couldn't sleep so caught up on some reading. When it was time for dinner, I discovered that getting ready to go out for the evening is much simpler when you have literally nothing to wear. I decided to follow the lead of Palmirene women and eschew make-up. (They take the natural beauty of the female body seriously.)