When I was thirty-five I found myself newly single again. My marriage ended for a variety of reasons, but basically we decided we’d made a mistake and three years of trying to make it work were enough. The “sorting out” was equitably handled and we are still able to speak whenever anything makes it necessary.

At any rate, the timing of all this was fortunate. We were finally separated legally in June. Then, my boss told me I had to take two weeks off before the end of the year or lose the time. Now it was mid-December and I had worked all year to help pay for my divorce.

I live in the northern part of the U.S. December is miserable and cold here. I’m sixty eight now, and I’m getting ready to move to New Mexico where winters are milder. Going through some old boxes was what made me think about that vacation.

I was never much of a traveler. Oh, I’d been to Canada and Mexico several times, and to Hawaii once. Since then I’ve seen a lot of Europe, thanks to the fact that the next woman I married worked for a major airline and we went places inexpensively.

But that year I made the snap decision that it was time I went to Jamaica. On December 10th I made the decision. By December 14th, all the arrangements were made and I had printed out my ticket in hand. By December 16th I was in Jamaica.

I learned very quickly that, for me anyway, traveling alone that way isn’t much fun. I had enjoyed the several cross-country road trips I’ve taken. I did it because there were reasons to do it.

But that trip to Jamaica was the first time I had traveled alone for enjoyment. I found I missed being able to turn to somebody and show them something I had seen. There’s also a comfort in knowing you were with somebody.

Oh, I loved the sunshine and the summer weather in December. I had chosen to stay in Negril on the western side of the island at what was advertised as a clothing optional place. I’m not a social nudist, though I had done some solo nude hiking in Canada and visited a nudist place in Arizona. But I hadn’t joined a club or anything. I’m mostly a home nudist.

I arrived at my hotel in the late afternoon. I got to my room and collapsed on the bed. When I woke up it was after nine o’clock and I was starving. The hotel’s restaurant had closed but the little beach bar was open. I went down and took one of the four stools at the bar.

I ordered a Red Stripe and asked the girl if she had anything to eat. So far I hadn’t seen anybody naked but I kept my eyes open. The girl said she could make me a ham sandwich, which I gratefully accepted.

There were only two other people under the canopy that turned a bare patch of sand into a bar and they were pretty involved with each other. I decided they were probably on their honeymoon.

I talked to the girl a while as I ate and had two more beers. I asked her about nudity laws there. I learned that it is technically against the law, but it is overlooked at some beaches. Topless was ignored at most of the resorts -- but only on the beach. Some resorts have areas within their grounds for nude or clothing optional activities.

The place I was stating was pretty small. I’m not sure how many rooms they had in the hotel, but they also offered a “beach bungalow” for much less per night than in the hotel proper. I had reserved one of those. Now, what they call a bungalow I called a shed. It was basic: a bed, a small table, and an open closet area. Oh, and a window.

But hell, it wasn’t the rainy season and I hadn’t brought anything valuable along, except money, which I kept on me or locked away in the hotel safe in a lock box. The bed was fine. Showers were available in the courtyard -- three roofless unisex showers -- and an open air hot tub.

After my sandwich I walked the twenty or so feet to the water. There was nobody else in sight. I thought about dropping my shorts and tee shirt on the sand and diving in, but chose to not go in that night. I went to bed and woke up early.

The next morning I wore my swimming trunks to the beach straight out of my shed. Way down the sand I saw one person, nut they were clothed. It was so far down the beach that I couldn’t tell even the gender of the person. So I stripped off my trunks and got wet.

The feeling was indescribable, really. If you have read about nudism or naturism, you’ve heard descriptions about the freedom and simple pleasure of being nude. I had read all that, and had already had my first social nudity experience. But until you are actually there, you cannot understand it.

At any rate, there was nothing social about my first naked dip in the Caribbean Sea. Not another soul passed by and certainly nobody joined me. Slightly disappointed, I put my trunks on and headed for a shower.

Just as I pulled open the chin high swinging door open to one of the showers, a woman who looked like she might be in her fifties emerged from the next stall, wrapped in a towel. She smiled and wished me a good morning before turning toward the hotel. I liked her casual attitude.

Later that day I went back to the beach bar and had several beers and another ham sandwich. Then I found an empty lounge chair where I relaxed wearing my trunks. There were maybe ten other people on that particular section of beach. They all wore swimwear. Had there been somebody naked, I had decided to strip down too, but I was disappointed. One woman passed along in front of ‘our’ beach proudly naked striding down the sand.

But that was it. I strolled along the beach but nobody seemed to want to go bare. Disappointed, I went back to the hotel and through it. Outside the front door I found the same shuttle that had picked me up at the airport. The driver said he’d be happy to take me to town.

‘Town’ was a small community of mainly shops along the main street that ran along the beach with other businesses and housing behind them and along the other streets that led away from the beach. The shuttle driver dropped me off and asked how long I thought I’d be. He was willing to come and pick me up. I thanked him and told him I’d walk the mile or so back to the hotel.

I shopped a while -- stopped into the little grocery store and picked up some non-perishable snack foods -- bought a couple of souvenirs for myself and for some family and friends. I was going through a rack of tee shirts when a voice behind me said, “Well hello again.”

I turned to find the same woman I’d seen at the showers that morning. She was dry and dressed by then, of course. We introduced ourselves and I learned she was from Iowa, and there with her husband. He was at the hotel because he hated shopping. “Besides, he would rather lie on the beach and look at all the young girls, waiting for them to strip down.”

“Oh, well,” I said. “You can eye all the young guys then.” She laughed.

“Not hardly. I knew young guys when I was young. They’re mostly clueless about everything.” She smiled at me again and it was a nicer smile than she’d given me earlier. “No, these days I’d rather ogle older guys like you. They have had time to learn if they cared to learn.”

“Well, I don’t know if I really belong in that group. I’ve been married and divorced twice now.”

“My marriage is my second,” she said with a laugh. “No, it’s not about whether you’ve learned to be married, but how you behave with women I’d be interested in.” As she said it she reached out and put her hand on my arm for emphasis. The emphasis wasn’t necessary.

We chatted a while and parted ways when the shuttle came to pick her up. She offered to share the ride, but I chose to stay a while. I was ready to head back, but I was keeping my distance. I’d been involved with a married woman when I was younger and single. The mess that led to was pretty bad.

It didn’t sound like Sheila’s marriage was on solid ground, however. I just filed the ideas I was getting away. After all, it wasn’t like I’d be living in the same town with them. She had said they always take a month off and liked Jamaica the best. They’d be there after I had gone home. Sheila was attractive. I couldn’t tell if she colored her hair, but there were a couple of streaks of gray she didn’t dye to her blonde state. It looked good on her.

I could tell she had a decent body, she was slender without being skinny. The curves were obvious. Her breasts were not huge, and even wearing just a towel they didn’t seem to have much sag.

I stopped at a money exchange on my walk back up the road. At the time, I think the rate was something like three dollars Jamaican to one U.S, dollar. A little farther up the road I stopped at a jerk shack and bought half a jerk chicken for about $1.50. I dined in my shack that night.

The second morning I skipped my dawn swim and just strolled up the beach. I had passed several resorts only seeing three or four people -- mostly resort staff setting things up for the day. Then I came to a section where the staff had already set the lounge chairs up on the sand for the day.

A woman was lying on one, nude, in a pair of sunglasses, reading a book. As I got closer she looked up and greeted me by name! It was Sheila, and she looked great naked. She waved me over. I sat on the neighboring chair. “Well, now you know my secret. I love being naked, but my husband doesn’t. He doesn’t care if I go naked, but he objected to me doing it at our hotel, except in the showers or the hot tub there. And we do have a shower in our room, but I enjoy using the ones in the courtyard.”

“Aw, that’s too bad he doesn’t join in,” I said, trying not to drool over her nudity. “I think I’d rather tag along, rather than let a good looking lady like you run around naked without me.” I was right about her body. Her tits were about the size of a small baseball. The nipples, though, covered about half their tips. I love large nipples.

“But would you join in and strip off your shorts out here with me?”

“I would if you were my wife,” I told her.

I looked around. People were starting to appear, but I seemed to be the only one paying any attention to the naked lady on the beach. “I thought the chairs and things were only for the hotel guests. Does this place care if you’re here?”

She laughed and scratched her belly, low down, next to her closely trimmed pubic hair. “Nobody’s complained yet. Maybe they’re afraid of a naked lady.” We laughed about that. Then she asked me, “What about you, Mark? You don’t seem frightened.”

“Nope, ‘I ain’t scared of no naked ladies!’” I imitated the tone of a phrase that had become famous from a movie.

“Why don’t you join me then?” she asked, again resting her hand on me (but that time on my thigh, with a little squeeze).

“What? Here? Now?” I looked around again. About fifty feet away, a couple had claimed two other chairs. The guy was nude and his companion was topless. I looked back at her. Her smile was a challenge. “Your husband doesn’t care if you sunbathe naked with strange men?”

“Not a bit.” She looked down again and then took off her sunglasses. She looked back up at me. “He’s not really interested in me any more. He has his own ‘amusements’ at home.” My heart ached at the sadness she carried. She replaced her glasses. “So I get to exercise my independence when we go places. He says he’d be embarrassed if I went naked when we are together, or where people we know might see us.”

I shook my head and pulled off my tee shirt. Then I stood up and dropped my shorts, briefly embarrassed by my thickened (but not hard) dick. But the look on Sheila’s face gave me confidence. She wasn’t shy about checking me out. “Bravo,” she said in a low voice. I blushed and sat on the towel I had carried along in case I went in the water.

She closed her book and raised up on her elbow, turning toward me. “You don’t seem to be a stranger to going nude, Mark,” she said. I told her about my experiences.

“But this is the first time I’ve gone naked with somebody I’m acquainted with when sex was not the reason for getting naked. It feels strange, but kind of intimate.”

“I know. That’s part of why I like it. And ... well, if somehow it leads to sex, then it does, I guess.” She just looked at me again. My dick twitched, but still remained mostly flaccid. I looked back at her then away. It was obvious, but I was still reluctant.

“Sheila,” I began, but she stopped me.

“Wait a minute,” she said, holding a hand up like the traffic cop. “That wasn’t an offer, I just meant ... if it did ... Oh, shit. It did happen once. My second foray into public nudity. It happened on Aruba two years ago. The guy was closer to my age than you are; I’m fifty nine, if you want to know.”