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A Feminist Arrives in Nakedland

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I casually mentioned to people that I was going to Cap d’Agde this September. Most of my friends didn’t know where that was or what it was and I would just tell them it was “the south of France on the Mediterranean.” But those that did know were surprised that I was going to a nudist town where you could be naked 24/7, even in the supermarket.

You see, I’m a native New Yorker and an old-school feminist in my 50s. Though I write and publish erotica (currently working on the novella Two Dukes are Better than One), most of my friends and colleagues are completely unaware that I’m a nudist. And somehow they think it does not go hand in hand with being a feminist.

I would have thought that too – when I was much younger.

I came to nudism in mid-life in a round about way. As a literary agent, I found myself representing the memoirs and fiction of porn stars, all of whom spent large parts of their days naked in public. When the editor of the science fiction imprint at one of New York’s large publishing houses invited me to a naked dinner party in a Manhattan restaurant, I asked every female friend I had if they would accompany me, and not a single one said ‘yes’. So I asked the mother of one of my son’s classmates, who was also recently divorced, and we bonded over this bizarre opportunity to expose ourselves.

I was very nervous about going naked in public, even though it was in fact being seated in a restaurant. I told the host that it was possible that I would walk in, disrobe, and immediately run out. He told me I would feel completely conformable in a matter of minutes. I didn’t believe him. Then he asked me if I was an “at home” nudist, meaning someone who took her clothes off as soon as she got home, and the answer was ‘yes’. I often write naked. I live on the 18th floor overlooking the Hudson, so no one can see me.

It turned out that I really liked being naked within this group.

I realized that I was completely unused to seeing the naked human body over about age 25 (unless I was looking in the mirror or was with a lover). As a culture, we just don’t see naked men’s and women’s bodies as we age.

Most of the members of this naked dinner group were over 40, so I was on the younger side. They were also mostly male.

I liked that.

I liked that this was an opportunity to ogle the naked male body in a casual setting, while drinking wine and discussing books or politics. And I liked the fact that they were seeing me in all of my real-life, un-airbrushed, middle-aged voluptuousness.

I also liked being able to see the bodies of the other women, some as old as 70, so I knew what I had to look forward to. I was truly amazed at how beautiful we all were.

Being naked together – meant we knew nothing about each other before we spoke. It made us all surprisingly equal, and, as a feminist, that was empowering for me.

I found myself gravitating to the nudist communities in New York. I visited the Light House Beach on Long Island (no longer there after Hurricane Sandy) where there were cook-outs and all day-long parties. And the naturist beach at Sandy Hook in New Jersey, where it was actually legal to drink on the beach (I brought chilled white wine).

The nudist dinner group disbanded, but I was lucky enough to date a fellow nudist who took me on a nude cruise to the Bahamas, Jamaica, Honduras and the Cayman Islands. In addition to lounging on beautiful Caribbean beaches naked, we also had the opportunity to eat our meals naked. It was a carefree delight and I genuinely resented getting dressed when the trip was over.

So with all that background information, it should be no surprise that when the opportunity to stay in the naturist town presented itself, I jumped at the chance, because in addition to being a nudist, I am also a Francophile. So this was a trip to be naked on the beach and eat fabulous French food while drinking amazingly good and cheap French wine. What’s not to love?

We flew over from London on Ryanair, a discount air carrier that made the trip extremely affordable. I was going with the original mother of my son’s classmate (now a decade of nude meals and beaches later), and an author who I had befriended in the naked saunas of New York City’s Spa Castle, a giant Korean water retreat in Queens, where segregated same-sex nudity is practiced in relaxing heated pools. We rented a flat for four nights, and were in France by mid-afternoon.

Packing for this trip was a breeze. Only sun tan lotion and sarongs, and some clothing to wear at night while we shopped in the many stores that offered everything from Wonder Woman-like art armor to G-strings and thigh high boots.

It was mid-September, so it was an off-season, and there were no families with school-age children. This nudist town is actually a vacation retreat for European nudist families. I was thankful to avoid the possible run in with naked kids.

To our great good fortune, the weather was still warm, and the ocean was calm and warm enough to swim in. We ate delicious French meals in a restaurant overlooking the sea – croque monsieur, seafood salads, and steak frites. All naked.

And then we shopped in the locale grocery stores for pate, olives, meats and cheeses, stark raving naked. At first it seemed extraordinary. By the end of the week, it felt like I had been doing it my entire life.

Now there is a part of Cap d’Agde that is adults only. It’s a section of the beach where naked people express their ‘love’ for each other, and themselves, openly. You can just stroll by and see what’s going on. No one bats an eye.

Also some of the apartment complexes have adult-friendly nightlife and shopping offering sexy clothing and sex toys. There’s always an interesting parade of women (the men NEVER dress up) in equally interesting but awkward clothing that you can tell was recently purchased.

Everyone is completely free to express themselves in a way that is just nonexistent anywhere else.

I’ll be going back to Cap d’Agde. It’s a place where I fit in, in all my nakedness, because everyone just lets it hang loose.

Why I am Finally “Single,” No Longer “Divorced”

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I left my husband fifteen years ago, and it took eight years for the divorce to become finalized, so when I was truthfully able to write “divorced” on surveys and paperwork, I was pretty happy to do it. No longer “separated.” “Divorced” at long last.

But I’ve been doing it for a long time now, and I don’t feel that my terminated marriage defines me any longer, nor should it. I have done so much in the past fifteen years that the fact that I was once married should be a footnote to my life. I realized this quite suddenly when I filled out some official paperwork by simple checking off “single,” and kind of marveled at how easy that was to do.

Because I am single now.

My son is grown and I have paid for college so, although I will always be a “single mom” (this is how the world refers to us) in my heart and soul, I am free in a way I couldn’t have imagined when I was younger. I have my own home, car, and three businesses. I am completely responsible for myself.

I am single and I like it.

I like waking up alone in my queen size bed and sleeping as late as I want, and then not making the bed all day if I choose.

I like spending my money the way I want.

I like cooking for myself and using as much garlic as I want, or skipping meals completely.

I can work out at 10 p.m. or not at all.

I like bingeing on Buffy the Vampire Slayer or even The Partridge Family.

And I can get tickets to almost any event I want as a single.

I have discovered a world of single friends, people who have been single their whole lives or who were once married, but never seem to mention it unless asked. We travel together, have potluck card games, celebrate holidays and birthdays together, and take care of each other when we get sick. It’s mostly women, but there are some men in my crowd too, so I am amazingly never lonely. I have a social life made up of people I like, not of people who live in my town or just happened to also be single.

My life is actually so much better than the last time I was single in my 20’s, when I had no money, and we were all vying to see who would be the first one down the altar.

I found this new single life because a formerly single friend told me to stop being so stoic and to ask for help. When I became a single mom, I felt overwhelmed by life for the first time in my very competent life. So even though I had been pulling rabbits out of my purse for years, my friend firmly suggested that I just tell the truth and let people help.

And I found people who need people and became part of what I call the karma wheel. They helped me with…some babysitting here, a little fixing up there, an extra ticket to an event, a home cooked meal on a cold night and when my turn came, I paid it forward too. And it felt good to give back.

I am proud to be single now. It means that I can take care of myself, and I can probably help you too.

I am not alone. I have my sh@# together!

Originally published on

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