Playtime
William Bradley
As Emily was putting her sunscreen on, I peered through the blinds of our cabana room at the other guests in the pool. They appeared to be in their mid-to-late fifties, each a little chubby. The wives wore lots of gold—necklaces and rings, from what I could see. One husband looked a bit like James Lipton, while the other wore a wide-brimmed hat and mirrored sunglasses. Honestly, they all looked like they might just as easily have been playing golf with my parents.
The guy in the hat and sunglasses reached to the side of the pool and picked up a cigar he’d obviously placed there earlier. I said a silent prayer, hoping that he was the type of guy who just enjoys chewing on a cigar, but no such luck; his lighter was also off to the side. As he puffed away to get the end to stay lit, I glared. I can handle cigarette, pipe, or pot smoke, but something about a cigar—especially when it’s combined with the smell of chlorine—turns my stomach.
“You okay?” Emily asked. I guess my expression revealed my mood.
“One of the guys out there is smoking a cigar,” I said, trying not to sound too pissy.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, looking out the window herself. “Ah!” she said as she turned away from the window, eyes closed.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just caught the sun’s glare off of his cock ring. I wasn’t expecting that.”
We’re not really nudists, you understand; nor are we exhibitionists. I mean, yeah, okay—we have noticed that we tend to fuck more frequently when we’re vacationing at a clothing-optional place. And when we’re completely honest with ourselves, we tend to admit that vacationing at a place with a clothing-optional pool is not only relaxing (though it is), but that it also has a certain erotic appeal. That’s not why we occasionally stay at places with clothing-optional facilities, though—if we were really just about exhibitionism, we could probably find other, cheaper ways to get our freak on. In fact, our first experience with a clothing-optional vacation was quite accidental—on our first trip to Key West, we made a reservation at a resort called The Atlantic Shores (which, sadly, is now closed), not knowing that there would be naked people at the pool and bar area. Sure, it was weird at first, but you’d be surprised at how fast you get used to seeing swaying dicks and hanging tits as you sip your margarita by the pool. And then there was the big draw—they don’t allow kids in these places. No whining. No crying. No, “Daaaaaaaad, I’m boooored!” In a nutshell, clothing-optional hotels and guest houses—at least the ones in Key West—are not the family-friendly hellholes that places like, say, the strip in Las Vegas have turned into. It’s just grown-ups drinking, smoking, talking, and having a good time. And, what’s more, we discovered that people who prefer to vacation without their clothes on just seem friendlier, somehow. On a fully-clothed vacation, Emily and I may go an entire weekend only talking to waiters and bartenders and each other. But at a clothing-optional vacation spot, we can generally count on some grinning nudist from the Midwest to ask us, “So, where are you all from?” I suppose once you’ve grown comfortable with other people seeing your genitals and your cellulite, there’s really nothing to be shy about. And since Emily and I both enjoy meeting new people, this appeals to us.
So we realized quite a while ago that naked people were fun people, and we began visiting Key West more frequently—leaving our swimsuits behind each time. I mean, why not? When everyone else is naked, the swimsuit actually makes you more scrutinized. And Emily’s in decent shape and my dick was typically neither the largest nor the smallest in the vicinity, so what was there to be embarrassed about, really?
The guest house we were staying in was not particularly big, as it had been a private residence before it was purchased by the current owner. The pool was rather small, shaped like an L and never getting more than five feet deep. The entire area was surrounded by a tall fence and trees to afford a maximum amount of privacy. Although Duval Street with its shops and bars was nearby, the place was still usually quiet and serene, the silence broken only by the occasional crowing of one of the famous Key West roosters and the conversations of the other guests.
Once Emily and I were in the pool, the two couples turned their attention to us, asking us where we were from, how long we’d be on vacation, and otherwise making small talk. It was all very friendly. In fact, at one point, the guy in the hat and sunglasses raised his hand with the cigar and asked, “Does this bother you?”
“Oh no,” I answered right away.
“Not at all,” Emily agreed.
“’Cause I can put this out, if it does.”
“No, you’re fine,” I assured him.
That’s just how I roll, you see—I like to think that people who meet me walk away with the impression that, if nothing else, I’m exceptionally polite. You might wind up questioning my intelligence, my good intentions, or my sense of humor, but if you think I’m ill-mannered, well, that would bother me. And, to his credit, the other guy was polite enough to ask if we minded—such good manners should be met with similar good manners, it seems to me. If he hadn’t asked, I probably would have grumbled to Emily about it later. But he did, and so I was thus inclined to like him, and breathe in his second-hand smoke.
It quickly became clear that the two couples had been friends for a long time, and frequently took their vacations together, even though they didn’t really live near each other. That’s nice, I thought, thinking of how great it would be to vacation with some of our friends from college or grad school. Of course, our friends probably wouldn’t be down with a clothing-optional pool area—telling people you like to vacation without clothes often feels like coming out of the closet. I wondered how these two couples initially broached the idea with each other.