The Thong Also Rises (22 page)

—Jennifer Brown, “Fear of Flying”

They all enjoyed a divorce from their clothes.

“W
ATCH OUT FOR THE NUDIES
,
MON
,”
ADVISED
V
ALENTINE
, the bartender we had affectionately named “most stoned at work.” It was a toss-up between him and the extremely buzzed Charlton, but when we caught Valentine desperately shoving maraschino cherries—stems and all—in his mouth when he thought no one was looking, we knew we had our winner.

“No one want to be out there pouring them drinks. They be crazy, mon.” Scott and I were getting the finer points on enjoying our stay at the couples-only Jamaican resort we had been lured to by the promise of unlimited cocktails and utter relaxation. It was not exactly our style, but we were actually enjoying ourselves in a “watching people at the airport” sort of way. Plus, we were really, really drunk.

“So it's clothing optional?” I asked Valentine, of the small island offshore that was one of the resort's main selling points in our book. In my not-a-fan-of-weird-tan-lines
opinion, if you're going to cook your skin in the tropical sun, why not broil the pasty nether regions as well?

“No option, mon. No clothes period. It's the rule.” Valentine tried to nod forcefully, for effect, but it looked more like he was losing consciousness and fighting to keep his head from falling into the blender of “Hummingbirds” he was making for an inebriated couple to our right.

“You have to be
naked
the whole time?” asked the woman, with a disgusted tone, as if she'd spent her entire life fully clothed and had only heard rumors about what was under
there.

“Yah, from the time you get off the boat, off come the clothes, mon. And you know,” he paused, as if he was making one of those truly profound discoveries that only really stoned people make, “sometimes clothes are good.”

Valentine had a point. But we were still intrigued by the island. We would definitely pay it a visit. As soon as we slept off our incredible hangovers.

The idea of mandatory nakedness burrowed into my brain as I watched a couple I hoped I would never see naked walking down the aisle the next morning. It was not just another twenty-four-hours in paradise, it was Valentine's Day, the worst possible day any two grumpy, jaded people could arrive at a resort for “lovebirds.” It was the official, Hallmark card-sanctioned holiday that made people everywhere feel desperate to be in love or prove they were in love. No good could ever come of Valentine's Day, in my book. And the sixteen weddings scheduled at the beach gazebo before noon were vivid proof.

The groom in question was marrying a much younger woman, although they seemed equals in the saggy skin department. Their journey down the path was wobbly and
uncertain, hinting at too many breakfast Hummingbirds or perhaps the realization that they were getting hitched thousands of miles from home, and life might not feel so footloose and beachy when they got back to Toledo. “Have they seen each other naked?” I wondered. “Am I going to bump into them and their naughty bits on that damn island?”

It became a phobia for the rest of the day. Every new husband, every new wife, every new wedding party filled me with prickly dread.

What was the proper etiquette for congratulating the freshly betrothed when they were both without clothes? “That was a beautiful dress you were wearing earlier—
you should have kept it on.
” “I can tell you two love each other a lot—
it says so right on your tattooed butt.
” Or, “Like I always say, nothing spices up a marriage like nipple rings!” Miss Manners would have had just the perfect pleasantry, but I was at a loss.

I kept trying to dissect my fears—why was I so afraid of seeing these newlyweds out of their wedding finery and in their birthday suits? I've spent lots of time at nude beaches.
I'm no prude. So why was the thought of running into a recently Mr. and Mrs. out there causing such angst?

Despite my fears—or maybe because of them—Scott and I just couldn't tear ourselves away from the procession of processionals and head out to the island. Instead, we collected an assortment of boozy beverages, planted ourselves in a cozy tree swing by the peeing cupid fountain, and spent a morning watching the sanctity happen.

We saw a group of groomsmen dressed, inexplicably, like park rangers, posing for warm, loving photos before a wedding. Would they be stripping off those brown short sets after the ceremony and frolicking just as playfully?

We saw a woman, unbearably sunburned, her slinky dress revealing the sad consequences of her sunscreenless yesterday. Luckily, she would most likely be in a tub of medicated aloe this afternoon.

We saw a groom mug for the camera and do the “respect” hand smash with the videographer. Crap, that show-off would definitely be out there on naked island.

Love, Caribbean-style, was in full bloom. And we dutifully witnessed sixteen, fifteen-minute ceremonies—four hours of non-stop “romance”—that would have disheartened even Eros himself.

“I've never see so much red and white in my life,” Scott said of the balloons, streamers, crepe paper, floral arrangements, napkins, forks, spoons, and now, garbage, that was strewn all over the gazebo.

“Just think how much red and white we'll see out there,” I replied, nodding my head towards the island. “You know, all that newly married
skin.
”

And in the warm Jamaican sun, I swear we both shivered.

We returned to the bar for more free cocktails. Valentine
was there, picking at a banana. He looked extremely stoned, but grumpy.

“I hate this day,” he confided, as we sat down in front of him.

“Yeah, you must have heard the “Valentine” thing a million times today,” I said, sympathetically. Drunken people do have a habit of stating the obvious. “We hate it, too. It's so contrived.”

“No mon. It's that,” he said and pointed to a trashcan filled with the remains of sixteen tiny, red-and-white wedding cakes. “They make all them cakes today and people be wasting them.” He sighed and took a small bite from the fruit, obviously unsatisfied with the low sugar content of his munchie selection. Poor Valentine. There were at least ten more weddings—and ten more coveted, unattainable pastries—he'd have to deal with for the rest of the day.

We, however, were done with wedding watching. And as the sun peaked in the sky, it was time. We were juiced up on coconut rum and ready to get sun-baked ourselves. So we hailed the small boat to take us to the island.

After no more than three minutes we were there. I felt my throat constrict, just a little. As the boat pulled to shore, the driver looked at us expectantly. “Does he want a tip?” I wondered. No, tipping wasn't allowed at the resort. That couldn't be it. He continued to stare and I realized:
he's waiting for us to take off our clothes.

The pressure was a little too intense, so we kept our cover-ups on for the short walk up the rocks to the center of the island action. There was a festive beachside bar. Tropical drinks. Lounge chairs. Umbrellas. And about thirty naked, tipsy people crammed into a hot tub.

They stopped mid-conversation and gawked at us, the only people other than the poor, beleaguered bartender
wearing anything besides tattoos and body piercings. I took a quick peek—at just the faces, of course—and saw no one familiar from the wedding marathon of the morning. Relief washed over me like a bottle of warm sunscreen. I smiled and waved at the mass of arms, legs, and whatnot pruning in the water.

Fears allayed, Scott and I stripped down and enjoyed feeling the sunshine where, normally, the sun doesn't shine.

I was ready for another cocktail, so I walked to the bar and ordered a Rum Runner from the necessarily shifty-eyed waiter. And as I turned back towards our chairs, there she was.

The sunburned bride from today was braving blisters and most likely a hellacious case of melanoma to be out here on the naked island with her new husband. They smiled politely as I moved towards them, and my brain went into overdrive, thinking of something to say.

“Saw you today, well, less than I'm seeing you now, but, you know.” No, that wouldn't work. “Great wedding.” That sounded really sarcastic. “How's it hanging?” No, that was just juvenile.

“Hello,” they said.

“Hello,” I replied.

And that was it.

I went back, lay down, and tried to analyze what had just happened. Why was I completely indifferent to a tub full of nude sunbathers, but one just-married couple totally weirded me out?

Finally it dawned on me. It wasn't about nudity; it was about exposing too much. They weren't just showing their bodies—and all the many, many, many flaws associated with them.They had exposed something even more naked about themselves today. Their romantic hopes. Their dreams
of finding “the one.” Their basic human need and desire for love.

The fact that they were here in Jamaica on the Superbowl Sunday of romance getting married showed they weren't jaded or sarcastic or believers in the harsh statistics that said they would most likely be divorced within three years. These were optimists—naked optimists. They wore their hearts on their sleeves, without even needing a shirt.

I realized I wasn't afraid of seeing “nudie-weds” without clothes; I was afraid of seeing them without pretense.

As if on cue, the first married couple of the day arrived on the boat. They gleefully disembarked and disrobed, flashing themselves for the all the world to see. But as I watched them laugh and kiss, I didn't see buttocks or breasts or even, horrors, “twigs and berries.”

I saw two people in love on Valentine's Day.

Elizabeth Asdorian is a freelance copywriter whose advertising work has appeared in
Print, Creativity
and
Archive.
Her foray into travel writing, “Midmorning Express,” is included in
Whose Panties Are These?
and
Italy, A Love Story.
She lives with her husband and daughter in San Francisco where she occasionally runs into naked people, but can't be sure if they're newlyweds.