Key West is beyond lovely, of course. More like a movie set than an actual place. At any minute you expect Tennessee Williams to toddle out of one of Victorian houses that line the streets, holding a mint julip in one hand and waving a perfumed handkerchief in the other. It’s THAT kind of place. Very: “Ahh do declare.”
Island House, the clothing-optional resort at the tip of the island (where I’m staying), is charmingly decadent. Beyond the lobby, there’s a lush courtyard with a pool and probably a dozen or so penises on parade. Try not to stare. (But I think they like it when you do.) There are little winding paths leading to private patios and hidden sun decks and sudden sex jacuzzis and lord nows what else (I’m still exploring). The rooms are decorated in the sort of smutty-chic style that you’d expect from a modern, upscale sex hotel – lots of rich chocolate leather accents and ornately framed oil paintings of nude men done in an Old Master style. Perfect for whatever EyesWide Shut-style orgy you can finesse.
The men (and it’s ALL MEN, ALL THE TIME) are a delightful mélange of body types, from twinklets to grampas to muscle queens to a jolly Santa Clause impersonator – definitely not the body fascists I worried about on the plane-ride here. And everybody seems very carefree, very non-judgmental, almost hippy-like in their nonchalance.
I’m still not naked, of course, but I think I’m going to the pool wearing one of the little hotel-provided sarongs and maybe do some deep knee squats or leg-thrusting exercises to get myself used to the idea of showing my junk.
I’ll keep you posted.
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