I’m writing this having just flown back from Jamaica on the red eye (no pun intended). I feel a little shell-shocked, but not because I was up all night trying to stop my two-year-old son from running up and down the aisle screaming ‘Bollocks’. Rather, it’s because my wife and I spent our last evening at a resort called Hedonism II.
I had wanted to go to this place ever since stumbling across a brochure on our first day. As far as I could tell from flicking through its pages, Hedonism II is essentially a nudist resort populated entirely by supermodels. Guests are encouraged to spend the morning playing ‘Naked Twister’, the afternoon on a catamaran cruise (‘clothing optional’), and the evening competing in a ‘pole-dancing contest’. The brochure was illustrated with pictures of Naomi Campbell lookalikes engaging in all these activities. Persuading Caroline to join me was easy. All I had to do was threaten to go on my own if she didn’t come too. In truth, though, I don’t think she was particularly worried that I would end up playing ‘nude volleyball’ with a group of swimsuit models. It was more that her curiosity was piqued when our babysitter told her that Hedonism II is known locally as ‘the zoo’.
As luck would have it, Hedonism II was only a five-minute taxi ride from our resort. When we got there we discovered an added bonus: it was the 28th anniversary party. Admittedly, the entrance fee was a little steep — $150 for two — but the girl at reception told us we didn’t have to leave until 6 a.m. the following morning. ‘That’s money well spent,’ I told Caroline, before dragging her down a tunnel leading to the party.
The first thought that struck me when we emerged blinking into the light was that we must have come to the wrong place. I was expecting something along the lines of Hugh Hefner’s Fourth of July party at the Playboy Mansion, but this was more like a ‘mixer’ at a Florida retirement home. The average age was about 65. It was less Sodom and Gomorrah than Derby and Jones.
On closer inspection, our fellow guests turned out to be dressed rather unconventionally. The theme for the evening was ‘White Heat’ and that meant white lycra dresses for the ladies and white T-shirts and micro shorts for the gents. On tight-bodied 18-year-olds these outfits would have looked a bit outré, but seeing them on people in late middle age, some of them clinically obese, the effect was unintentionally comic. As we stood gawping at them, a couple waddled past in diaphanous lace undergarments. I’m not exaggerating when I say their combined age was at least 150.
A contest called ‘Ms Hedonism II’ was in progress so we sat down at the nearest table and trained our eyes on the stage. Our arrival coincided with the ‘talent’ round and the first contestant was a semi-nude 16-stone librarian from Wisconsin called Jodie. She had composed a ‘poem’ about the resort which she recited while rocking back and forth on a giant rubber duck: ‘“H” is for the hard-ons I see round the pool, “E” is for the erections that make me drool…’ It was like a form of therapy designed to cure men of priapism.
We were just adjusting to the full horror of our surroundings when another couple sat down beside us. ‘Hi, I’m Wade and this is my wife, Mary-Kate,’ said a man who looked like Sheriff J.W. Pepper in Live and Let Die. ‘How long you folks been staying at Hedo?’
Caroline shot me a look of pure terror. Do something — anything.
‘Oh no, we’re not staying here,’ I said. ‘We’re just visiting for the night.’
I realised too late that this was precisely the wrong thing to say. After all, what sort of people typically shell out $150 to spend the night in Hedonism II?
‘We’d love to show you round,’ he said. ‘There’s a bikini party after the pageant and it’s BYAD.’
‘BYAD?’ I asked.
‘Bare As You Dare,’ explained his wife.
We declined as politely as we could and headed for the nearest exit. As we were standing outside, waiting for a taxi, Caroline told me that if I wanted to spend the rest of the evening there on my own she would have no objection. Reader, believe me when I tell you, I did not take her up on this offer.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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