Cap Dagde The Naked City

Years ago, I read about this city in southern France, where everybody was naked all the time. Everywhere. Not just the beach, but in stores, in restaurants, even the bank. I just had to check it out.

My wife and I took the hovercraft over from London and then the TGV to Southern France. I had a reservation at one of the hotels, and was curious about how the transition from clothed to naked would work. Would guests strip before checking in? Would we be allowed to go to our room before stripping? My wife, Becky, thought nudity was not mandatory. That's not what I read. I thought it was everybody naked, all the time. I couldn't wait to see this for myself!

I was very disappointed as the cab drove through the streets and dropped us at our hotel. I had not seen one naked person. We walked in and it looked like any other hotel. Where were all the naked people? I asked the clerk if there was more than one Cap d'Agde. He said this was it, there was only one.

So what went wrong? Was the article I read out of date? Was it just a ruse to draw tourists to this otherwise unremarkable Mediterranean resort?

We went to our room and unpacked. I looked over the balcony to the hotel swimming pool. I saw a few topless women, but no one totally naked. What was wrong? Sadly, I was preparing myself that we had been duped. A few topless woman was not what I had been fantasizing about.

Becky wanted to go for a swim. So did I, but I wanted to go skinny dipping. I had been counting the days for so long to go romping around this famous naked city, bare butt naked. I was plotting my revenge.

Seeing several other topfree women, Becky slipped her top off, revealing her perfect tits. Those tits are what got my attention the first day I met her. I was waiting in line at the bank, and she was in the line right next to me. She was wearing a thin, knit polo shirt, and it looked to me like she was braless. For once in my life, I was wishing the line would not move faster. I kept stealing glances, looking for a telltale bra-strap line. Instead, I caught a very brief glimpse of a nipple, just barely noticeable. Damn! She was not wearing a bra. By then, I wasn't stealing glimpses. I was drooling and staring. I so admired women who were confident enough to go bra-free. I wished more women would.

She looked away from me. As she did, one of the papers she was clutching slipped free and floated to the floor next to my foot. I reached down, and then walked it back to her. "Excuse me, Miss, I think you dropped this." She turned and looked me right in my eyes. That was it. She had me. She had the most amazing blue eyes. Pretty blue eyes and perfect breasts hiding under that thin shirt. She smiled, as if something were funny, and asked me what I was staring at. She turned to see what it was, but saw nothing. I waxed poetic and simply told her I was looking at a vision of beauty, the goddess Aphrodite brought to life, a siren that no sailor could resist. Uncharacteristically, I became quite bold. I asked her to have coffee with me. I insisted more than asked. She said yes. The rest is history.

I love breasts. Bare breasts. I love naked women. There is something endlessly fascinating about them. They inspire me. They make me feel alive. Sadly, in our clothed society, women cannot be naked all the time, so I am grateful to the few women who dispense with that infernal contraption, the brassiere. I am sure Eve never wore one. Whoever invented them, I wish he had not. Even when a woman's nipples did not give her away, it was so easy to tell if a woman was bra-free. Her breasts would sway with her every move. I began to think bra-free was more exciting than totally nude. There was something about seeing a woman's breasts move and sway so naturally underneath her top. It required some imagination, which is perfect for making reality better than it really is.

Gazing at Becky's breasts, I was inspired to drop my shorts. No one else at the pool was bottomless, but I was certain that in Cap d'Agde, you were allowed to be naked anywhere, so here it goes.

There were no shrieks. No one fainted. I was not asked to leave. After a few minutes, a waiter came over to ask us if we would like a drink. Before leaving, he gave me a long look up and down, and then asked if I was aware this was not the Naturist Quarter. Huh? He proceeded to explain that there was one section of town where everyone was allowed to be naked. But this was not it.

I slipped my swim trunks back on. My sunburn hid my red face. We went to the front desk and told them our plight. It was no problem. This hotel company had a property in the Quartier Naturist, and arranged for us to move there the next morning.

For the rest of the day, I recycled my anticipation. For weeks I had dreamt of finding this Nirvana of Naturism, fighting my cynicism that such a place could not possibly exist. Now we were here, but not quite. Close, so close.

That evening, we turned on the TV before going to bed. Although it was in French, it was clear that the weatherman was warning his viewers about some bad weather. As we turned off the lights, I wondered if this was not to be. Tomorrow we would take a cab to the Naked Quarter. I had this sinking feeling that as soon as we got out in a sea of naked people, the heavens would open up and drench us all. Maybe it was all a myth.

Silently I prayed to the god of nudity, if there was such a god. Please have mercy on this pilgrim to the land of naked people. I imagined thousands of naked people living life naturally, as it was meant to be, in the Naked Quarter.

The next morning, we took a cab to the Naked Quarter. As we pulled up to the hotel, there were three women, all naked, doing yoga on a patio near the hotel entrance. It was the most beautiful sight in the world. It was as yoga was meant to be. In the distance, I could see many naked bodies. Cap d'Agde did exist. If you go, remember to ask for the Quartier Naturist.