Posh spa? No thanks – I’m a naturist – Does my bum look big in skin? [5]

This post is part of the series Does my bum look big in skin?

Other posts in this series:

  1. lewd & rude naturists sell nudespapers – does my bum look big in skin? (3)
  2. secret water – does my bum look big in skin? [4]
  3. Posh spa? No thanks – I’m a naturist – Does my bum look big in skin? [5] (Current)
  4. Does my bum look big in skin: [6] My imaginary breasts
  5. You’d make a great naturist! Does my bum look big in skin? [7]


I work for a newspaper, and part of my brief is the lifestyle section: beauty, hair, fashion and going out.  It’s like a teeny, tiny version of a big, glossy Sunday supplement –  all good fun and I love my job, but the lifestyle gig comes with a heck of a sting in the tale.  If I’m not careful, everything I do becomes work.

Trip to a local theatre?  Better write about it, then. Enjoyed a band in a pub?  This would make an article! Having a facial? Oooo – beauty review! Got a deep gash on my toe during a ‘luxury pedi’ then the beautician put some stingy substance right on the cut and it was agony for hours?  Well – at least my sore toe makes good copy.   If I’m out and about in the town where I live and not planning my next feature, these days I’m racked with guilt.

So I was offered a trip to a spa.

It’s inside a very posh sports club. A friend took me along: big and grand with a high ceiling and spotlights set in the arches, and treatment rooms round the outside for hot stone therapy, body wraps, deep tissue massage and the rest. Right in the middle is a gorgeous jacuzzi sunk in the floor, and a kidney-shaped swimming pool with loungers and people reclining: a full-on tropical (well, sorta) paradise. It’s ever so nice.

So my friend asked if I fancied a day-pass, to give the place a write-up in the paper. Normally something I’d jump at. And that was when I realised… I didn’t want to go.

I was surprised about it too.

You can count me out of the treatment rooms, but that’s not new: I’ve never liked being rubbed by strangers and can’t comprehend how this could ever be relaxing. And it’s not just the pummelling hands (‘jus’ gerroff me, will ya!?’) – machines are every bit as bad. I leapt up from a thermal massage bed with a loud scream after three seconds – you know the ones that ripple and heave beneath you as if they’re alive? It was like being digested by a swamp. Jeepers.

But plunge pools, jacuzzis, steam rooms, saunas… up to now they’ve been right up my street.  Something’s different here.

It’s naturism.

I’m the first to admit that the change is sudden.  A friend at my naturist club refers (jokingly) to ‘the naturist gene’, and like the fullest jokes, it’s shared-acknowledgement-in-laughter: funny, but really it’s serious.  You get the joke deep inside you: it makes you feel warm so you smile.  And I ‘got’ naturism like that –  in a catch-fire second. That gene’s in me. Whatever this is – I’m it.  I’ll find out what it all means later.  

Right now what naturism means is… it just got tricky to sell me swimwear. What happens to all those bikinis now? I’ve a whole drawerful. (At least naturists are big on sarongs, so some of my holiday wardrobe is safe).  Since I’ve swum and sauna’d naked, there’s no way back: my days of poolside lounging in lycra are behind me. Jump in – and whilst the water’s just as wet… in a costume, it feels like I’m not really in it.

So far – so exciting. Then my boyfriend read one of my naturist blogs and laughed. I’d said that I didn’t mind being cold – but the Liz he knows minds a very great deal.  You’re the hot water bottle queen, he said… so what’s all this about naturism and running about naked in the night wind?

A bit of an ice-bucket tipped on my head, that was.  Also… my boyfriend doesn’t recognise me.  (I know how he feels). But change is what it is. You don’t stay the same from one end of your life to the other.  

I don’t what comes next. My thoughts haven’t joined up yet.  I gave the spa day to someone else.  Watch this space.

Continue reading this series:

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