Naked Encounters

A spontaneous dip in a forest hot spring stripped away more than just my bikini — it unraveled what I thought I knew about control and modern mating rituals.

The last thing I expected that weekend was to be hit on by a naked man in a clothing-optional, remote forest hot spring.

“I heard it’s a great place. Plus, we get to go camping in the redwoods,” my friend Jessica said, pitching a last-minute Thanksgiving trip to some apparently popular Northern California hot springs.

We’d just graduated from our master’s in August, and between the unrelenting job search, a girls-only long weekend sounded perfect. Plus, I had never been to a California hot spring since moving from Italy a year ago.

We booked the campsite and left the following day.

After a two-hour drive north of San Francisco, we arrived at the entrance just as the sun was setting. A silver-haired lady greeted us through a small window carved into a wooden structure.

I spotted the “Clothing Optional” notice right next to the “Cash Only” and “No Phones Near the Pools” signs while Jessica, still in the driver’s seat, chatted with our host and paid for the campsite. I didn’t think much of it. Sure, it was nice to give people the option to remove their clothes if they wanted: but who actually would, right?

Oh, my poor, naïve 25-year-old self.

We were the only ones who walked out of the changing rooms wearing bikinis. Everyone else was comfortably, confidently, absolutely naked.

That night, I learned that “clothing optional” in English basically means “clothes only if you really must.”

Soft glowing lights illuminated the natural hot pools carved into the soil, their blue water releasing a mystical fog that curled up into the forest. In the haze, you could make out silhouettes — people speaking quietly in tucked-away corners, lovers embracing gently, others moving slowly between pools of different temperatures.

It was as if we’d stepped into a different world. Ancient.

A tall, muscular man moved from one pool to another and nodded in my direction. I caught the moment with my peripheral vision — my eyes had accidentally locked on a very different part of his body. I blinked hard as he slid into one of the pools.

Gawd. He totally saw me checking him out. I didn’t do it on purpose. What was I supposed to do? I quickly looked away, pretending I absolutely knew what I was walking into.

My embarrassment came to an abrupt halt when Jessica suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me back toward the changing rooms with a mischievous smirk.

“Come on, let’s do it,” she said, and I barely had time to register what was happening before I was face-to-face with my friend’s very clothing-optional body.

At that point, I realized I was literally the only person in the entire facility still wearing clothes.

So yeah… I gave in to the peer pressure.

Slowly, very slowly, I untied the tiny bikini strings.

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” I muttered. But hey, no one was paying attention to me, right? I’d just be another body in a sea of bodies. Everything would be fine. No one would know how exposed and insecure I felt without my day-to-day armor.

Using my arms to shield what I could from prying eyes, I made a quick dash to the least crowded pool and slipped in. I had to let go of my cover to reach the submerged bench, the cool forest air hitting my naked body before I sank into the water. Once seated, I kept darting glances left and right, checking if anyone was staring.

No one was. I was invisible. Good.

I started to relax and sank onto the wooden plank, only my shoulders visible above the water, staring up at the sky. Crisp, pine-scented air filled my lungs. The stars were blinding in the dark, new moon sky. Jessica joined me soon after, arms draped over the edge of the pool like she was born for this.

We laughed at the situation, new for both of us, and started chatting away. Being there with my friend quickly turned the moment into easy, comfortable conversation. My breasts casually peeked out of the water, and my frantic Italian hand gestures returned, animating the story I was telling.

Everything was great, actually. I started to feel… present in the moment — drawn in by the strange sense of freedom and thrill that comes with being completely exposed to the elements, in tune with nature.

And then… I saw them.

Two guys, about our age, walking toward us. Naked. Confident. Swinging in the breeze. From our vantage point in the pool, everything was very visible. And oh… I was not sure I wanted to see it all.

No no no no no. Let us be.

My mouth went dry, lips pressed into a tight line as they approached. I suddenly became hyper-aware of my body, of every inch of skin exposed above the water, of how little control I had over this moment.

“David,” said the dark-haired one, stretching out his hand as he slid into the pool beside me — like this was totally normal. Like I wasn’t trying to disappear into the steam as I sank deeper into the murky water, until my chin skimmed the surface.

I glanced past David and saw Jessica, completely at ease: arms stretched behind her, basking like a moonlit goddess as she casually said hi to the second guy.

“Simona,” I said softly, extending my right hand, seeing no escape route, while my left instinctively curled across my chest, trying to shield whatever he might not have seen yet.

I’ve had one-night stands. I’ve flirted with guys I just met. But in my experience, the naked part of the night came after some sort of game of seduction. A mating ritual. You lock eyes from opposite ends of a bar, feel that magnetic pull. You pretend not to notice them; they pretend not to notice you.

Then a casual glance turns into a lingering stare on the dance floor, and somehow, you’re in their arms, deciding if the eye chemistry translates into body chemistry.

Words are exchanged. Names. Maybe drinks. Maybe a kiss or two. All of it still clothed. By the time clothes come off, you’ve had time to assess — to decide whether you want to see what’s beneath that once-crisp, now-sweaty white shirt, or if you want them to see what’s under your little black dress.

But this was different.

David got to see beneath the dress without working for it.

Without it being entirely my choice. I mean, yes, I chose to take off the bikini. But I thought I’d be invisible in the process. I didn’t expect anyone to come talk to me unless I initiated it.

In that moment, I felt stripped of the power to decide who gets to see me, and when. For me, a body becomes beautiful through layers of interaction: a conversation that puts you at ease, or that invisible spark, that chemical exchange that builds curiosity and desire.

As I looked at David, I realized none of that had happened. No mating ritual.

I’d seen his body. He’d seen mine. There had been no lingering glances, no flirtation across the water. He just… saw me naked and decided to walk over and start a conversation.

No. Just — no.

That wasn’t going to work for me. I wasn’t ready for someone to be interested in getting to know me without me being in complete control. And maybe that’s what it was: the predator became the prey. And while Jessica laughed with her new blond acquaintance, I clung to the discomfort of not being the one in charge.

“Maybe I can give you my business card. If you feel like it, you can call me,” he offered.

We talked a little, but I was so tight-lipped during the whole exchange that I was surprised he even wanted to keep the conversation going.

Also — a business card? In a hot spring?

Where could he possibly have kept cards? I wondered, as he pushed himself out of the pool, flexing and revealing the crack of his butt.

Jessica winked at me. Winked. What the hell.

David returned a few minutes later, probably after a quick stop at the changing room, with a white card in hand, his number scribbled on it. He handed it to me, squatting beside the pool. I took it and quickly turned away, doing my best to avoid eye-level contact with the member between his legs.

“I really hope you’ll decide to call me,” he said with a smile, before standing up and walking off, his friend following suit — leaving me in the water with a damp business card in hand.

“He was so nice, he really liked you,” Jessica said, motioning toward the card.

I rolled my eyes and brushed it off, placing the card on top of my flip-flop to keep it from getting soaked.

I never called David. But I did keep the card for a couple of weeks. Every now and then, I’d look at the number and wonder if I should try having a clothed conversation with that guy.

The truth is, I was scared. Scared that someone had seen me naked before knowing me, and wasn’t disappointed. That he might actually want to know me more, despite how much I judged my body.

Maybe showing some of the most vulnerable parts of myself — which, in large part, are physical — had pulled down a barrier and opened the door to something… real? A conversation without the fear of what if he doesn’t like my body?

I’ll never know.

I kept my mating ritual clothed after that, and I’ve never had another first encounter while nude. But that moment planted a seed: a quiet reminder that things don’t always unfold the way I expect. And that the story I tell myself isn’t always what other people see.

And maybe, just maybe, my need for control sometimes stands in the way of something surprising… maybe even beautiful.

Nakedly,

Simona