Okay, so first things first. If you’re reading this book with your pants still on, don’t worry. I’m not here to shame your jeans. This is a judgment-free, jiggle-friendly zone. That said, by Chapter 3, I hope those pants are on the floor and you're reading this in your full, glorious birthday suit with your partner right beside you—possibly also naked, possibly eating string cheese. We don't judge the journey, just the cheese choices.

Now, let me introduce myself. I’m Kristin. I’m 38, full of opinions, occasionally full of tequila, and most recently, full of joy because I found Luka—my current boyfriend, full-time lover, and part-time towel thief. He’s 28. Yes, twenty-eight. I know, I know. I hear it all the time. “What do you even talk about?” “Does he know who Alanis Morissette is?” “Does he call you Mommy?” No, he does not. And yes, we do talk—mostly about where we last left the sunscreen and whether or not it’s weird to compost naked. (Answer: it’s not until your neighbor walks out to get the paper and makes direct eye contact with your left boob.)

Before Luka, I was dating like a nudist at a towel sale—desperate, overexposed, and constantly slipping on something. But then along came this adorable, wide-eyed man-child who looked at my body like it was the Sistine Chapel and said, “You make me want to take off my pants forever.” And I thought, Well damn. That’s either love or a rash. Let’s see where this goes.

So here we are. Two nudists, one love story, zero pants.

This book is your one-stop guide to living a naked life together. Whether you’re a nudist-curious couple, a mismatched duo where one of you wants to be free and the other is still traumatized by a locker room towel snap in 9th grade, or you’re both just looking to spice things up without buying another harness on Etsy—you’re in the right place.

We’re going to talk about the good stuff: body confidence, sun-kissed buns, naked camping, sexy time logistics, relationship arguments when neither of you can dramatically storm out without jiggling, and what it means to really, truly see each other. Not just physically, although let’s be real—when someone trims their toenails in the nude next to you on the porch, you reach a new level of intimacy. There’s no going back from that.

But also emotionally. Because nudism isn’t just about taking off your clothes. It’s about dropping all the layers. Insecurity. Shame. Old habits. The idea that you need Spanx to be lovable or that your butt has to look like a glazed ham in order to be hot. Spoiler: it doesn’t. But a little coconut oil never hurt.

Luka and I are still figuring it out. We’ve accidentally flashed our mailman (twice), gotten poison ivy on body parts I cannot legally name here, and had deep arguments about whether the bedroom throw pillow needs to be put away when no one wears pants anyway. But through it all, we’ve laughed more, touched more, and gotten way better at putting on sunscreen as a team.

So grab your partner, kick off your socks (yes, even those) and dive in. This isn’t just about being naked. It’s about being real. Honest. Wild. Free. And yes, sometimes slightly sunburned in places that are really hard to reach.

Let’s get cheeky, babe.