Okay, let’s just get this out of the way. I’m naked right now. Not in a sexy candlelight, rose petals, Marvin Gaye kind of way. I’m just sitting on my patio chair with a coconut La Croix, no pants, two mosquito bites on my left butt cheek, and a story to tell. You’re welcome.

If you’re here reading this, you’ve probably experienced one of the following:

1. You’re curious about this whole nude lifestyle thing and wondering if it makes your soul sexier

2. You’ve been naked with someone and either fallen in love or wanted to crawl under a rock and live there forever

3. You googled “nudist soulmates” while drunk and somehow found me

Whichever road brought you here, congratulations. You’ve landed in the right place, and I promise not to make you do anything uncomfortable. Unless we count the time I accidentally flashed a customs officer in Tulum. That’s a story for Chapter 3.

This book is about soulmates and nudity and all the weird, wonderful, and mildly illegal things that happen when those two things collide. I’m Kristin. I’m 38. I live just outside of Seattle, in a neighborhood where people still get mad about mailbox height violations but also weirdly support my naked backyard barbecues. I’ve been a nudist for years, and yes, I travel to all sorts of buff-friendly places, from hot springs in Iceland to the world’s sweatiest naked drum circle in Belize. (Yes, we’ll get to that.)

I’ve also had a lot of soulmates. Like, a lot. There was the guy who only wore socks while naked. The man who thought “clothing optional” meant just wearing tighter underwear. The French guy who smelled like figs and betrayal. And my personal favorite, Derek, who proposed while I had food poisoning and a spray tan gone wrong. He’s a story and a half. And a warning.

But let’s talk soulmates for a second. People think it’s this mystical thing, like a unicorn riding in on a moonbeam. But lemme tell ya, sometimes your soulmate shows up while you’re applying aloe vera to your boob because you forgot sunscreen again. Sometimes they’re the person who holds your towel when you’re sprinting across a campground because you saw a raccoon and screamed like a toddler.

This isn’t a self-help book, it’s a self-strip book. We’re going to peel off the layers—emotional, physical, and occasionally really unfortunate swimsuits—and talk about love. Real love. Naked love. That kind of love where someone sees you bent over picking up a dropped peach and still says, “Yep, she’s the one.”

Throughout these chapters, I’ll share what I’ve learned: how to date while nude without accidentally grinding on someone’s picnic plate, how to argue without the safety of pants, how to flirt in a hot tub without fogging up your entire romantic future. I’ll tell you how I made friends, how I fell in love, how I fell out of it, how I tripped into a cactus, and how I found my version of naked joy.

So grab a towel to sit on, take off what you don’t need, and get ready. We’re going to laugh, cringe, learn, and maybe—just maybe—find our soulmate. Or at least avoid another incident with a fondue pot and a guy named Brad.