So what’s the best way get laid at Hedonism ll in Negril, Jamaica, one of the world’s most notoriously sensual resorts?

I’m just back from there and, as a public service, consider it my bounden duty to reveal some of its secrets.

For me and most other women single or partnered, of course, getting laid is easy.

We simply turn up, take our clothes off, and head for the nude beach, bar and pool. There we find a whole bunch of naked people, many of whom are ready, willing and eager to do the jig-jig thing with us at any hour of the day or night.

Some will already be practicing varieties of jig-jig, reasonably discreetly, in the pool or the Fornicatorium grotto, just off to Delroy’s bar.

Not so easy for single guys though.

In spite of the rumours that Hedo ll is one endless bacchanal to which all comers are welcome and the sins of the flesh are celebrated indiscriminately, most single men at Hedo don’t get laid at all. Instead, they just dangle around the bar for the week drinking desperately and looking sadly  lonely.

They don’t get it that most women who go to Hedo are coupled and are therefore, if they’re looking to play, likely inclined to do it only with other couples. Also, that there are usually a lot more single men than women at Hedo.

If single guys want to get laid (and I don’t know any who don’t), Hedo has strict unwritten rules.

RULE #1:  BE MODERATE. Don’t swallow too much free booze or smoke too much of the murderous ganja (available everywhere). The combination not only turns off potential sex partners, it also leads to the dreaded and highly inconvenient dangle. (Sing…“and his dingle, dongle dangled to the dust”).

RULE #2:  DON'T BE PUSHY. Women make almost all the decisions at Hedo. If she’s interested, she’ll let you know. Erect nipples and naked booby hugs (NBHs) are considered positive signs.

RULE #3:  JOIN IN THE ACTIVITIES. I met one of the best-endowed and long-lasting men of my considerable experience under 100 feet of warm Hedo sea. You might feel like an idiot playing endless bocce on the sand. Or sliding naked, drunk and stoned down the water slide at midnight (hold your nostrils tight and keep your legs together). Or joining other guests in the silly competitions designed to make you look more than usually foolish, in the main dining room. But joining in is a fine way to meet women.

RULE #4:  JOIN A GROUP BEFORE YOU GO. You may have to pay a small fee but it’s worth it. If you go with a group you’ll likely get a discount and sometimes the group hat and towel which identify you as family in all the acres of naked flesh. The groups have the best parties (use your imagination) to which non-group members simply aren’t invited. Among Hedo groups are Jon’s Fluffernutters (I’m a member), Wet, Wild and Wicked, Bubbly Bares, Biff’s Bunch (motto: Excess in Moderation), and Traveling Bares. They’re all Hedophiles, all sybarites and, like me, all dedicated to unendurable pleasure, infinitely prolonged.

If you’re a horny single male and follow my rules, I can’t guarantee you’ll get laid. But I can pretty well guarantee that if you don’t, you’ll stay a Hedovirgin the whole time you’re there.

So come on down and maybe we’ll meet sometime around Delroy’s bar. I’ll be the middle-aged, single, streaked-blonde with the 36 DD boobs drinking banana daiquiris and smiling a lot.

(Samantha Jones is the author of the erotic, feminist memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window" available through www.lulu.com and Amazon.)

In a few days I'm off to the notorious Hedonism ll resort in Negril, Jamaica.

I really, really don't want to go, of course. Like any good Canadian, I'd much rather stay here, dutifully freezing my dimpled ass off through the long, cold, brutal Canadian winter.

Enduring and surviving the Canadian winter makes us Canadians strong. And is supposed to make me a better woman.

So it seems almost treasonous to go hang out in the hot Caribbean sun with a bunch of naked people and palm trees, drinking free booze and smoking ganja, when I could stay here in Canada becoming a better woman.

But a higher, writerly duty calls. The world has overdosed on Afghanistan and Copenhagen, now it needs to know what goes on behind the innocent palm trees and under the mirrored ceilings at Hedo ll.

When duty calls, Sam answers.

I've been to Hedo (that's what we old hands call it) half a dozen time before. (See a much earlier blog here, and my book, My Life In The Great Sexual Window, Chapter 53, Honey Trap). Now I'm going to write about it again in my next book. And, when asked, I'm going to have to confess that I'm not there just for the sun, sand and sex

I don't know what to expect when I stroll down to the nude beach my first morning.

There's likely to be two different reactions once word of the book gets around.

People who previously only respected me for my still-spectacular body and ability to drink as much as any two men without showing damage, will look at me in a new way.

They'll realize I'm more than just a good-looking, streaked-blonde, middle-aged pair of 36 DDs, rather often found hanging at the nude hot tub around midnight.

Maybe they'll respect me as a real writer and be very nice to me so I'll feature them in my new book and they'll become famous and envied in such places at Podunk (wherever the hell that is) and Come By Chance, which is in Newfoundland.

Or maybe terror will stalk the place. What if I write about them doing the usual naughty things in the nude hot tub and under the mirrored ceilings and they become infamous and despised in such places as Podunk and Come By Chance, Newfoundland?

Here's my promise, which I'll repeat if you and I should run into each other at Delroy's bar on the nude beach.

Between the beer and the ganja and my own predilection for having a flaming good time — particularly when the sun pours down like honey and I'm surrounded by naked people — I'm certain to forget unimportant little details like names.

Instead, I'll use pseudonyms and just write about the palm trees and the nude beach and the parties and the games and the nude hot tub and the mirrored ceilings and such.

And I have no doubt I'll be a better woman for it.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist whose book, My Life In The Great Sexual Window, is published by Amazon and Lulu.com).

I look around my newsroom and the Internet and watch and listen and read and I fear greatly for the future of my beloved profession of journalism.

There is so much to remind my colleagues, both mainstream and amateur. So much to warn against.

For instance, the freedom to speak, to write, to report on events of the day is not absolute and must never be absolute.

For the hallmarks of ethical journalism, however it's delivered, are accuracy, responsibility and accountability.

And accuracy, responsibility and accountability do not appear to be high on the list of priorities for the Twitters, Facebooks, MySpaces, blogs and fervid “citizen journalists” of this anarchistic new Internet world.

Instead, personal opinion is taking over in both mainstream and Internet journalism.

This means it’s up to the next generation of journalists, whether professional or otherwise, to rescue ethical journalism from chaos and its inevitable consequence — a deeply damaged, perhaps destroyed, democracy.

To do that, we all have to do a lot better in the area that matters most of all — being, and being seen to be, in public service — than we’ve done in recent years.                               

It is demanded of all ethical journalists that, in our communication of information, we put the people’s interests before either our own or those of the powerful.

Our first loyalty is not to our employer, union, nation or cause.

Our first loyalty is and must be to the truth. To serve the people — and the people’s democratic right to honest, accurate and reasonably balanced information.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist who's memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window" is published on www.Lulu.com and Amazon.)