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).