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.)

(Following is adapted from my book "My Life In The Great Sexual Window")

You should understand that professional whoring isn’t real sex.

There’s something out-of-body, distant, uninvolved, about it. Men pay you good money to make them feel great. It’s a simple business transaction on each side, supply and demand. Very capitalistic. Keeps the economy moving.

And it turns out that whoring is something I’m very good at. Up to now, I’m just a world-class amateur — now I’m becoming a world-class professional.

One of the best things about whoring is that there’s no emotion involved, nothing that tangles the belly and cuts into the heart. Nothing that makes a girl yearn for that commitment, that kiss, sometimes even that one phone call which soars her to seventh heaven and occasionally way beyond. No emotion so, voilà, no meaning.

Like any other whore I’ve ever met, I have two lives. One life earns all this money to flash tits and ass, flirt outrageously, and open legs and mouth for any man who wants to put his cock in them. But whoring isn’t real life. It’s not where I live.

It’s the other life, my student life at journalism school, my personal life, that’s my real life. The life where I win and lose, behave well or badly, am happy or sad. The part of my life where there's meaning.

Like any good-looking woman (particularly big-boobed like me) I have my pick of men and can have sex, meaningful or otherwise, with as many men as I want, any time I want. So I do.

Sometimes, when I’m just paying for an evening out or there’s nothing much else to do, the sex is emotionally empty but usually fun anyway. Other times, when I’m in lust with some horny stud, the lust itself is emotional and therefore an entirely sufficient reason for the sex. Then there’s the occasional times when I think I might be in love, at least a little bit, when sex is entirely meaningful.

The occasional thinking I might be in love part, of course, is where the commitment that doesn’t come, the kiss that isn’t tried and the phone call that’s never made reminds me that being hell-on-wheels in bed sometimes just isn’t enough for a girl.

Back to whoring.

Men confuse power with money. I don’t. Men think because they can rent my body that they have power over me. But power and money aren’t the same.

In fact, when a man’s in my mouth or pussy, I have the power. And then when he cums, by wonderful coincidence, I have both the power and the money.

Mainstream media are in disaster mode.

Advertisers, which once begged for their business, have found a younger, sexier, more skilled and seductive lover — the Internet.

Without advertising (and in the aftermath of the Great Recession) conventional newspapers, magazines, television and radio newsrooms compete to fire journalists — particularly experienced, skilled, more expensive journalists — in a desperate, doomed bid to survive.

The Internet is the uncontrollable wild west provider of instant information and world’s largest functioning anarchy.

It looms over the traditional world of print and broadcast journalism like an electronic angel of death. Its aggregators, Twitters, Facebooks, MySpaces and blogs, along with its hungry, growing corps of “citizen journalists”, is likely to destroy ethical professional journalism as we know it.

There will be no ethically-trained, dedicated, professional journalists to question, to seek fairness, context and balance, to investigate, to dig into records, to check and double check, to bear witness, to bring understanding, to speak truth to power and to serve and protect the Free Marketplace of Ideas that is the essence of ethical journalism and the glory of democracy.

Unless we find a solution to all this very soon, our democracies — built over so much resistance and on so much sacrifice over so many centuries — are in grave danger of dying.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist who's just publisher her erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window.)

I think I’ve always been a woman. Even when I’m a little girl I see and judge the world through womens’ eyes, womens’ needs, women's understanding.

There are pictures of me at six years old with that perceptive, knowing expression you usually only see on the faces of very wise old women. The expression that says I know the secrets…I’ve found out what it’s all about…you can’t fool me…I’ve seen it…I know…I know…

One of those secrets, at least for me, is to simply ignore conventional female modesty, mostly imposed by long-dead, misogynist men in wretched deserts.

I never understand the sort of timidity that drapes so many of us in dull, shapeless clothes to hide our bodies from the lusting eyes of hungry males.

My body looks great and I see no reason why I shouldn't exploit that. I’ve got these wide, heavy breasts that men love and nipples that stick out through just about any brassiere I wear — which turns the strongest men into  humble, lusting servants.

As I see it, there’s no point in having beautiful big breasts (and yes, it is sometimes tiring carrying them around all day causing, if you must know, backaches, neck-aches etc.) if you’re going to hide them from the very people who get exceedingly interested and generous when they see them and want to fondle and lick them.

And I’m not into the sort of modesty which demands that I lower my eyes, pretend meek and demure, when stared at by hungry males — the sort of modesty that requires most women to snatch occasional, apparently accidental, glances at some horny, staring male when what she really wants to do is stare boldly back.

I stare boldly back.

It saves a whole lot of time.


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a semi-famous Canadian TV journalist, author of the erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window".)

I start out whoring for fun but not long after my eighteenth birthday graduate to whoring for profit. Which is how I meet Josh, my first and only pimp.

It’s also when I start drifting away from my straight friends until, after a couple of months, I’m earning real money doing something I’m very good at and my only friends are other whores and the pimps who live off whores.

Being with Josh helps me understand why whores need pimps. (And I don’t mean the scum who kidnap underage girls, force them into the game and hold them by violence. Instead, I’m talking about your average common-or-garden pimp who runs a stable and, as the prissy saying goes, “lives off the avails”.)

Pimps, you see, aren’t there just to find johns for whores, protect them from bad dates and take their money. It’s much more complex than that.

To oversimplify perhaps — whores need pimps because whores are women and women need to love and be loved. And it takes an exceptional straight man to love a working whore.

Most of the women in the game have low self-esteem (I was always different, of course). And unlike everyone else around — boyfriends and johns who use them and leave them — pimps are there when you need them most, always ready to sweet-talk you, flatter you, make you feel needed, wanted, desired, loved.

It’s strangely easy to believe pimp-talk. Like “honey, the other girls don’t mean a thing to me. I love you. We’ll get out of the game as soon as we have enough money and marry and have lots of lovely babies.” It’s even strangely easy to love the pimp like — at least for a while — I loved Josh.

Pimps don’t have to buy a whore’s love, like johns do. The women give it eagerly, willingly. They’re women and when you’re in the game there’s nobody but pimps to love and be loved by.

Every woman needs somebody, even if that somebody is an immoral, lying, exploitive, sometimes violent scumbag like Josh, from so very long ago.
 
 
(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist who’s published her erotic memoir “My Life In The Great Sexual Window”, available at www.lulu.com and Amazon.)

Some delicious and very undiplomatic excerpts from a farewell report to the British Foreign Office from retiring British High Commissioner to Canada, Lord Moran, back in 1984.

It's titled "Last Impressions of Canada" and much of it remains relevant today.

• Prime Minister Trudeau treated provincial premiers with contempt and provincial governments as if they were town councils.

• Main reason for Canadians joining political parties is to acquire power or a lucrative job. So political patronage flourishes. Politics runs on “jobs for the boys.”

• Level of debate in the House of Commons is low: the majority of Canadian ministers are unimpressive and a few we have found frankly bizarre.

 • The Canadian public expects very little from politicians and tends to shrug its shoulders when the press or television report yet another scandal.

• Canadians are a moderate, comfortable, people … very sensitive, especially to any expressed or implied British sneers about Canada as “boring", and perhaps somewhat lacking in self-confidence.

• Anyone who stands out at all from the crowd tends to be praised to the skies and given the Order of Canada at once.

• Canadians have squandered some of their resources. Clearly they have regarded them, in this vast country, as limitless. But they are wrong.

• Inuit are mere pensioners of the state. Canadians are filled with feeling of guilt about the Indian people. Canadian policy has been to give them a special privileged status and pay them vast subsidies which often cause them to give up working.

However, Lord Moran was generous enough to add "We shall miss in their different ways, the cry of the loon, as characteristic of Canada as the fish eagle's is of Africa, and the cheerful shopgirls and waitresses…who send us on our way with 'Take care' or 'Have a nice day'."

His Lordship's report ends:

I am Sir,
Yours faithfully,
Moran


(Samantha Jones is the nom de plume of a Canadian TV journalist whose erotic memoir, "My Life In The Great Sexual Window", can be downloaded from www.lulu.com or Amazon.)

Want to know why most TV and radio news anchors and reporters do a really lousy job — which is the reason you can hardly remember anything they say after the broadcast?

Here's the answer. Most broadcast journalists secretly believe that their real selves, their real personas, are inadequate. That the way they communicate in real life isn’t good enough.

So instead of trying to communicate like human beings talking to other human beings, they imitate other anchors and reporters they regard as professionally successful.

Instead of communicating, they pretend. And act. Badly.

They confuse speed, volume and bad acting with energy, authority and sincerity. It doesn’t work. They hardly communicate at all. And they don’t fool anyone except, maybe, their mothers, stoned teenagers and the people in charge of broadcast journalism.

These anchors and reporters seem to think they’re addressing large crowds and behave appropriately to addressing large crowds.

But TV works best when the performer talks to just one person about things that matter. Someone who the performer knows and respects. Someone to whom the journalist tries to bring knowledge and the understanding of that knowledge.

Even in the worst TV sitcom, performers are expected to try to see the scenes, think the thoughts, feel the emotions in whatever the hell they’re talking about.

But most broadcast journalists just read. Usually loud. And usually fast. And reading loud and fast at people is the least efficient form of communication humans have ever invented.


(Samantha Jones is the Canadian TV journalist who wrote the erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window" on sale at www.lulu.com and Amazon.)

North American Journalism schools pour out thousands of graduates every year.

Maybe one out of six of those graduates actually get jobs in the rapidly shrinking journalism world.

Which means that those who do get jobs are desperate to hang on to them. Which, in turn, means that their only loyalties are to their bosses and they’ll do what they’re told because of all those other journalism graduates pushing booze in bars just waiting for a chance to grab those jobs.

Now, journalists who just do what they’re told by their bosses aren’t journalists. They're employees. They don’t buck the system, they become part of it. They have no dedication to balance, fairness and integrity, no sense of journalism as an essential cornerstone of democracy.

Instead, they see journalism as just a job, like selling shoes. Their loyalty is not to a higher cause, but to whoever pays the cheque.

At the same time, these recent  graduates certainly aren’t ready for prime time journalism. It takes a minimum of ten years before recent graduates can genuinely earn the title of journalists by proving that their first loyalties are to the people, that they’re truly servants of the people and dedicated guardians of the free marketplace of ideas.

So here’s the problem — news organizations get rid of senior journalists (mentors) to save money and don’t train  younger ones coming in. As a result, the entire culture of newspaper, TV and radio newsrooms changes. Newsrooms  turn into mere offices.

And I’m terribly afraid that without older, seasoned journalists who truly believe in the honourable profession of journalism and its ethical base, free and democratic journalism as we know it will disappear and all our democracies will be in very grave danger.


(Samantha Jones is a Canadian TV journalist publishing her erotic memoir My Life In The Great Sexual Window at www.lulu.com)