Fasten your sarongs and secure your Dirty Banana's—October at Hedonism II with the Sexy Silver crew wasn’t just a vacation, it was a naughty spectacle with fewer clothes and better tan lines. Imagine a resort where some couples jets shoot higher than the Bellagio fountains, except ours are synchronized to moans and chains instead of music.
We had real-life sea horses (no, seriously—tiny oceanic stallions with better posture than most of us after tequila), several impromptu pie-eating contest that got way too competitive, and a taco bar inside the restaurant—because even the wild need refueling. Between above-ground snorkeling (don’t ask, just picture what might be used as a snorkel for the ladies) and a playroom with a rotating door that saw more traffic than Times Square, it was seven days of gloriously sinful mayhem.
This isn’t a glossy travel brochure—it’s our diary of debauchery, with photos cropped just enough to keep Facebook from having a meltdown. It’s PG-13 with a mischievous grin, and trust us, what’s between the lines is far more fun than what’s shown.
So pour something strong, drop the inhibitions, and dive into the stories. The bubbles were deep, the gossip was juicy, and the only thing more fluid than the diving schedule… was us.
Our adventure began at 3 a.m.—that special hour when only raccoons, owls, and people headed to Hedonism are awake. We shuffled to the airport bleary-eyed, clutching caffeine like it was holy water. With the government shutdown, we half expected air traffic control to be playing “sick day roulette,” but Charleston (CHS) was smooth sailing. Miami (MIA), however… always the drama queen.
Weather decided to flirt with us, holding our plane hostage for 40 minutes before letting us go. By the time we landed in Jamaica, Imagration was packed tighter than a nude hot tub on Foam Night. But they hustled us through, and sure enough, Rocky’s guy was waiting outside, sign in hand and smile that said, “Welcome back, troublemakers.”
A cloudy sky greeted us — Mother Nature’s polite reminder to ease into the debauchery. We rolled up to Hedonism, checked in, and immediately found out we’re moving rooms tomorrow. Did we care? Not a chance. We were home.
Bags down, straight to the dive shack to get our gear sorted for tomorrow — because priorities. Then came the sacred sequence: clothes off and then a beeline to the nude pool for our traditional “Welcome Back, You Naughty Heathens” dip. Cloudy or not, the fun forecast was already 100% chance of wickedness.
The nude pool entertainment did not disappoint. Remember this is the Bi-Couples group and they were handing out “No Backdoor Play” temporary tattoos (or something like that—it was hard to read between all the giggles). Then came the pièce de resistance: a lady sporting a strapped on industrial-sized "toy" that looked like it needed its own ZIP code. She wasn’t just wearing it—she was dominating it, like an enthusiastic shop teacher with a new power tool. She even won the helicopter contest. I’ll just say this: the men lined up bent over to “prove their skills” like it was Olympic tryouts. In my mind all I was thinking was "ouch ".
Eventually, we peeled ourselves away from the nude hot tub to grab dinner at the gala buffet. You remember, lobster tails, shrimp and crepes night. It was heartwarming for us—as so many hugs and smiles from people who remembered us from past trips (which, if we are depending on our memories, may or may not be a good thing).
By dessert, exhaustion set in. Three a.m. wake-up calls don’t pair well with rum, naughtiness and nudity, so we tapped out early. No bed-hopping with other couples tonight. Wait—did we actually just say that out loud?
Tomorrow, the rest of our Sexy Silver crew arrives, along with some new couples we can’t wait to meet. Stay tuned, because the week’s just getting started—and it’s already slightly demented and certainly wicked. Isn't that why we are here?
www.swingerscubatrips.com
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After surviving Day One’s chaos, we finally got a few hours of sleep — not enough to qualify as “rested,” but just enough to look less like extras from The Walking Dead. Breakfast was pure heaven — Jacquie’s omelets, made with the kind of love (and cholesterol) that keeps your wetsuit from fitting by midweek.
Then it was off for our first dive of the trip: Mike’s Reef. Apparently, Mike gave the fish the day off because marine life was about as scarce as sobriety at the nude pool. The second dive redeemed itself slightly — a small eagle ray did a flyby, and a few jawfish peeked out like perverts from the sand..
Back on shore, it was arrival day — flights delayed, storms brewing, and yet every friend we know managed to appear like sexy cockroaches after the lights turn on. Just as the nude pool started to heat up, Mother Nature turned jealous and dropped thunder and lightning right on top of us. Pool cleared faster than a room when someone yells “condom check!”
Judy, never one to waste downtime, found her boy toy and treated him to a cardio session that apparently registered on the resort’s seismograph. I thought it was thunder. While hiding from the storm in the Happening Hut (pretending not to look creepy), a lovely lady invited me for my own round of “thunder practice.” Let’s just say, the rain wasn’t the only thing coming down.
Evening rolled in, and after pretending to be respectable for five minutes, we hit Pastafari. The steak there? So good it could make a nun moan.
From there, we gave a few new couples a grand tour — pointing out all the prime “get-laid” locations — before ending the night in the piano bar. Michael worked his magic, turning every pop hit into a dirty duet. For our new Hedo couples, let’s just say “Sweet Caroline” will never sound the same again.
As we left the piano bar, the heavens opened up like Mother Nature had just read the Kama Sutra and wanted to try “Golden Rain.” The hot tub was a washout, and the spa playroom was more “slip ’n slide” than sexy.
So, we made a mad dash back to our room—soaked, giggling, and looking like two cats that lost a fight with a fire hose. A steamy shower-for-two followed (strictly for warmth, of course… wink), and before long the night ended exactly how all tropical storms should—with a little thunder between the sheets.
With my lovely bride, bed chasing definitely has its perks… especially when the prey surrenders so sweetly.
So yeah, a little scuba, a little rum, a little wickedness, and a whole lot of “how are we still alive?” That’s what we call balance at Hedo. Until tomorrow, you glorious heathens — rest up, the naughty has just begun.
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
We kicked off Day 3 the same way we end most nights here—hungry and still horny. With last nights rain, midnight pizza was out! For this mornings hungry feeling, Jacquie’s egg station came to the rescue, flipping out omelets like an angel sent from Protein Heaven. Most of our friends had arrived, which meant the official “naughty season” was now open. And yes, at Hedo, breakfast is where those naughty confessions happen, proudly. Understand this is not Vegas, what happens at Hedo gets bragged about over bacon.
Our first dive was the deep plane wreck—a metal bird that clearly didn’t stick to the flight plan. The engine block rests proudly on the reef while the fuselage sits below, now home to fake skulls, empty wine bottles, and apparently, bad decisions. Someone even added names to the skulls this year—nothing says “romantic getaway” like underwater death décor. But today the ocean rewarded us with a magnificent 5-foot ray gliding by as if auditioning for “Dancing with the Fins.” Absolutely breathtaking.
The second dive was supposed to be The Arches. Supposed to be. Turns out we took a scenic detour—left when we should’ve gone right, we guess. So no arches, but plenty of pufferfish, an eel, a small ray, and one overfriendly sucker fish that decided we were his new dive buddies. The only problem with the detour? The boat lost us. We had to flag down the Sandals dive boat for a radio call—nothing like being rescued by the prudish competition. No one panicked though… we were too busy laughing through our regulators.
Back on land, we missed Party Marc’s famous Naughty Car Wash (but a Hedo virgin Russian beauty at lunch declared it was “the best experience of her life”—and she knew she was returning to Hedonism, soon). After lunch we hit the nude pool. No rain this time, and the place was packed. Let’s just say “above-ground snorkeling,” “pie eating,” and “two-person jumping jacks” were all happening. I’ll let your imagination figure out what sex act is what. While Bob from Wild Women, was spinning the tunes, I found myself playing “floating furniture” in the nude pool for a delightful lady who was happily giving a monologue about this being her first time at Hedo while sitting on Mr. Happy. She eventually left for a “date,” letting me know, that I was just the warm-up act for her kitty.
Tonight, Topless Travel hosted their meet & greet, and one of our friends won a $250 gift certificate—proof that flashing a smile (and maybe other things) pays off. We slipped out to Harrysan for sushi that was shockingly good, especially for people who think “raw” is usually a dress code, not a menu choice. Easily the resort’s second-best restaurant—after the buffet of human temptations, of course.
We capped the night with coffee, dessert, and a rainstorm that soaked us before we even reached the piano bar. Guess Mother Nature wanted to remind us: at Hedo, you’re never truly dry—just waiting for the next wet adventure.
Michael now rules the piano bar like a mischievous maestro, waving his drink instead of a baton. Each note that came out of that room was filthier than the last — a chorus of gleeful degenerates belting out lyrics so raunchy even the strippers back in the USA were taking notes. By the third song, the crowd was howling, faces flushed, panties damp — from laughter or something else, who could say?
Tonight our libidos were in full gear, and we’d had our fill of Michael’s scandalous verses. Our horny band of heathens set off for the big group playroom at the spa to satisfy our desires. Earlier, someone had promised a hedonistic symphony of moans and motion, tonight. Mother Nature had other plans—the open-sky spa was drenched, leaving one lone couple attempting acrobatics in an icebox of the side play room, that was the only room open. The air conditioning in that room was so cold, even Mr. Happy retreated like a turtle into his shell.
So, we improvised. Our little band of naughty mischief-makers relocated to our room — warmer, cleaner, and with music that didn’t sound like an weird dentist’s office playlist. Once the tempo picked up, the ladies got their fair share of "attention"… and then some. By the time their purrs turned to playful yelps of “uncle,” the orchestra of bodies slowed to a satisfied hush.
Even Judy and I tapped out — smiling, tangled, and blissfully spent. Tomorrow promises more diving, more debauchery, and more stories you’ll wish you were part of. Rest up, you horny heathens… this show’s just getting started.
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
We woke up humming “got up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head,” and dragged our sleepy, well-used bodies toward Jacquie’s egg station—only to find no Jacquie! It’s like showing up to Hedonism and finding out that only monogamous couples are here. Sure, the substitute chef could cook, but there was no “Jacquie sparkle” to greet our hungover, post-orgy souls. Breakfast was still tasty, though—mostly because we were too busy comparing last night’s debauchery. Naughty? Check. Worn out? Check Would we do it again? You bet your spanked asses we would.
Then off to the dive shack, under a light drizzle that felt like Mother Nature’s way of saying, “Wash off the sin, you filthy heathens.” We figured the dive would be canceled, but the crew said, “No lightning, no problem!” so off we went—eighteen divers strong, the most we’ve seen in ages. Kingfish Reef wasn’t exactly teeming with marine orgies—just a shy pufferfish and a crab in witness protection. Still, calm water and easy diving made it a sweet, lazy morning.
Dive two, Sands Club Reef, brought us a baby eagle ray, a bigger ray teasing us from the distance (camera shy, of course), and a rare flying gurnard showing off like a Vegas showgirl. Nature delivered, folks.
Lunch in the main dining room was… consistent. Let’s call it déjà-chew—same menu, different day. Nothing wrong with the food, just not much variety. And this is Hedo—we expect variety everywhere! (Looking at you, 20-year-old pasta station.)
Then to the nude pool, where we immediately spotted several “gentlemen” enjoying a communal "pie" from the same generous lady. Talk about sharing is caring! The pool was buzzing with PDA—Public Displays of Anatomy. Judy got chilly and retreated to the hot tub, leaving me solo in the pool, officially promoted to “that creepy guy without his partner.” I joined her soon after and ran into a familiar beauty who gleefully reminded me she’d once sat on my lap—and made it into my post. She was so proud she hopped back on, purely for archival accuracy.
After that lap dance down memory lane, it was nap time. Trust me, skip your midweek nap here and you’ll end up staggering around the pool like a zombified extra from Naked and Afraid: Hedo Edition.
Dinner was supposed to be the romantic beach buffet, but the weather had other plans—tropical monsoon style. The sand fleas must be starving; no buffet legs for them tonight. We chose Pastafari, but our waiter Orlando insisted eight people could fit into the round booth designed for five and maybe a ferret. When I pointed this out, he got snippy, so rather than become the “more angry Hedo guest,” I left before I earned the title “official a-hole.” Apparently, they missed me—someone later came to fetch me back...my charm must be irresistible even in protest mode.
We ended the night at the coffee bar for dessert and caffeine—Hedo’s version of foreplay for the over-40 crowd. Then came the deluge. Rain so heavy it tried to relocate the piano bar to the Caribbean Sea. We grabbed an umbrella (thank you, front desk—because of course the forecast said “clear skies”), and sloshed our way to Michael’s nightly piano perversion.
Michael, our favorite naughty maestro, didn’t disappoint—tickling the ivories while two newbie ladies got naked on top of the piano. One was a friend of ours, so naturally, we applauded for moral support (and for scientific observation). The bar pulsed with energy and innuendo until near midnight, when we finally admitted defeat against the relentless rain.
Back in our room, our lovely playmates announced their kitties were “closed for maintenance” after a few days of enthusiastic use. A rare tragedy at Hedo—too much pleasure! So we tucked in for the night, frustrated but well-sexed gentlemen, with Mr. Happy frowning under the sheets.
But fear not, dear depraved readers—tomorrow promises redemption, more sexual debauchery, and hopefully several ladies triumphant return to full service. We can't wait to tease your over active libidos again!
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
Up and at ’em, though at this point in the week we’re not sure if we’re getting up for breakfast or for punishment. Jacquie’s still missing from the egg station, and we’re starting to wonder if we offended her with all the moaning coming from our end of the resort. I went with the breakfast burrito today—eggs, cheese, and just enough spice to match the conversation at our table. Everyone was bragging about their nightly adventures, and I nodded along like a proud champion. What I didn’t mention was that a few of our kitties were temporarily out of service. No need to ruin a good legend with the truth.
Out at the dive shack, we geared up for our two-tank underwater adventure. First stop: Joe’s Reef. Not exactly a marine life extravaganza, but we did see one seriously pissed-off eel and a few lionfish looking smug as hell. Second dive at The Arches was better—a big turtle greeted us right away like the resort’s VIP greeter. After that, just a few baby rays and a bearded fireworm that looked like it needed a shave. Still, enough fin-kicking to skip a day at the gym..
Lunch was a small defeat—grilled chicken had returned! I resisted by loading up on beef and chicken teriyaki like it was my last meal before sinning (again).
Then I made my way to the nude pool solo since Judy was down for the count with allergies. I must’ve looked pitiful because a couple of amazing ladies decided to “keep me company.” Purely out of sympathy, of course. At least, that’s what they told their husbands while my eyes rolled so far back I could see yesterday.
Meanwhile, Party Marc was leading his usual poolside Olympics—salami ring toss and toilet paper penetration. You can’t make this stuff up, folks. Only at Hedo.
The evening kicked off with the repeaters’ party—comped drinks, snacks, and a raffle where our room missed winning by two doors. I asked if it counted that we’d already had sex in that room earlier in the week, but apparently, that doesn’t qualify for “occupancy.” Afterward, we hit Harrysan for teppanyaki—long meal, great food, but the chef’s performance was about as exciting as a nun at an orgy. Still, full bellies and happy faces.
At 10 p.m., the choices were karaoke at the piano bar or the Glow Party around the pool, where the music was loud enough to wake everyone on Cuba. We chose option three—our room. We’d invited a few couples over for a private “exercise session.” Let’s just say things got very athletic. Some lovely lady's knee was damaged, another lady now needs her hips realigned, and I had a pulled muscle in a place I didn’t know I had muscles. Getting old is hell, but damn, it’s still fun trying.
Don’t worry, my naughty Hedo lovers—tomorrow promises more poolside chaos, bedroom mischief, and a few brave souls offering themselves up on the piano for the nightly Hedo virgin naked “sacrifice.” Stay tuned for more scandal, laughter, and lust from your favorite depraved storyteller.
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
Its Fetish night so you want to read to the end of this post.
We know, it's starting to feel like Groundhog Day around here—but instead of Bill Murray, our star is Jacquie, the omelet goddess of the Caribbean. She’s back behind the grill, flipping eggs and restoring balance to our twisted little breakfast universe. The morning gossip is juicier than a ripe mango and twice as slippery. If the rest of the world overheard our table talk, we’d all be on a watch list.
Then it’s back to the ocean to harass some unsuspecting fish. First stop: The Cable, where a giant underwater phone line crosses the reef. We tried calling China, but the connection was bad—must’ve been all the group moaning from above drowning out the signal. The marine life had clearly taken the day off—apparently the reef was hosting a private nudist event somewhere and forgot to invite us.
Our second dive, The Gallery, was quieter than a swinger party during Lent. A few pufferfish gave us side-eye, a tiger stripe sea cucumber and some giant crabs tried to pretend they were rocks. Can’t blame them—around here, being “crabby” might land you in butter sauce.
Back on shore, Judy went to the dining room while I went rogue and ordered a burger from Flame at lunch. Easy, right? Nope. Fifty minutes later, I was still burger-less, watching five orphan burgers languish under the heat lamp for at least 15 minutes. I asked if I could adopt one. The staff said, “Not yours.” I said, “At this point, it’s everyone’s.” They finally gave me one, which tasted exactly like you’d expect—like someone else’s. When I got back to the dining room, Judy reached over, stole a fry, and announced they were cold. I said, “Of course—they’ve been waiting for me since lunchtime yesterday.”
The nude pool, thankfully, was very hot. Things here heat up faster than a veteran Hedo couples 10th hook-up of the week. There were contests, public displays of affection, and a new event that should honestly get its own Olympic category. Party Marc was demonstrating sexual positions using fully clothed staff members—though judging by the bulges, not all the staff stayed “professional.” Then came Bob from Wild Women, who unveiled the first-ever Phallic Remote Control Car Challenge. Guys had to steer the little love-bug toward their partner’s with whipped-cream to mark the target zone. Points for precision. Dessert followed immediately—whipped cream off tatas, naturally. Just your typical wholesome Hedo afternoon.
Somewhere between pool games and impromptu playtime, Judy and I still found energy for bed gymnastics, with some fondly attentive guests. We’ve reached pro-level status. Do not attempt this level at home. It's known to be addictive.
Dinner featured Chinese food night. No little take out boxes, but it was tasty and everyone thought it was a good idea, so we’ll call that a win.
Then—Fetish Night. The Hedo equivalent of the AcademyAwards, but with less evening wear and more leather. Everyone strutted in leather, latex, and outfits that could double as dental floss. The crowd was wild, but the true star was our four-foot-eight, eighty-three-year-old purple-haired nympho who took the stage wearing not much but confidence and a smile. She won the fetish contest, and somewhere her great-grandkids are either proud or in therapy.
The EC team followed with a Fetish show that was one thrust short of an X-rating. We were impressed—and slightly jealous.
Later at Michael’s piano bar, the songs turned scandalous, the lyrics dirtier than pool water after glow night. Tatas everywhere, laughter bouncing off the walls, and more bad decisions being made per minute than Congress in session.
We finished the night at Marc’s disco party—packed, pulsing, and dripping with sweaty energy. Even the DJ was turned on.
Eventually, we stumbled to bed—no panky, just a touch of hanky.
Stay tuned, you dirty-minded degenerate readers. Hedonism still has a few more sins left to confess and we will post what we can from here!
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
Morning found us back in Jacquie’s loving arms, where eggs are cooked to perfection and hangovers are cured by a smile and butter. There’s something oddly sensual about standing in line at her omelet station, watching her work the spatula like a goddess of breakfast. Between her eggs and the morning gossip from our tablemates, our libidos didn’t need caffeine—they were already doing the cha-cha.
At the dive shack, we geared up for two long boat rides. The first dive was a tugboat—an artificial reef dropped a few years ago that now serves as the underwater equivalent of a Hedo playroom for fish, but frankly hasn't found it's sexual grove. You can penetrate it from multiple directions, and yes, that word was intentional. It’s dark, tight, and penetration is the word of the day, every day at Hedo.
Dive two was something new—“Chinese Reef.” No idea why it’s called that, but it gave us lionfish, lobster, and even a flirty little hawksbill turtle. A real ménage à trois of marine life. Maybe “Chinese” just means it’ll surprise you halfway through and leave you wanting dim sum after.
Lunch brought a divine revelation: Taco Thursday! Goodbye pasta, hello fiesta. It’s nice to see a little shake-up on the buffet—here’s hoping for a burger-and-fries day soon. Sure, we’ll pretend to balance it with a salad. Guilt burns calories, right?
We headed to the nude pool, only to realize the foam party was happening at the formerly-prude-but-let’s-be-honest-everyone’s-naked-anyway pool. Foam parties are universal proof that grown adults revert to ten-year-olds once you add bubbles. Guys were sculpting foam bikinis on the ladies, who were laughing as hands mysteriously got “lost” in the suds. It was equal parts Disney and debauchery.
When we did get back to the nude pool, it was strangely quiet—always a warning sign. Quiet at Hedo means someone’s moaning instead of talking. Without the music blasting, couples actually made…wait for it... connections. Rules were discussed briefly, then conveniently forgotten. Hedo, after all, is where foreplay is considered optional and eye contact counts as consent (kidding… mostly).
Afternoon entertainment arrived in the form of Party Marc, Hedo’s almost resident naughty-genius. Give this man a child’s pool toy and 100 naked adults, and he’ll invent a game that’s equal parts pervy and hilarious. We don’t know how he does it—probably witchcraft and tequila.
Dinner took us back to Pastafari for the alternate menu—same charm, slightly different carbs. The rack of lamb was tender, the pasta seductive, and the best part? No drama. At Hedo, a drama-free dinner is more rare than a monogamous threesome.
Then came Casino Night! A brilliant idea—Hedo without cash, just chips and charm. You play, you laugh, and apparently, you can win Hedo Bucks (still unclear what those buy—maybe extra lube or a lifetime supply of condoms?). It’s the only casino where everyone wins, especially if you bet on the right bed partner.
The piano bar was rocking as usual with Michael leading another round of filthy lyrics that would make your grandmother drop her rosary. But exhaustion finally caught us—we waved the white towel and stumbled off to bed. Even naughtiness needs a nap.
We’ve still got a few more days left in paradise, and with a new batch of fresh-faced hedonists arriving, the energy is about to spike again. Here at Hedo, mornings start with omelets and end with orgasms—and that, dear naughty readers, is why we keep coming back.
By now, we’re convinced Hedo mornings are designed by people who think calories don’t count if you’re naked. You’ve got Jacquie flipping eggs with a smile that could melt steel, Camilla working the breakfast burrito station like a culinary goddess, and Dorthe slicing ham and juggling pancakes like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. And let’s not forget the fruit bar—for those pretending to make healthy choices—alongside Bloody Marys and mimosas for those pretending really not to be on vacation.
We skip the booze because, well, scuba divers and hangovers don’t mix (we’ve tested this theory—once). Instead, our morning buzz comes from chasing fish and annoying lobsters. First stop: Joe’s Reef. We’ve been here before, and Joe still hasn’t stocked the place with anything exciting. Just me startling a lobster who was clearly trying to sleep off last night’s orgy. Then came The Throne Room—and no, not the bathroom. You drop down through a crevice like you’re descending into Poseidon’s man cave, and bam—lobsters everywhere! Hanging upside down like drunk acrobats. Turns out they don’t like flashlight paparazzi. But hey, now we know where to find dinner.
Lunch rolled around with fried chicken at the buffet—because nothing says “I’ll eat healthy later” like crispy thighs and gravy. The nude pool grill tried to tempt us with burgers, jerk chicken, and pizza. My wife said, “There’s nothing healthy here.” I said, “Exactly.” Guess where we ate.
Then it was off to the nude pool for the DJs’ last hurrah. Bob from Wild Women and Party Marc were spinning beats that made even the shyest nudist shake something they probably shouldn’t. The pool games got wild—above-ground “snorkeling,” pie eating (not the dessert kind, but who’s judging), and synchronized jumping jacks that tested physics and modesty.
Notably missing: “The Chain Couple.” Earlier in the week, they turned the pool into their own X-rated Vegas fountain show. Let’s just say he had hardware, she had enthusiasm, and together they had… a situation. Word is, they were told “no chains in the pool” and took their talents to the piano bar. Bad idea. When your foreplay floods the lounge, it’s time to call it a week.
Dinner was the grand “Gala Buffet,” which means all other restaurants close so the staff can show off a seafood spread worthy of Poseidon himself—lobster, shrimp, sushi, and crepes. Everyone loves it except us. Buffets just aren’t sexy when 200 people breathe on your crab legs. We went early, grabbed our food, and retreated before the chaos began.
On stage, the Fire & Ice contest was flaming—literally. One of our friends bolted up to win Hedo Bucks like she’d trained for it. Winstons’ troupe followed with music and dance, dazzling everyone into a tropical trance. Karaoke replaced the piano bar tonight—proof that while anyone can sing, not everyone should.
We decided to end our night in our room with a few adventurous friends and a high-energy cardio session that didn’t require gym shoes. Let’s just say, plenty of “Fire,” not much “Ice.”
We’re here until Sunday, watching new arrivals march in full of hope and hydration. Char and Amy Lynn are among them, which means Hedo’s about to get wild all over again. For the rest of the world, the workweek looms. But here? The debauchery just reloads.
Until tomorrow, you gloriously depraved readers—stay tuned for one more day of sun, sin, and saltwater sins!
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com
It’s not our final morning, but the breakfast crowd looks like they’re heading to cold weather, since most everyone is heading back today—let's just say, they are wearing a lot more clothing than yesterday. Everyone’s packed up, saying their goodbyes, and pretending they’ll go back to “normal life.” But let’s face it—after Hedonism, “normal” left the building days ago. Breakfast with Jacquie’s eggs is the goodbye ritual. Just remember, when you get home tomorrow and wander out your front door *naked*… your neighbors don’t want to see your Hedo no-tan line body.
We wandered down to the dive shack for one last adventure beneath the waves. First stop: Ballards Reef. It wasn’t exactly “Finding Nemo”—more like “Finding Anyone.” A shy ray, a jittery lionfish, and a barracuda giving us the “you’d make a tasty snack” stare.
But then came The Arches—and oh baby, did it deliver. Tavon led our small crew of experienced divers, and we were free to roam. Within minutes, a Beautiful Seahorse greeted us like Poseidon’s pet. Then a moray eel popped out, looking like he was debating whether to drag us back into his hole for fun or dinner. After some contemplating, he decides we'd just stink up the place, so it might be better to go for smaller prey. A crocodile fish chilled nearby, too cool to care, while a huge five foot gray ray glided past like the mob boss of the reef. Throw in a spotted drum, a few lionfish, and we were in underwater paradise.
When we surfaced, our dive computers all blinked the same number—69 minutes. Yes, for real, tell us that’s not poetic. The perfect ending to a naughty week.
After rinsing off the gear for packing, we headed for lunch with our fellow divers, babbling about seahorses like kids who’d just found buried treasure. Then Mother Nature decided to close out the our trip with her own contest—lightning, thunder, and sheets of rain that screamed, “Try the nude pool and I’ll toast you crispy!” So, we skipped the pool and swapped stories instead.
Pastafari was busier than the nude hot tub with one single lady on BJ night. Her motto: One lollipop is good, but a lot of lollipops in a row is much better. So our alternative dinner plans took us to Harrysan. Very good food, though our hibachi chef was more “culinary ninja” than “comedy show.” Efficient, yes—but we missed the knife-tossing theatrics and flaming onion volcanoes of days past.
We made a pit stop at the coffee bar before drifting into the piano bar, where Michael was back in fine form. No surprise Vegas fountain shows tonight (thankfully—Judy’s still traumatized), but we watch as now Michael owns that room. He’s turned what started as a risky replacement gig into full-blown piano bar wizardry—singing, flirting, and somehow convincing women to strip on top of the piano like it’s Broadway meets Bourbon Street. That’s not a superpower … that’s true talent.
We wrapped the night with laughter, last sips, and one final walk under the Caribbean moon. Then back to the room for packing—and maybe one more round of “goodbye cardio.”
So long, Hedonism II....well until February. You’ve fed our fantasies, tested our stamina, and given us enough stories to scandalize our friends for months.
Until next time…
Your faithful degenerate storytellers,
Hugh & Judy
https://www.swingerscubatrips.com