Okay, so I didn’t grow up thinking I’d spend a good chunk of my adult life naked in front of strangers. I wasn’t some free-spirited, boob-painted-in-a-parade kind of teenager. I was a Pacific Northwest girl with a tendency to wear fleece in July and an unhealthy fear of splinters in places where the sun don’t shine. And yet, here I am at thirty-eight, regularly airing out my hoo-ha on public beaches and writing a book about it. Life’s funny like that.

My name’s Kristin, and I believe in three things: good coffee, decent SPF coverage, and the right to let your cheeks flap freely in the breeze. If you’re here, reading this, I’m guessing you’ve either 1) stumbled onto a naked man on a beach and don’t know how to cope, 2) are considering dipping your own pink parts into the wild world of nudism, or 3) are just very bored and mildly pervy. Either way, welcome.

Let me tell you right now, the first time you see a dong bouncing down the sand toward you, it’s a spiritual experience. Not because it’s sexy (it’s usually not, unless you’re into retired German tourists named Klaus), but because your brain short-circuits for a second. Your entire Midwestern upbringing screams, “LOOK AWAY,” but your inner curiosity whispers, “What happens if he jogs?” It’s a conflict. And that conflict is exactly where nudist enlightenment begins.

My own journey started when I accidentally booked a stay at a clothing-optional resort in the Caribbean. Long story short: Expedia typo. Longer story short: I drank three piña coladas, took off my top, and never looked back. It was freeing, ridiculous, and a little sunburny in places I didn’t know could sunburn. And that was it. I was hooked. Not because I wanted people to see me naked (although let’s be honest, my boobs are still decent and I like a little attention), but because it was the first time in a long time I felt completely unbothered by what anyone thought.

Now, before you roll your eyes and think this is some kumbaya naked drum circle memoir, calm your buns. I’m not here to convert you. I’m here to tell you what happens when a naked man wanders up to your beach blanket and says, “Do you have any bug spray?” And more importantly, what you should do when that happens.

This book is part how-to, part cautionary tale, and part “I can’t believe Tanya and I actually wrestled topless in the sand over a beach umbrella.” There will be advice. There will be stories. There may be an unfortunate fart story courtesy of Susan (there always is). But most of all, there will be honesty. Brutal, cheeks-clenched, sun-on-your-crack honesty.

So take a breath, unclench your sphincter, and let’s talk about naked living.