I didn’t mean to become obsessed with naked people. It just sort of... happened. One minute I was a perfectly normal, panty-wearing woman doing my grocery shopping and wondering if I left the crockpot on, and the next I was googling “Can your neighbors see you naked through tinted windows” because Damian had insisted on air-drying after every single shower like he was a damn rotisserie chicken.

It all started with Damian, of course. Beautiful, brown-eyed Damian with the body of a Greek god and the modesty of a sleepy toddler who lost his pajama bottoms. The first time I saw him naked, it was because he answered the door that way. Just opened the door like “Oh hey, come on in, don’t mind the penis, it’s free-range.”

And I did come in. And I did mind the penis. Not because I was offended, but because I immediately started thinking inappropriate thoughts about it. I was not raised in a nudist household. My mother yelled at me once for not wearing socks to bed. We were a fully clothed, fully buttoned family. If you ever saw a knee, someone was sinning. But Damian? Damian believed in being as the Lord made him: smooth, shiny, and alarmingly relaxed on the couch with his legs wide open and no shame whatsoever.

Dating him was like being dropped into a nudist jungle with no guidebook and a very high risk of testicle-related injury. But I didn’t run. Oh no. I leaned in. I leaned all the way in, like a pervy anthropologist with a clipboard full of questions and a strong personal bias. I wanted to understand nudity. Not just tolerate it, but embrace it. To live in the buff, breathe in the breeze, and not flinch every time I sat on a leather chair.

So I started peeling back the layers, both literal and emotional. I started noticing things. Like how men walk differently when they’re naked. Or how often nudists talk about “freedom” like they’re storming the beaches of Normandy with their nipples out. I became a student of the skin. A philosopher of the phallus. A bosom-loving, booty-curious explorer of human flesh.

This book is not a guide for becoming a nudist. Hell no. This book is a chronicle of me, Kristin, age 38, trying to figure out why I love looking at naked people—especially men—and what that says about me, my dating history, my poor self-control, and that one time I accidentally flashed my dentist. Spoiler: he didn’t hate it.

Along the way, you’re gonna meet a few people, sure. Tanya, my best friend and occasional naked wrestling partner. Susan, who once dared me to skinny dip in a pond filled with geese and then locked my clothes in the car. Janessa, who is too young and pretty to be trusted, and Georgina, who left a perfectly normal life to marry a nudist named Jackson with surprisingly shapely calves.

But mostly, it’s me. Me and my naked memories. Me and Damian’s ever-present manhood. Me and all the things I’ve learned about nudity, male anatomy, and the emotional rollercoaster of walking into a kitchen and seeing someone crouched in front of the fridge completely nude.

So get comfy. Take off a sock if you're feeling bold. This is not a safe book. This is a book where people bend over too fast, things dangle unexpectedly, and love—true, fleshy, ridiculous love—sometimes involves body oil and an unfortunate slip on a yoga mat.

You’ve been warned.