Beach Holiday
The sun was a fat, lazy bastard, squatting over the horizon like it owned the place, spilling gold across the Baja coast. Andrea, fifty years old, curvy as a backroad through the Sierra Madre, stepped out of the taxi, her flip-flops slapping the cracked pavement of the nudist resort’s entrance. Her skin, a deep, even bronze from years of soaking up the sun, gleamed like she’d made a deal with the devil to keep it flawless. She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat, slung her duffel over one shoulder, and walked toward the gate, her hips swaying like she was dancing to a mariachi band only she could hear.
Twenty years ago, Andrea would’ve rather eaten glass than show up here. Back then, she’d look in the mirror and see every flaw, stretch marks like riverbeds, thighs that jiggled when she walked, a belly that refused to play nice with bikinis. She’d spent her thirties hiding under sarongs, her forties apologizing for taking up space. But somewhere along the line—maybe it was the divorce, maybe it was the tequila-soaked nights with her sisters laughing until they cried, she’d said to hell with it. Her body wasn’t a problem to be solved; it was a story, and she was damn proud of every chapter.
The resort was the same as always: palm trees leaning like drunks, the ocean muttering in the distance, and naked people milling around like they’d forgotten how to be self-conscious. Andrea didn’t bother with the check-in desk’s pleasantries. She signed the form, dropped her bag in her cabana, and stripped down without a second thought. Her clothes hit the floor like shackles, and she stepped into the sunlight, feeling the breeze on every inch of her skin. No shame, no hesitation, just Andrea, raw and unapologetic.
She grabbed a margarita from the bar, the glass sweating as much as the bartender, and found her usual spot by the pool. A couple of newbies, pale as milk, stared at her as she settled into a lounge chair. She caught their eyes, gave them a wink that said, You’ll get there, and took a long sip. The salt on the rim burned just right.
There was a guy across the pool, some silver-haired gringo with a gut like a beach ball, watching her like she was a painting in a museum. She didn’t mind. Let him look. She stretched out, her curves catching the light, and thought about how far she’d come. The girl who used to cry in dressing rooms was gone, replaced by a woman who could walk through a crowd of strangers buck-naked and feel like a queen. This place, this annual pilgrimage, wasn’t just a vacation,it was a victory lap.
Later, she’d swim in the ocean, maybe flirt with the gringo, maybe not. She’d eat tacos at the beach shack, the kind with grease that dripped down your chin, and she’d laugh loud enough to scare the seagulls. For now, she closed her eyes, let the sun do its work, and thought, This is what freedom feels like.
Andrea doesn't have a "models page", but she does have a members only gallery that you can view HERE
Just to be abundantly clear....none of these "women" exist in real life. They are 100% computer generated by Ai. All the Ai "models" are generated to represent "women" who are over 18 years of age.
Just a couple more ideas being tried out.
Join now to see more artistic nude photos
