Naked, Happy, and Barely Alive: Zipolite, Mexico

I didn't know what was waiting for me. Mexico was a movie backdrop to me – cartels, powder, danger, maybe some smuggled desert drama. Zipolite? I'd heard it was a "hippie beach" where people smoke weed and tourists lose their passports. Casa Nudista? A 100% nudist LGBT hotel – sounded like a concept, not reality.

Reality hit me like tequila on an empty stomach. And it was good tequila.

My first encounter with Mexico wasn't with a customs officer or a taxi driver trying to scam me. It was with the staff at Casa Nudista – relaxed, cheerful, without that forced "hotel-smile". Just bienvenido and open doors. Literally – half the time no one was wearing anything, the other half they wore only a smile. I didn't expect strangers, naked, to offer me a homemade lemon remedy when I got pissed off at the sun – but hey, that's Zipolite.

And then – Mexicans. I'd watched them for years on TV, in soap operas, in movies, in those glossy tourism ads. No screen can capture them. In person, they're something else entirely – warmer, more dangerous, quieter in their movements, louder in their gaze. Some other level of magnetism you can't scan, only feel in your gut. It would be a lie to say I was prepared. I was overwhelmed.

The beach stretches for kilometres. Naked. A hedonistic dream without walls. Playa del Amor – that famous part – is where the line between "watching the sunset" and "watching him" completely dissolves. The air is heavy with salt, cannabis, and a sexual energy that doesn't announce itself – it just exists.

But Zipolite is more than that. There's some alchemy here – the Pacific caressing instead of crashing, a gay atmosphere that isn't a performance but a breath, and you, suddenly someone who doesn't have to think. The worries you drag from Belgrade, from past relationships, from your loud inner voice – they get erased. Not gone, but on mute. As if the sea and those naked backs of the world give you a few days off. In the best possible way.

And here's where we get to the things that, in any other context, might ruin a trip. Solar water heaters – hot water when you feel like it, if you feel like it. Mosquitoes that fuck with you uninvited, insects that are part of the decor as if they pay rent. From the perspective of your average European, used to thermostats and hermetically sealed apartments, that's TripAdvisor complaint material. But I didn't even notice. Not literally – I see them now, thinking back, but there? They were invisible. When you're surrounded by so much positive energy, so much erotic tension hanging in the air like humidity, so much good mood that isn't forced but simply is – everything else becomes noise. The front of the coin was so bright I didn't even look at the back.

That happens in few places. Where three things – pure happiness, pure desire, pure gentleness – stand in the same room and don't bother each other. In Zipolite, they're all residents of that room.

But what's carved into me forever isn't the beach. It's him.

The photofit of my ideal boyfriend – and no, I didn't invent this after the fact. Tall, dark-skinned, that kind of laugh that starts in his eyes. He arrived the same day I did. Casa Nudista, room two floors down. We met in the early evening, by the pool, where I was drinking something local and timidly staring at the horizon.

His friend approached me. Direct, no games: "My friend has been watching you all day. He wants to kiss you. Yes or no?"

Old-fashioned, I thought. And somehow the most touching possible.

I said yes. We kissed. And that was it. Nothing more. Not because there wasn't opportunity – there was, the beach is full of dark corners and voices whispering "no one can see you" – but because that kiss was enough? Or was I stupid? Both options are possible.

No number, no Instagram, no "I don't care, give me your contact." Just that kiss, that laugh, and the next day – he left earlier, on a flight. I stayed another three days, staring at an empty room two floors down, completely carefree and completely foolish at the same time.

I regret it. Not because I missed out on sex – I miss the continuation. I regret not saying: "Hey, you know what, stay one more night." I regret not being more brazen, braver, less of a "polite tourist who respects other people's plans." Zipolite teaches you that your body isn't shameful, but it doesn't teach you that desire isn't a sin – I had to figure that out myself.

I'd go back tomorrow. No question. No hesitation. That place is the mother of hedonism who doesn't ask for receipts – just that you stay present. And that you're brazen when you need to be.

And for that boy: If you're reading this, and you know it's you – you know where to find me. Casa Nudista, room with a sea view. I have three days of reservation left and one unfinished kiss.