“Are you part of the crew?” a man asked me, fully nude.
“Yes.”
“Great. I’m John. I’m a journalist working on an article about nudist resorts. Would you mind talking to me a bit?”
He told me that nudist resorts are closing all over the world due to low attendance. He wants to write about this and he thought our film production gave a unique and flashy edge to his piece. People do love movies.
We’re shooting a romantic comedy about a couple who struggle to bridge the gap between her nudist family and upbringing and his conventional and somewhat uptight personality.
A man in full clothes—a textile, they call them—just asked two people in the cast if they’ve ever been on a naked cruise. He told them that he stopped going (not a textile, after all. Only for today) because the nude cruises are two to three times more expensive than the clothed ones. You’d think with less weight, the ship might require less gas…? Seems strange to me.
When we arrived, we were asked to respect the “nudity required” designated areas, given stickers to cover our phone cameras, and asked which activities we were interested in. They included karaoke, yoga, swimming, hiking, and pickle ball.
This movie is a non-union project, precisely so that the cast and crew can be and remain fully naked if they so choose. As strangers being welcomed into others’ home, we are the intruders. Being fully clothed is something of an affront to the life so many seek when they move here or visit. The most respectful thing to do would be to require nudity for everyone all the time, but that also doesn’t feel quite right.
This is a curious job for me. I’m an intimacy coordinator for TV and film. Typically, my job is to help the director achieve their vision while staying within the actors’ boundaries and comfort. I find out what the actors are okay with showing as far as nudity, and doing as far as simulated sex, and then I help the shoot go smoothly, fully close the set so no non-essential personnel are present or viewing footage on monitors, I choreograph any simulated sex, make sure we don’t see any modesty garments nor body parts that weren’t pre-approved as we shoot, and so on. I help actors communicate with each other about touch and boundaries. Ideally, this allows shooting to go smoothly and efficiently.
I have to remain professional, a beacon of etiquette and propriety, while making everyone feel comfortable, especially talking about sometimes difficult and taboo topics like bodies, sex, sexuality, vanity, and shame. I do my best to be approachable and welcoming so that people feel free to come to me not just with concerns about their body and their comfort, but also with what they might fear are stupid questions, like, “Why would a nonbinary person need a tampon?”
Today I took off my clothes for the first time. This was more than a “When in Rome” moment. This was a show of respect. I wanted to respect the community I was a guest in, and I wanted to know what it’s like to be naked in front of lots of strangers in order to do a better job for the actors I’m supporting by having a somewhat deeper understanding of their experience. While I wasn’t needed on set, I read a book on a chaise by the pool and sunned bits of me that haven’t seen sunshine in years. I put sunscreen in places it’s never been. It almost felt like the sunlight was going inside me.
Being around this many naked people is so rare. And non-sexual nudity is also exceptionally rare, even in small doses. Other than the Korean spa, most of us don’t see naked people unless we’re sleeping with them or changing very quickly in a locker room.
The healing properties of nudity are clear here. Bodies are all so different, so varied. My impulse to compare my body to others’ strikes me acutely in the gut, again and again. The frequency gets me questioning my reasons for doing so. The noticing allows me to do it less. The judgment turns to appreciation, awe, admiration. I see evidence of babies born, of nipples suckled for milk, of injuries, of lives well lived. I don’t have a penis, but I kept thinking that seeing this many penises would be very healing for anyone insecure about the size of theirs.
And yet, it seems like what historically felt liberatory and radical now feels passé and like a feminism we’ve collectively outgrown. I’m an outsider here and not just because I’ve been mostly clothed. I’m under 60 and visibly queer. I only saw straight couples, as far as I could deduce. The whole place is also overwhelmingly white, and you can’t help but notice the American flags on quite a few of the trailers that belong to permanent residents. [Note: It’s terribly sad that the American flag has, in recent years, increasingly come to imply nationalism, white supremacy, and even homo- and transphobia as opposed to a love of this country. It’s tantamount to a “beware” sign, suggesting that the people inside are more likely to own a gun and use it. The flag instills fear in other American citizens, people who feel excluded from any kind of patriotism but call this country home.]
At one time, nudism, or more specifically naturism [Note: Definition via cottagelife.com/general/the-difference-between-nudist-and-naturist/] (“naturists believe that baring it all has physical and mental health benefits, including stress relief and improved self-esteem. Spirituality, harmony with nature and family participation are all key tenets of the practice — which yes, means it’s not just for adults. Naturism is a non-sexual activity and naturist parents encourage their kids to appreciate bodies as part of their natural environment,” while nudism can more broadly refer to people who simply prefer to be nude), offered a ‘fuck you’ to the status quo that I have to wonder if we’ve played out. It’s not feeling so revolutionary anymore.
I wonder if we’ll see a resurgence of naturism as our media and governments (in the US and globally) become more conservative, but with the advent of phone cameras and social media, this lifestyle that relies on privacy and trust may wither away entirely, at least in the public sphere. If resorts close, we may only see naturism within individual homes, not in open, designated spaces.
But this seems a little too simplistic to me. I think body positivity has expanded to include more—and require more—than simply shedding your clothes and exposing your naked body. It’s not only not enough, it’s almost a bit juvenile. It makes me think of the embroidered pillows and tattoos that say, “Empathy will save the world.” It reminds me of liberal bumper stickers like “Love is love” and “We’re all the same under our skin,” and the collective whine, “Can’t we all just get along?” Don’t get me wrong, to each their own. I enjoyed being naked for the 30 mins I spent reading by the pool when I wasn’t needed on set. I just find myself wanting more. If you just want to be naked, be naked! But if we’re talking in terms of political movements and change, it’s gonna take more than taking off your clothes in the new world we’ve found ourselves in in 2026.
Yet, perhaps I should hold my judgment. I do believe that sustainable change mostly comes from local action. I strongly believe we have to start with changing ourselves—how we think, talk, act, treat ourselves and then others, and so on—in order to change the world around us. I believe that personal growth positively impacts all those around that person. I even believe that no action is too small and we should take any opportunity to create change. And I can see how spending time around other naked people could have profound healing effects for those with eating disorders, insecurity specifically relating to body image or type (who among us doesn’t?), or those of us who need the lights off during sex so we don’t feel too seen.
One of the most striking phenomena I noticed at the resort was how respectful everyone was. No one really flirts. No one ogles or stares. No one cat-calls. Comfort is the priority and everyone is naked, so everyone takes great care to support each other in feeling at ease. I thought, “What would it look like to flirt if everyone were naked?” Feeling equally vulnerable and equally exposed, how would we engage in an expression of interest? Might we be more inclined to make our interest known in a subtle and thoughtful way, and then wait for the other person to initiate any further contact? Might we tip toe instead of bulldoze? Might we extend a hand and wait for the other to place theirs in ours as if to say, “Let’s dance?”
After a conversation with the director during which he was naked and I was clothed, I walked through naked karaoke to get back to my stuff. I myself had come a long way: At first I’d felt a duty to stay proverbially buttoned-up and professional while also feeling somewhat stunned to be surrounded by so many naked bodies. By the end, I felt that being at ease amongst naked coworkers was the most professional way to be.
I got home feeling a little strange to be clothed in my own home, and tacitly requiring my roommate and partner to be clothed as well. It doesn’t take long to subvert that expectation, that we’d all be clothed. I can’t say it’s radical, but I do feel a quiet shift in me towards something a little more open. Open to difference, open to acceptance, open to myself. 🪐
Editor’s note: Mia Schachter worked as the intimacy coordinator on Disrobed, the naturist romantic comedy filmed at Glen Eden Sun Club that Planet Nude documented in our production diary. This essay is their own account of that shoot, originally published on their Substack and republished here with permission.
Find more of Mia’s writing at consentwizardry.substack.com and consentwizardry.com.
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