Okay listen, if you're clutching your pearls already, you might wanna set this book down gently, back away slowly, and go find a nice cozy read about crocheting tea cozies or organizing sock drawers by mood. This book? This book is about being naked. Literally. Fully. Consistently. Sometimes boldly, sometimes accidentally, sometimes with a tube of aloe vera and a very sunburned left boob.

Hi. I'm Kristin. I’m 38, proudly Pacific Northwest born and wine-soaked, living just outside Seattle where it rains more than my mother’s judgmental comments at Thanksgiving. I drive a Volvo XC60, which is less about luxury and more about “I need to fit a tent, four towels, sunscreen, a vat of hummus, and possibly a regretful ex-boyfriend into the trunk at any given moment.” It’s the unsung hero of this whole journey. That Volvo has seen more nudity than the locker room at Burning Man, and unlike me, it never complains about sand in weird places.

I didn’t set out to be a full-time nudist. No child gazes longingly at their Barbie Dreamhouse and says, “One day I’ll roam the Earth in nothing but Birkenstocks and a solid layer of SPF 50.” But here I am. I fell into it the way you fall into anything good: slowly, accidentally, and with a mild amount of embarrassment.

It started with one weekend at a nude hot springs and spiraled quickly. Suddenly, I was Googling “nudist RV parks near wine country” and “can you legally vacuum naked?” (Short answer: yes, but wear oven mitts. Trust me.) I was sold. The fresh air, the freedom, the sheer joy of eating a taco in the buff while watching a squirrel judge me from a pine branch. Nothing compares.

This book is the result of a thousand miles of nude road tripping, hundreds of awkward conversations with park rangers, several suspicious rashy incidents I don't wanna talk about, and a deep, unrelenting desire to be real. As in real naked, real honest, and real sweaty after hiking uphill in just a fanny pack.

You’re gonna hear stories. Oh Lord, you’re gonna hear some stories. Like the time I tried naked paddleboarding and ended up in a standoff with a goose. Or the time I shaved my legs in a forest bathroom and then got proposed to by a guy named Todd who thought I was a wood sprite. You’ll learn how to pack (or not pack), how to date while nude (awkwardly), how to avoid poison ivy in intimate crevices (with extreme caution), and why every nudist road trip should include at least one emergency poncho.

This isn’t some preachy manifesto about body positivity either, though yeah, sure, there’s some of that. It’s more like, hey, if you’ve got a body and it works even 60 percent of the time, congratulations, you qualify for nudity. And if you’ve ever wanted to ditch your bra and your worries in the same motion, I’m here to tell you: the road is calling and it’s warm and it doesn’t give a damn about your cellulite.

So if you’ve ever fantasized about driving down the highway with the windows down and your cheeks (all four) out, come along for the ride. Just remember, leather seats get hot, and always sit on a towel.

Welcome to Forever Bare. It’s me, you, the open road, and not a stitch of clothing in sight. Let’s go get weird.