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BY TIM BARRETT | Her breasts weren't identical, but they rhymed. Naked, shaking her black curls, she emerged from the sea as if swept in on the waves. Her dark skin radiated sunlight refracted by a million drops of salt water. She seemed to sizzle. I was one of three men who sat together on the sand, entranced by her every movement. We were in the middle of awesome scenery -- Mexico's Caribbean coast, an epic poem of surf, sand and palm trees -- but at the moment she was the natural beauty that moved us. No one else was present. She bounded toward us; my pulse raced so fast my wrists hurt. She stretched out in our midst, letting the lucky sun do what I aspired to do -- caress each part of her molten form.

My traveling partner Erik and I had not set out on this journey in search of voluptuous nudists. Though I give the subject plenty of involuntary thought, we hadn't discussed it at all when planning the trip. We sought something more than beaches with beer and babes. We could have easily dallied with divorcees in Cozumel or snorkeled with topless office girls at Playa del Carmen. But we wanted to dig deeper into the culture, to meet people who thrive on next to nothing, to feel rhythms thousands of years old. Of course, we'd welcome surprises. All we needed was a comfortable base camp from which to penetrate the mysteries of the Yucatan.

"Restaurante y cabañas de Don Armando" fit the bill. The amenities were few, but the clientele was young, hip, good looking and extremely casual. Most of them were Europeans in their 20s, on extended holiday, and everyone acted like they had no place else to go. Guys in cutoffs and women in sarongs lounged around, immersed in thick novels in German and Italian. As we surveyed the room, tanned dudes nodded to us coolly; women smiled. Like the heaps of limes and bowls of salsa that lined the counter, the scene was tart and appetizing.

During our second evening there, a couple in the cafe caught my interest -- or rather, one of them did. Her tangled mass of black hair cascaded around a heart-shaped face. She wore tattered jeans and a thin peasant shirt not quite up to the job of containing its restless cargo. Silver jewelry, the rustic handmade kind, punctuated her bronzed skin. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. She had a companion; he had two eyes and a nose, I think, I really didn't notice. When Don Armando announced to the crowded dining room, "Claudia!" she jumped up to claim her plate of steaming seafood. She then consumed the meal with a voracious, single-minded fervor. She plundered the lobster's inner recesses with her tongue. Butter dripped off her fingers and ran down her chin. She guzzled her beer. I envied the lobster, the willing victim of her lust.

"You're staring," Erik pointed out.

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I'm trying to get your thoughts on what to do tomorrow." I focused long enough to agree to explore the nearby Mayan ruins of Tulum early in the morning, before the tour bus onslaught, and then head into the jungle to locate Cobá, another ruined Mayan city. With that settled, and with Claudia feeding spoonfuls of sticky flan to her companion, we retired to our cabana for the night.

In the early morning light, Tulum's silent stone buildings and spectacular setting fired our imaginations. What did the Mayans do in these tiny chambers? Wouldn't this one be a perfect spot for wild sex with a beautiful stranger? I found myself hoping for another Claudia sighting. As we headed back, two hitchhikers wagged their thumbs; one of them was Claudia. Erik didn't need to be told what to do. He screeched to a stop, and they clambered in the Volkswagen's cramped back seat.

Her companion, named Marco, spoke very good English; she, not a word. They were Italians, winding up a typically extended European holiday of six weeks. They had seen much of Mexico and Belize, and were now debating how to spend a few final days before flying back to Rome.

To my delight, we all hit it off. Claudia looked even better by day. Her flashing eyes and smile seemed up for anything. She followed the conversation by prying quick translations out of Marco. He was a sweet and sincere guy. When he suggested the four of us spend the afternoon swimming and soaking up sun, Erik and I did to our plans what the Mayans had done to their cities -- abandoned them.

On the beach, as soon as we were out of sight of the cabanas, Claudia pulled at the bit of cotton batik wrapped around her. It fluttered to the sand, useless. She scampered toward the tourmaline sea decorated with only bits of silver on her wrists, ankle and neck.

Marco explained, "She thinks a bathing suit is for, how do you say ...?" He made a box shape with his fingers.

"Squares!" I answered. "We left that crowd back in Cancun. I'm especially glad not to be around them today."

"Not ever!" he grinned.

We men, two of us paler, weaker, with thicker waists and thinner blood than Claudia, nonetheless followed her lead and shed our clothes.

N E X T+P A G E+| "You're not her boyfriend?!"