Sinning in LA

I was told when I first moved to L.A. that in order to truly appreciate the city, I had to experience the abundance of vacationland around it. You have to escape the smog, traffic and noise every so often if you are ever going to last. I was going a bit stir crazy one Wednesday afternoon when a friend offered his weekend reservations at resort in Palm Springs, the Sea Mountain Inn. Sold. I convinced my boyfriend that it was time for a getaway and took the rest of the week off (quite easy when you happen to be unemployed). My friend emails me the necessary info. “Sea Mountain Resort,” I read. “A Luxurious Romantic Hotel and Resort,” okay, sounds good. “USA Premier Adults Only Day Spa Hotel,” even better, no children. “Awarded Private Romantic Clothing Optional Inn and Day Spa.” Ah, the catch. I hesitate, but only for a moment. The only better than a Palm Springs vacation is a naked one, right? A break from the mundane, sans clothes and sans stress. What the hell, I think. Lets do it.

I hardly grab a casual lunch without jumping on the Internet and checking out the menu and reviews beforehand. So going on this mini vacation without a full report is most unlike me. But the build of apprehensive wonder and surprise made our impromptu retreat seem all the more marvelous.

The 120-mile trip from Los Angeles to Desert Hot Springs took less than my rush-hour commute down Santa Monica Boulevard. Winding through the Inland Empire, a valley of windmills and just 10 minutes North of Palm Springs we reach our destination, speculating all the while to what our escapade will encompass. After passing resort roads and most of the business district we enter a quasi-residential neighborhood, positive Garmin led us astray. But sure enough, our beacon had shown through. Sea Mountain Spa, written discretely on the side of a simple stucco building, across the street from children playing in their front yard.

I parked the car. The air was palpable, a temperature of 105 degrees. Thank god we brought the SPF 70, I think. Here we go. My boyfriend, Michael, grabs our bags (a laughable amount of luggage as we were soon to realize) and we ring the doorbell.

Sea Mountain Inn is a private club, the epitome of privilege and discretion. The exact address of the resort is only disclosed through email once your reservation is confirmed and guests are screened at the door and ushered in personally. The only people wandering through are those ready to share their adventure with you.

Angie, one of the women on the almost-entirely female staff, greeted us warmly at the door dressed in a sarong. As soon as she turned around the wrap dropped to her waist exposing her breasts. Awesome. This is the real deal. We turn the corner and our own Garden of Eden is revealed; exotic vegetation, tiki torches, picnic tables and penis. Whoa. “Say hello to our new friends from Los Angeles,” Angie announces to the resort. “Hello,” I say sheepishly to a man standing naked by the pool with a beer. He smiles and waves. Michael looks at me wide-eyed. “What have you gotten us in to,” he says.

As we walk the path to the lobby, around the secret walls, my eyes tentatively scan the area as we go. The resort caters to adult couples and females only. No rogue men meandering about ogling and spouting pickups. Strangely enough, I was the one feeling like some sort of deviant. At first, all I can seem to focus on are tits and cock.

We check in, we pay our 40-dollar a person membership fee (standard for everyone and good for six months), Angie then hands us two margaritas and leads us to one of 15 private rooms in a veranda-like layout. Once the door closes, I ceremoniously drop my dress and scamper excitedly around the room. The atmosphere is more intoxicating than the tequila could ever be. The air-conditioned room is clean and incredibly comfortable. Equipped with free wireless, a deluxe shower spouting desert mineral water, a Four Seasons king-sized mattress with Egyptian linens, flat-screen television and our own fridge and microwave. An array of reading material and personal lubricant is displayed on the edge of our bed. A titillating foreshadow of the hours to come. Michael has already downed his cocktail, admittedly nervous. We are both nudie novices, never having the privilege of sharing our nethers outside the bedroom or locker room. Breath deep, there is world of raw wonder just beyond our double doors, I say to myself. I peek through the blinds. Maybe I was finally freeing my inner exhibitionist, but all the pent up apprehension melted away. We were here, we were committed and I couldn’t wait to get outside.

Every guest in the courtyard greeted us hospitably. A quiet day at the resort we were told, with ten or so people lounging about. Some were sleeping in the sun, others reading on a bench and two couples chatting and floating in the pool. My nudity has somehow compelled me to socialize, while my Michael decides to tuck into a corner and ease in leisurely. Many can and do keep to themselves, but the place lends its self to introduction. Hand in hand, we venture to two loungers adjacent to the pool.

Natural mineral water pools are just one of the many amenities the spa has to offer. Within Desert Hot Springs exists one of the greatest thermal water areas in the world. Sea Mountain Spa fills the pool, spa and their faucets with nothing but the best. Mineral water has been sought out by health enthusiasts the world over as healing and regenerative. Its odorless and pure, pretty much the same stuff in the two-dollar bottles at the grocery store. Soon, I was swimming naked in a pool full of Evian. No harsh chemicals, adversely the minerals and high levels of silica in the water absorb through the skin leaving you softer and silkier than before.

The water was the perfect temperature to cut the heat of the day. Surprisingly even the hot tub wasn’t too hot for the weather, but perfect to seduce me into a relaxing coma. No clothing is allowed in the spa and pool area. Especially bathing suits. We are all in this together. It’s astounding how fast you adapt. My inhibitions shed as quickly as my clothes. What was I worried about?

The resort felt more residential than commercial, a boutique resort with capacity of about 200. Other than snacks made to order and a variety of munchies in the office, you are able to cater to yourself. They don’t sell alcohol, but guests are more than welcome to BYOB their way through their stay. And with Dewey, the resort owner, making sporadic rounds with homemade vodka and tequila concoctions he pours directly in your mouth, its all you need. Fridges and lockers are available to stash liquor and snacks although many people just roll out coolers.

Between the pool and spa area is Club Taboo. A recreational room of sorts, except this room has a stripper pole instead of a ping-pong table. Complete with a circular bed, a couple hoola hoops, disco ball and plenty of spectator seating this ‘club’ pumps out a 24 hour music mix made by the owner himself, and has a rotating list of DJ’s spinning for weekend parties.

Angie passes through giving two newcomers a tour. A group of us girls play around with the pole completely perplexed. This is hard. Angie, who has rocked the pole once or twice before, gives us an impromptu lesson. “The wrap around.” She demonstrates and asks for volunteers. A thirty something shy woman shockingly gives it a whirl. “The fireman.” Angie makes it look easy. I try…nope, that wasn’t going to work.

Connie, also from L.A., is a resort regular, visiting three or more times a month. She is eager to explain the ropes and share her admiration for the place as she hands me a beer from her cooler. “It’s all about respect,” she says. “Everyone is here to relax and have fun, if for any reason someone or something is bothering you, all you have to do is say so, and it will stop.” Wondering what could ever be of bother here, I look over to see a couple having sex.

Um, what?  My boyfriend notices our copulating company about the same time and takes another nervous gulp of his cocktail. No one else bats an eye.

That has to be against the rules, I say to Connie, discreetly gesturing toward the couple, who now appear to be reaching climax. She just laughs. There are no rules she says gaily. “That,” she says pointing to them, “and that,” she says pointing across the resort to a woman getting eaten out on the floaty raft, “are what people love most about this place. You can come here and do whatever, whenever to whoever as long as everyone stays happy.”

…Holy shit. About two hours into our journey, just when we get comfortable being naked, we are handed a whole new set of provocative cards. Good thing I’m one hell of a poker player. I sit back a bit flabbergasted. “Huh…” I say aloud. Suddenly that rec room takes on a whole new meaning. My boyfriend looks at me inquisitively. “I swear I didn’t know,” I assure him. My mind jumps to a million sexy different places. “Oh you’ll be fine,” Connie reassures the both of us. While swingers don’t have a dominant presence at the resort, she said couples do proposition others from time to time. “No always means no,” Connie says. “Unless of course the answer is yes, and then of course just say so.”  From what I understand, there has never been an issue.
 
As the afternoon pressed on more and more couples and women joined the party. Filtering in, each with an introduction as the come. “Meet our new friends from Michigan!” Everyone cheers and waves. One lady looks up from the blowjob she is giving to smile and wave.

I have never watched a porno in its entirety in my life. And now I was smack dab inside a living one, loving every minute. Impossible to not be turned on here, Michael and I sneak back into the room throughout the day to have sex behind closed doors. Not quite prepared for the ultimate PDA. “It’s a marathon not a sprint,” Connie yells across the pool, after we emerge from our third break. “Pace yourselves, and don’t forget the lube!” Poignant and oddly maternal advice.

The Michigan couple appears from their room, commendably confident. Turns out, they too are frequenters the resort. A forty something mom and dad from the Midwest, the couple escapes their children and working world woes for the Sea Mountain Inn twice a year. “This is how people are supposed to live,” says Dave patting his wife’s thigh fondly. “We go for a couple days, drink, eat and fuck ourselves stupid. Then we pack up and fly back to reality.” “False reality,” his wife adds quickly. No one of course has any idea where we are or what we are doing, they say. It’s not for anyone else to know.

As day turns into evening Angie goes around taking dinner orders, an impressive menu delivered from a nearby gourmet restaurant. The intense heat of the day morphed into a breezy, blanketing warmth by night. No need to cover up. Convenient. We order a caprese salad and prime rib eye to be delivered to our room within the hour. Can’t beat that. For around 50 dollars we have a fantastic meal and don’t have to put on a single article of clothing. We are told there are several great affordable restaurants nearby, but the idea of dressing one minute before absolutely necessary seemed appalling. So there we sat. Soaking up the last few rays of sun, eating steak, butt-ass naked.

The last of the few guests settled into their rooms for the night. Before we knew it, we had the whole resort to ourselves. Unlike other resorts or hotels, the courtyard, pool, hot tub and recreational room is open 24 hours a day. We hopped from pool to hot tub to loungers with not so much as a soul to interrupt. The desert sky was full of stars impossible to see in the haze of L.A. I am intoxicated, as if the word had taken on a new profound meaning. Drunk from the scenery, from the company, from the food, oh and yes and I suppose from the tequila. I figure now is as good a time as any to take advantage of resort rules, or lack thereof. I climb over to my boyfriend’s lounger. “When in Palm Springs,” I say…or something to that effect. Perhaps the guise of night has lifted his inhibitions or the romantic wonderland we stumbled upon has finally set in and we make love under the stars. Out in the open, mesmerized by the moment and completely undaunted by the passersby.
 
We finally call it a night, passing other couples taking our late night cue. The next morning we awake reenergized and ready for another sun-soaked, sex-filled day. The music is loud and the courtyard a bustle of activity, with morning sex on display in several locations. I smile at the world, marveling at how much has changed within me in just a day. After awhile the resort feels familiar. Like we are here all the time. A European vacation home that just happens to be full of a bunch of happy, horny friends.

After breakfast, a swim and a quick hand job we check out of our room. Guests are welcome to stay the afternoon of their departure and into the evening for a couple extra dollars. Well worth it. Each day has its’ own unique vibe. New friends, new flow. The dynamic changes hour to hour as guests emerge from their rooms play and eventually disappear back in. I saunter around now, timorousness gone like my tans lines. The staring doesn’t stop however. You look and want to be looked at. All part of the fun.

Just as the sun reaches its peak, so do most of the guests. I look up from my magazine to see a sexual smorgasbord. Two couples fucking wildly arms length away from each other. One doggie style, the other a yoga-esque version of reverse cowgirl. In the pool the first swingers unveil themselves, performing a well-choreographed dance of four-way fellatio and make-out sessions all while floating effortlessly around the pool. To my left the Michigan wife with a book in one hand and husband’s balls in the other. A tiny snap shot into the sex lives of Middle America. All before noon. I smile sweetly at Michael who is seemingly ambivalent about the whole ordeal and sips his coffee nonchalant. 

Dewey welcomes a new couple. The customary greeting, “Say hello to our new friends from China!” I can't help but giggle. The two look like they took a wrong turn on the way to Disneyland, backpacks, ball caps and all. What a scene to walk in on. “At least they don’t have to ask that question,” Michael quips.

I overhear two men comparing stories and joking about how they acquired their Prince Albert’s. Another couple marvels at how tranquil the resort seems to be, even with the music pumping and Dewey making yet another round with Patron in a squirt bottle. Really? I ask. Apparently for events and summer weekends the guest list tops out with over 100 couples. The music booms a bit louder, and the liquor flows a bit freer, with themed parties and dancing into the morning. The two recall the club so full one night you didn’t know who’s balls were whose. Every lounge chair had several someone’s making the most of their excursion, couples feeding on each other’s passion. “Overwhelming, really,” he says.

The resorts main focus is Zen and respect, Seeking enlightenment, meditation and a place in which there is no consciousness of self. “Sexual policies aside, many guests come just to enjoy the vacation atmosphere,” says Dewey. “Desert sun, amazing music and water, massage and food—its an eclectic mix of people.” Many single females come for the Zen and to just feel beautiful.  Dewey says the level of celebrity clientele would shock most people. Its privacy protected, and completely secure.

A place free of inhibitions, judgment. What is this feeling? That’s it, I feel sexy. Incredibly sexy. The way Victoria’s Secret could only dream of making a woman feel. No makeup, no products, no hiding. And you can see it in the other women, each and every one; fat, skinny, old, scarred all exuding this confident, luscious allure. No wonder so much sex is going on.

This experience could easily change the way I view the world forever. And that may sound profound for just a simple nudie weekend, but this place does something to you. People are just more real. Naked physically and open mentally. Bare bottoms, baring souls. I feel as though I know my new friends better than I could know my old ones, more than I would even want to.  Nobody is hiding behind clothes; you can't decipher income or profession. And for the first time since I can remember, it didn’t matter what you own, where you come from or how you look. I sit back in delightful conversation with four new friends about sex, about the world, about us; our ages, addresses and perspectives varied. I truly believe this is how people were meant to live, if only we could. It gives you a new perspective of yourself and others.

A day to remember. A lifetime to return. What happens at Sea Mountain stays at the Sea Mountain, the few people I shared our story with looked at me as though I was crazy. Something you must experience for yourself, I guess.