Naked Desert Storm
I’ve always wanted to spend my birthday in my birthday suit. Usually I do some kind of b-day show or soirée with clothing (albeit skimpy clothing), but since June 10th fell on a Wednesday – not a great party night – this year, Max and I decided to get away from “it all,” including all of our clothes. So we took a trip to a place we’d never been called Sea Mountain Resort, even though it’s nowhere near the sea. Nor is it in the mountains, though it’s nestled at the dusty toes of the Santa Rosa foothills.
But how to get there from here? We weren’t about to drive from Downtown LA to Desert Hot Springs. Nor did we want to pay someone else hundreds of dollars to chauffeur us. Having one of our friends drive seemed to defeat the purpose of “getting away from it all.” Trains only run every other day, and not the days we wanted to travel. As for flying, the security lines and drive to the airport would have taken just as long as driving directly to Desert Hot Springs. So…what about the bus? Our Westside friends cringed at the thought. How could we take a Greyhound bus? Well, we did. And it was awesome.
We’d been working and playing hard for three days, doing a bunch of radio shows, both our own and half a dozen morning shows about how to save your marriage, how to make a woman squirt and how to avoid dying like David Carradine. The night before our trip, we gave a dinner party for five executives from Merv Griffin Entertainment, where we discussed a top secret “television project,” then stayed up all night talking to telephone sex therapy clients. We’d barely slept a wink before Lisa was taking us to the station (just five minutes from the Speakeasy, another plus for the bus!), and we were shoving our matching heart-speckled carry-ons above our seats. Then we very gladly left the driving to them, and snoozed the whole way to the desert.
Gone with the Wind
We arrived half-asleep, stumbling out of the bus like we were Dorothy and Toto waking up in Kansas on their way to Oz. I’ve never been in a real tornado, but this desert wind hit me harder than a prizefighter on steroids, knocking me hat-over-heels as soon as I stepped off the bus. Gust! El Viento Loco. Bruce the Taxi Driver, who had come all the way from Bombay, India to the California desert, insisted that the wind was only turbulent around the windmills next to the station. It did slow down to a mere 40 miles per hour when we got into town. Good thing we were staying at a place with no clothes because they would have gotten blown off.
Bruce dropped us off at an unassuming door in a residential area and we wondered if we were in the right place. Then Desirée, a pretty 20-something brunette with an all-over tan, opened the door and welcomed us into what looked like a converted motel. She gave us a tour of the large Jacuzzi and the little kidney-shaped pool filled with “healing” mineral water. Then there were the gardens, a dance area called “Club Taboo,” some barbeque grills that looked like they hadn’t been used in at least a few months, about 15 private rooms and over a hundred lounges and wooden chairs which were empty when we arrived. Buddhist sculptures from various Asiatic locales (Japan, Thailand, Nepal, India and Bali) were placed throughout the grounds. Some of them were exquisite, though few were explicitly erotic. If the wind weren’t constantly threatening to blow our heads off (we’d long removed our hats), we would have felt very serene and sensual. After the tour, we ducked out of the tempestuous airstream and into our private room. We sunk into our 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and had luxurious orgasmic sex. Hey, sometimes the best aphrodisiac is just a really nice bed.
Fine bedding was but one of several charming features of the room, although it proved vital since we spent most of our two-day stay in bed, for various reasons. The room also housed several Asian folk sculptures, a xylophone-ish musical instrument to serenade each other, a mini-frig and a shower built for two. Our French doors opened up to the pool area, giving us easy access and a nice voyeuristic view of the action, while the other guests could look at us when we left our blinds open. We would have liked to have had a small desk and chair for my laptop, but no such luck. We did find a little end table and a good wireless connection. But apparently, computer needs are not a priority at Sea Mountain Inn (yes, it switches off calling itself a “resort” and an “inn”). And here I thought I was being so cool, bringing my little pink Acer Aspire One to “Pink Week” at Sea Mountain. At least the website calendar said it was “Pink Week,” but the only pink we saw were the sunburns and, of course, the genitalia.
Hooray for genitalia! There’s no hiding it at Sea Mountain. The bathing area is not just “no attired required.” It’s no clothes allowed. Sounds hedonistically fascistic (if such a thing is possible), but it’s the best way to run a nudist resort. Don’t give the shy people any excuse to wear their shorts or even a teeny bikini. If everybody’s nude, then you can be nude too. In fact, unless you stay in your room the whole time, you have to be nude. So, you don’t feel weird about it. You feel normal. Blissfully and naturally normal. You feel like it’s hip to be nekkid.
It’s a great concept, as concepts go. But when the resort workers outnumber the guests, and the resort workers are wearing clothes, and dirty clothes at that, it gets a little awkward. Not that I expect people working with drills and two-by-fours to be naked and spotlessly clean. I didn’t want to get picky. I wanted to get naked. My mission was to spend my birthday in my birthday suit. So I took a deep breath, essentially ignored the maintenance guys walking around in baggy knee pants and grimy tank tops, and yanked off every stitch of apparel I had on, including my wedding ring – not so I could swing, my darling bloggamist, so I could swim.
It felt great to go au naturel outside. The wind and the sun caressed every inch of my body like old lovers who knew how to make my skin tingle. The warm water became my third lover as I dove into the pool, carrying me in its strong, supple arms to a shimmering watery nirvana. Joyously, I swam between two Buddhas. The Buddha from Nepal sat on the deep end in the lotus position, while the one from Japan held vigil over the shallower Holy Waters of Sea Mountain.
I emerged from my bare-assed baptism feeling like a seal. As I roamed around the grounds, I became Eve in the Garden of Eden before she designed that first fig leaf bikini. Though of course, it’s quite scandalous in public, there is something inherently innocent about nudity, something so natural about not covering your “private” parts with shame, especially while outdoors. It’s intoxicating, liberating and exhilarating, not to mention arousing to swim and frolic naked as our ancestors, our bonobo cousins and every other animal on the planet. That experience alone makes a stay at Sea Mountain worthwhile.
Chinese Chicken Salad & Poolside Fellatio
Tuesday’s lunch menu was Chinese chicken salad and poolside fellatio. While eating, we were surprised by a show from our very friendly, well-endowed, exhibitionistic neighbors (the only other couple we had seen so far) who performed female-on-male oral sex right on their lounge chairs. Maybe this was what they meant by “Pink Week.” I desperately wanted to take photos to share with you, my darling bloggamist, but we would have been kicked out of paradise immediately, according to Sea Mountain rules. I did manage to take a few discreet pics of myself, which you can find when you join the bloggamy. There are also XXX-rated photos of Hustler girls and guys enjoying outdoor fellatio, double penetration, masturbation and other kinds of crazy naked sex in the “Skin” series filmed at another Sea Mountain Resort.
Later on in the hot tub, we found out the friendly fellatio couple was from Kansas, and they knew me from my HBO shows. I usually enjoy being recognized, but I was a bit unnerved to hear a booming Midwestern accent yell “Dr. Suzy!! Is that you?” when I wasn’t in my signature hat and heels or my signature anything at all. I hope they weren’t too insulted when I shook my head and dived back into the pool, but I felt like I was caught in one of those dreams where you’re giving a speech and as you look down at your notes, suddenly you realize you’re naked.
There were only three other couples staying at Sea Mountain while we were there. Weekdays are not for those seeking a crowd. Two of the couples were quite disappointed that there wasn’t more of a party going on. For us, it was “just what the doctor ordered” to have almost an entire spa to ourselves and be able to skinny-dip or wander naked anytime 24 hours a day. At night, we made out in the Jacuzzi with the other three other couples as each messed around with their significant others. It may not have been an orgy, but it was a nice wet “soft swing” experience that provided a very effective “stimulus package” for our own hotter-than-usual marital sex, including simultaneous orgasms – w00t!
Birthday Suit Nipple Burn
Wednesday was my actual birthday so we treated ourselves to a deep tissue tandem massage. In keeping with Sea Mountain’s policy of “women and couples only,” both masseuses were female, but Max’s looked like she could play fullback for the NFL. Mine was more petite but still packed a wallop. I thought she was going to pull my brain out of my skull with one maneuver, and I can still feel her steely fingers pressing into the tender small of my back (ouch!). Feeling tingly, light-headed and sore, we emerged from the massage room only to be spun around on our naked heels by an even more ferocious zephyr than the day before. Too cold and woozy to swim, we opted for lunch and were disappointed to find that the only thing on the menu was the same Chinese chicken salad they’d served us the day before – sans fellatio this time, due to the wind. We were hungry enough to devour it anyway, since the only other edible thing available was, as usual, two different kinds of chips.
Between the punishing desert storm and the “bottomless” bowls of chips, I was feeling out of sorts. Not to mention that my brother called to wish me a happy birthday by teasing me for going to a geriatric Republican destination like Palm Springs. “I’m in Desert Hot Springs, not Palm Springs!” I protested, to no avail.
Well, at least I was in my birthday suit on my birthday. I succeeded, but remember what they say: Be careful what you wish for… Since the wind was so strong, I forgot about the sun’s powerful and damaging rays, and neglected to slather on the sunblock. Most of my skin was tan from weeks of rooftop yoga at the Speakeasy but since I wear a bikini for that, this trip exposed the most private-ist parts of my privates. I didn’t feel it all afternoon but that night as I sat down in the hot tub in front of a jet ready for a nice buzz, I sensed the sizzling pain of sunburn shooting from the hot water through my nipples. “My boobs are burnt!” I realized, jolting upwards and creating quite a splash, to the other couples’ great amusement.
Orgasmic Sex & A Nude Swim Through Infinity
Despite barbequed nipples and a scorched bikini area, I managed to have an awesome night of orgasmic birthday sex in my birthday suit amidst those fantastic Pharaonic sheets. And wouldn’t you know, by sunrise the wind had died down to a light breeze, making it a perfect morning for one last nude swim through infinity – with loads of waterproof sunblock.
As several new people arrived, two out of the three couples scheduled to leave decided to stay another night. Temptation is strong on this oasis of pleasure in the desert. We weren’t tempted to stay, however. Much as we enjoyed ourselves, we were eager to get back to our own little hedonistic haven in the Soul of Downtown LA. Speaking of couples, its nice to know that a married couple owns Sea Mountain. Like many in the Lifestyle, this couple prefers not to have their identities known and we’d never dream of outing them. However, it would be nice if there was a surrogate Couple-in-Residence at the place, just to personalize the experience.
One of the advantages of staying in a nudist resort is there’s not much to pack. I hadn’t worn any of my “Pink Week” bras, panties or skirts except on the bus, so they were still in my pink suitcase (I know, I went overboard on the pink fetish). Nor did I wear any of the makeup I brought. As we packed up the Acer and our toothbrushes, we did think of another thing Sea Mountain could use: a little gift shop. They could sell massage oil, suntan lotion, Buddha charms, signature mugs, sun visors, towels, robes, cards or key chains. As it was, the only souvenirs I brought home were a pair of burnt titties and a well-fucked pussy.
I also brought home a head full of memories flowing into beautiful naked dreams. And a wild and crazy idea to charter a luxury bus with a dozen or so select Speakeasy members to take over the place on a hot, windless, clothes-free adventure, maybe this time on a weekend party night. If you like, put yourself in the Googlegroup to hop on the bus with us.