Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Health & Body

Urge
Girl trouble
Between good friends and great clients, nobody is as they seem.
By Tracy Quan
[09/27/99]

Urge
Nice married guys
For a single gal in New York, a brush with a married man teaches her all she never hoped to know.
By J. M. Fitzroy
[09/25/99]

Column
A terrible thing to waste
You do not need brains to go to the Harvard Brain Bank, only a brain.
By Mary Roach
[09/24/99]

Just say no to sex; just say yes to big bucks
Massive government funds pay for abstinence-only sex education -- and beach parties.
By Sharon Lerner
[09/23/99]

Urge
Johns and lovers
Why must she be a hooker in love?
By Tracy Quan
[09/23/99]

Complete archives for Health & Body

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I am not like that -- at the age of 27, my prudishness astounds them. I have no explanation, only a resilient, alien modesty that leaves me scrambling for cover in moments of undress. For me it's never been an issue. I felt content slinking through life with this debility, but my friend Elisabeth would have none of it. Arguing that I needed to get over my fear of public nakedness, she put me on an anti-modesty program. I consented, albeit reluctantly. This, I agreed solemnly, was no way to live.

For my first trip to the women's bathhouse near my apartment in San Francisco's Mission district, I called ahead. "Is it crowded right now?" Now, with only two other women in the hot tub, I felt that it was an obstacle I could overcome. My friend Elisabeth dropped her towel close to the side and slid in. I panicked and brought my towel into the tub with me.

After several trips to the bathhouse (all after 11 p.m. -- the crowd disperses then), Elisabeth suggested that we "move up," with our naked plan. Moving up meant Wilbur Hot Springs; Wilbur Hot Springs meant men and women. I packed my bathing suit.

After four hours winding through the hills near Clearlake, we found Bear Mountain Road and drove the five miles to the historic bridge the woman on the phone had told us to look for. I got out and opened the metal gate and quickly noticed that my silk pants were splattered with mud -- overdressed already. I could smell sulfur and hear the sound of water. We drove to the "hotel" -- a medium-size home with a cozy fire in the lobby.

A calm, friendly woman at the front desk gave us the rundown. "The hottest pool can take out a perm and tarnish jewelry," she warned us cheerfully. I was reminded of the urban legend about a woman who goes to a tanning salon only to have her insides cooked.

"Can we have our room key?" Elisabeth asked. The woman responded with a large, sympathetic smile. No room keys at Wilbur.

As required, we unloaded our gear and move our car a fifth of a mile away from the main house. Lugging my bag to our room, I thought about just how much I had packed for two days of planned nudity.

That night in the communal kitchen, our fellow Wilburs strolled around in flannel robes, nightgowns and muumuus, unloading their trays of lasagna, whole-wheat tortillas and braised tofu. In similar get-ups we unpacked our jar of Welch's Grape Jelly with "Muppets in Space" printed on the front and began to worry about starving. Why did we think we needed so many clothes but no food?

Next page | No underwear under my robe? Unnatural!