“Wait! Come quick! There's an orgie happening on that other balcony!” my sister shouted to me, pointing to an enthusiastic group of hotel guests below us. At first she thought just one woman was receiving oral sex, but upon further inspection, we saw there were actually four couples going at it in various positions (and vigorously at that!) in the waning afternoon light.
Did we go inside? Of course not. We sat on our suite’s balcony at Desire Resort, finishing what was left of our chicken caesar salads and watched. “Can you switch seats with me,” I asked. “You have a better view. I think they’re all moving over to the lawn chairs.”
An orgy in the middle of the afternoon? Where does one find such magic?
Desire. Desire is a place people go to get naked. A nudists’ paradise. A haven of the unclad couples. I was invited to bring my boyfriend down to Desire Riviera Maya and Desire Pearl for five days during Swinger’s Month. When you write about sex for a living, people want you to go on trips to nudist resorts, fetish conventions, and leather parties. It is basically in the job description. I should probably add it to my LinkedIn.
The only problem? After I’d committed to the trip, my boyfriend and I broke up in a gruesome, ugly way. The clear solution was not to cancel my trip, but to instead bring along my sister, Scarlett. Who wouldn’t want to go to a nudist resort in Mexico with their sister, amirite?
My sister and I are very close. Two years younger than I am, she and I do everything together and tell each other everything. Scarlett, a curator as a museum in the Chicago area, is a bit more conservative than I am (the bar is very low, keep in mind), but is always up for an adventure. When I asked her if she wanted to go to a nudist resort in Mexico with me, she immediately texted back, “YES! I WOULD LOVE TO!” along with her passport information. We were both ready to let loose and have a good time.
We arrived at Desire Riviera Maya near Cancun, and were greeted with champagne by the hotel's concierge and manager. We sipped our drinks, as they explained the rundown of the hotel's rules and events, then were escorted to our room by our personal butler (yes, personal butler). It was luxe, with a giant personal jacuzzi, an expansive rainforest shower, and immaculate marble floors. There were super aggressive Kama Sutra paintings (like, legit a penis going into the vagina of a woman in a pretzel shape), but I didn’t mind much at all. I stripped immediately. I love being naked. After a few days at Desire, I never want to swim in a bathing suit again.
Scarlett seems comfortable with nudity at home, but I wasn’t sure how she’d be at the resort. But she was on Team Naked as soon as the bubbles hit her bloodstream, running right out the sliding glass doors in the buff.
No one at Desire was awkward about the whole nude thing. You could be as naked or as not naked as you chose to be. We wandered the beaches and pools in sarongs, then would take them off when we got to our seating area. Most people just ambled around completely naked. We sat naked in our personal beachside cabana, swam naked in the ocean, and then afterward, popped naked into our personal Jacuzzi. (I’m not weird for taking a naked jacuzzi in my hotel suite with my sister. You’re weird.)
There is so much to do at this resort (and its sister resort, Pearl, more on that below). There are nightly theme-parties, a giant hot tub lounge where people have a lot of sex (note: I did NOT go in there because that is folliculitis waiting to happen), multiple restaurants, and a fabulous pool. The food is ridiculous. There are amazing restaurants at both resorts; cuisine varies from Italian to seafood. We had one of the most incredible bruschetta mix plates of our lives on this trip, along with lobster as the main course.
We drank approximately 76 glasses of champagne that day, then went to a lavish dinner of steak and chocolate. You can have as much food as you want. It’s all included. You do, however, have to wear clothes when dining at the restaurants. After dinner, we went back to our hotel room, drunk as lushes on spring break, and promptly passed out at 10pm.
When we finally got to socializing with the guests, it seemed like everyone's opening question was, “Are you two twins?” I’m rarely asked if Scarlett is my twin. We’re clearly sisters, but not twins. I’m a solid three inches shorter than she, with a different body-type. But we realized why everyone wanted to know—it was because we were a fantasy. Such is life.
The second night we decided to have a three course meal by the sea—one of the many romantic and sensual add-ons available at Desire. This dinner was the only activity on the “Fantasy Menu” that would be remotely okay for sisters to do together. (One option was make-your-own-porno, wherein a real videographer would come and film you having sex with your partner.)
After our romantic dining experience, we made our way to the show on the main piazza. Desire puts on a show every evening and female guests seem to get very into the theme, dressing in sexy costumes and mesh clothing. The true spectacle was not the highly talented pole dancer, however, nor the feather bikini clad strippers, but Lisa, a very drunk, very exuberant hotel guest. Lisa volunteered for everything. She climbed into a prop bathtub and had champagne drank out of her snatch. “Hello, yeast infection,” Scarlett stated, matter-of-factly, over her glass of wine.
But more impressive even than Lisa, was a couple in their mid-seventies. Both card carrying members of the AARP, the woman had her breasts completely out of a top that ended just beneath them. Her seemingly demure husband wore a fanny-pack, cargo shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. He smoked a Winston Churchill pipe before promptly striding over to do a champagne shot off of Lisa’s thigh.
Following the evening’s scheduled entertainment, at the discotech, we met an awesome couple, whom I'll refer to as Bernie and Sheila. They go to Desire and resorts like it on the regular. They are what the hotel manager would later tell me are, “Lifestylers.” We talked out on the discotech terrace for at least two hours. They regaled me with a story of a gang bang on a prior visit, during which Sheila serviced several men while Bernie watched. “We just bring along antibiotics and creams to be safe,” Bernie told me.
Extremely hungover, Scarlett and I spent the next day swimming and sunbathing. Being in the pool at Desire was like being the human manifestation of Saturn, surrounded by a ring of dongs. It was a buffet of naked men, all with vastly varying penis sizes. I learned nothing on this trip if not that penises are as unique as snowflakes. The crown jewel of the pool scene was a rather rotund man in his sixties with a truly astonishing Prince Albert (a penis piercing, for the uninitiated).
After two nights at Desire Riviera, we were off to the second location: Desire Pearl, about 20 minutes away by taxi, on another part of the coast. This hotel is smaller and much more romantic, geared towards nudist couples who just want to be naked with themselves, rather than sex partying and swingers (though that is a component).
We were assigned the penthouse (I know, so bougie. We loved it). We had a terrace that overlooked the ocean, a marble bathtub that was basically invented for Instagram, and our own personal hot pool. The room averages $1300/night (prices vary, depending on availability). Not exactly the most humble of experiences, but certainly #blessed. I’m going to out on a limb here and assume the ocean view room we had at Desire Riviera Maya is more realistic, price-wise. An average ocean view room (depending on when you’re planning to visit) is about $470 per couple per night. A little up there, but this is an all-inclusive resort; all the food, drinks, and fun are free.
We began our stay with a couples massage from two sexy masseurs. The erotic fantasy music coming through the speakers was screaming, “This is a happy ending situation, Geej, buckle up.” I was panicked because I didn’t want the eucalyptus oil he was using on my back to wind up on my vulva. But I was entirely wrong; No happy endings were had (though Scarlett later told me she was having the exact same thoughts). The spa—and the hotel in general—is not that kind of place.
Our second-to-last night, we knew we had to rage out. It was “Brazilian Night.” The hotel manager left amazing outfits in our room for us to wear and take home with us: Matching wide-legged pants and little beaded crop tops in complementary colors. We decided to just play into the twin theme that had followed us everywhere.
At the disco, we met an incredibly interesting Dutch couple who had been together for nearly 25 years. They’d been to resorts like this eleven times in the past. We drunkenly ordered pizza to our room and invited them upstairs. We chilled in the hot tub naked and talked all night long about life, swinging, and non-monogamy. The next day the lovely Dutch man told us he and his partner had earned major cred in the hotel community because they had left the bar with “The Twins.” We happily told him to feel free to say whatever they wanted about us and our night in the suite.
It may sound odd to you, but going to a nude resort with my sister is one of the best choices I’ve ever made. It was the bonding experience I never even knew we needed. Scarlett seems a refreshed version of herself, more comfortable in her own skin. I feel like a whole new woman with a whole new lease on life. We had the time of our lives and rehash the adventure almost everyday. We will be regaling our family with stories of penises, stripper poles, and the orgies seen for many years to come.
This sure was one hell of a way to get over a breakup.
ALSO BY GIGI ENGLE
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Gigi Engle is a writer, certified sexologist, sex coach, and sex educator. Her work regularly appears in many publications including Brides, Marie Claire, Elle Magazine, Teen Vogue, Glamour and Women's Health.
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