Michael Workman

The water worries people the most, and it's no different with my wife and me. We fill the hot tub first thing, watching with narrowed eyes, looking for that blob of fungus or worse to rise to the surface. It never happens. At worst, a few stray long blonde hairs. We both sigh with relief. Not much worse than a public pool, really. Except nobody does the nasty on a day at the public pool.

But that's what Sybaris pool suites are all about. Most people who were born in and around Chicago have been watching those commercials for Sybaris since they were kids, wide-eyed with wonder at this exotic place where adults go. Though we're immigrants to the city, our visit to the village of Northbrook, Illinois was made with a certain fascination. This is Sex World, after all. After a week's worth of preparation, we'd heard all the stories. Most were true. If you're urban and under forty, we figured, Sybaris must be approached with a maximum of irony. And we tried. But this is the suburbs and things are different out here. Before long, we were drawn in. Sybaris bills itself as a "romantic getaway for married couples," but it's unlikely that most people who visit the place have any lofty spiritual goals in mind. No, they're here to fuck.

Driving in, Sybaris looks like a hotel. Checking in, however, that perception shifts immediately. Decked out with Sybaris memorabilia and shelves full of sex accessories, the front office makes for a cross between a Hallmark store and a mall gag shop. Miniature teddy bears, Honey Dust (an edible powder), Body Fantasy Spray Lotion and five different kinds of massage oils (we drop eight bucks on a bottle of "Kama Sutra Sweet Almond"). We'd booked a "Deluxe Pool Suite" but because of a management error, we're relegated instead to the smaller (though, we are assured, equally satisfying) "Deluxe Whirlpool Suite." After collecting a gate code number and room key, the woman at the front desk draws a path to our bungalow on a photocopied map of the grounds, and we're off.

The whole place has been arranged to mimic a suburban neighborhood in miniature, complete with little driveways for guests to park in. We note the number of driveways with more than one car. Also odd, each bungalow has been decked out with what look like windows, but they're not. They're completely windowless. We're torn. A bunkered erotic playground? A survivalist sex compound? It's clearly so guests can frolic with maximum privacy but it adds a whiff of skeeze. On the other hand, that privacy makes for a very sex-positive environment. It's hard to tell which way we'll be swayed. Walking into our bungalow, number 21, we're instantly confronted with a room built for distraction, with everything organized in relation to the bed: mounted on the wall to its left are a 5-disc changer, Kenwood tuner and VCR; at the foot of the bed there's a fireplace (with an on/off light-switch labeled "fireplace"--flip the switch and whoa, there's the fire). To the right, a dorm-room fridge, coffeemaker and Magic Chef microwave. It's almost overkill, but there's also a shower specifically for washing and, in the back, a toilet and bidet. Across the room: a huge, ceiling-mounted TV and DVD player.

We toss on our complimentary terrycloth robes, fire up the steam bath and turn on the TV. We tune in Channel 3, the Sybaris channel, and catch a half-hour or so of girl-on-girl action. After awhile, it gets boring. We pop in our rented copy of "Debbie Does Dallas," load the bong and kick back on the bed. Our room's covered in mauve carpet from top to bottom, even the cabinetry. Carpet covers a mirror-fronted section of apparently useless furniture, for instance. Ah. Sexual ergonomics. Mirrors are everywhere too, in the utility corner where you brew your coffee and above the headboard, mounted with four light-switches and an electrical outlet, conveniently placed for plug and play.

What's behind the bed is equalled only by what's above the bed. What looks like the acoustic constructions built out of plywood and carpet found in recording studios has been fastened to the ceiling with a vaguely menacing series of red-glowing triangular slats cut into it which, when activated, are the source of a blinding carnival-colored light show. In the middle of this wood-and-carpet overhang is the traditional mirror above the bed. My wife and I stare at each other sprawled out on the furry white slipcover, lights flashing red and blue.

Then there's the hot tub: sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by tile and flanked on two sides by approximately nine-foot mirrors. We start the tub filling and head to the now-opaque door of the steam room. Inside, we lower into two plastic lawn chairs, breathing in moist lungfuls of heated air. When it gets too hot, we turn on the shower vents and are spritzed with cool water. After twenty sweaty minutes or so, we head back out into the main room.

Dripping some bubble bath into the hot tub, we climb in and turn up the jets. No doubt, the water's pretty nice. We adjust upward the pressure of the jets and, since the TV's mounted on a swivel, turn it to face the hot tub. In we slide as suds rise up above our heads. Ahh. Clearly, the hot tub's where it all happens and we play along, hunched over the edge, watching the car-wash scene from Debbie. Everything's on a timer and the jets last only about fourteen minutes. We're done with the tub by then and head to bed for a nap. We notice a little gray steel link mounted in the center of the mirror that the guest instruction manual refers to as a "Taiwan Basket." Complimentary sex swing.

On our way out of Sybaris, we ask a few questions of a short man named Rich Starke, the Sybaris Night Auditor. Most people stay for the standard 17-hour overnight, coming from all over the Midwest, from Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana. "A woman from California made a reservation this week," he tells us. A lot of guests are young suburbanite honeymooners. Same-sex couples allowed? Starke dodges the question with a bit of a wrinkled face, which means not likely. What's it all for then? Ultimately, the average suburbanite probably feels better because they're told that it's a "romantic getaway for married couples," which gives the place an aura of respectability. And in the end, we do leave feeling spruce. But we're never able accept the ham-fisted illusion that the place has much to do with marital romance. No, this meticulously assembled hardcore amusement-park environment just can't overcome the contradiction of openness and privacy that's maybe as complicated as sex itself.

(2004-02-11)

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