Rio's 2

As I said, years passed. I knew about Rio's. I met the occasional person who went there. I even met Suzanne Portnoy.

Then at a sex party organising committee meeting we were thinking of sociable things we could do between parties and a trip to Rio's was suggested - a Fleshmob!

There were twenty of us. We filed into and filled completely the small entrance hall, where we paid at a glass-fronted kiosk and were handed scratchy, grey towels. Some last-minute confusion as random people paired up for the benefit of the men. As a single woman B paid £5. As a couple T and I had to pay £10 each.

In the women's changing rooms we put on our outfits. Amused glances from other patrons. In the spirit of the kind of hen nights I don't get invited to, and for ease of identification between those who didn't know each other, we had decided to distinguish ourselves as a group by wearing water-themed accessories. Swimsuits were optional. My own attire: a captain's hat and a parrot perched on my wrist. Beatrix wore a sailor hat. Towels.

After some nervous hanging around in the corridor, a lot of giggling and Virgil being sent back to take off the underpants that he had kept on underneath his raffia Hawaiian skirt (he also wore a lei and a flower hairclip), we passed through the beige and brown lounge area. People in towels were watching a football match on widescreen TV and eating chicken and chips. At the beige bar we deposited our bottles of cheap cava with a Tahitian-looking woman in a sarong.

Rio's isn't large. As a group we were taking up a lot of space at the bar and attracting attention from the regulars. I clocked some women around, and a few couples, but there were a lot of single men scoping us with interest. We moved, en masse, to the largest of the jacuzzis, only to find we had acquired some new followers.

The pool was waist deep and full of bubbles. Jets of bubbles against the skin felt tingly and numb at the same time. At times it was had to tell whether bubbles or arms and legs were brushing past. We were crowded by the new friends who wanted to hang out with us. The foaming water hid what was underneath, but fixed facial expressions and twitching biceps made it clear. I started to think about zombies.

Beatrix, Virgil and I hung together. Virgil was mortified to have a hard on and we teased him about it. I told him how lucky he was to have two women with him. The pool got too full and began to flood so we moved again, sampling in turn the sauna, the steam room and the small jacuzzi, in which we made the acquaintance of Arnold. Arnold is an elderly gentleman with a spinal problem. He walks with difficulty on crutches. He has been coming to the spa for many years for relaxation and illustrates perfectly the varieties of use people make of its facilities.

We decided to check out the private rooms.  We drank toxic cava out of plastic cups and compared notes. Then we took turns. With Virgil's fingers inside me, Beatrix's tongue felt warm and rough. Her saliva ran down my buttock onto the tan leatherette. Occasionally some rude person would knock on the door. It was against the rules posted on the wall and we ignored them. Virgil went down on Beatrix while I stroked her body, then I sucked his cock and she licked his balls.

Tube lighting, foam pads, brown paintwork and a panic button make private room number one at Rio's without doubt the least sexy place I have ever played in. We didn't linger - but it had to be done.
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Rio's Naturist Spa

I satisfied a long-held curiosity about this place last week.

Rio's was on two major bus routes I used to take as a teenager. I passed it often. The windows filled with cut outs of palm trees shut out the world but hinted at exoticism and - somehow - long-haul travel. Its perspex facade showed tropical palms and setting suns. Red brush-font lettering read: Relaxation Spa - jacuzzi, sauna, steam, plunge pool. It didn't look like a health or beauty spa. What could be so secret and so fun?

My mad friend Prem in our early twenties told me: it was full of dirty old men and you could have sex but (for women) if you went during the day it was free. You could take in food and use all the facilities. Prem visited regularly. I don't know if she had sex there. She said not but I have my doubts.

The next time I thought about Rio's was when I picked up Suzanne Portnoy's first book, The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker, a memoir of how she became a swinger. It begins with a lengthy description of Rio's frontage and, more interestingly, what the author got up to therein. I read the whole book in a day and learned about the etiquette of the place, the best times to go to hook up, and the private rooms in the back with locks on the doors and wipe-clean leatherette mats.

Years passed.
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