"Simon is tall, broad-shouldered, and reasonably well dressed. On that evening, he wore a wrinkle-free button-down tucked into khakis and a well-manicured mustache on his upper lip. A lanyard dangled around his neck with an empty space where he should have Sharpied his name. Instead, he'd left it blank. After traveling here from Europe-over an ocean, craggy mountaintops, and quilted farmlands-he was, I got the sense, a little embarrassed. Not everyone travels 5,000 miles to have their first kiss."
"Looking around at the top-secret compound we were sitting in, it was easy to deduce why he'd come. Everything about the place bore the carnal aura of a Bachelor set: daybeds lingered in darkened nooks and crannies. A clothing-optional hot tub burbled next to a fully stocked bar. Hammocks swayed in the autumn breeze. A fleet of beautiful women patrolled the grounds, demure and kind-eyed, ready to break bread with the men."
A 32-year-old man named Simon traveled across oceans to a secluded East Bay retreat seeking his first physical intimacy. He experienced gentle, guided contact when a woman invited his hand to her body, allowing him to sense her contours before he pulled away. He wore neat clothes and kept his name blank on a lanyard, appearing embarrassed about the journey. The retreat resembled a curated, sensual set with daybeds, a clothing-optional hot tub, hammocks, and a roster of kind-eyed women who interacted with men. The setting offered structured opportunities for intimate exploration and emotional transition.
Read at Slate Magazine
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