Chapter 12: Palm Springs: An Oasis Of A Different Kind

As we approached our 3^rd anniversary in early March 2018, I had spent over two years of our marriage trying to uncover Bill’s secret and compulsive sexual endeavors. Nothing was illegal about it, and there wasn’t anything necessarily wrong with his obsessions except the fact that he was married, cheating, and engaged in dangerous conduct that put him and me at significant risk. Every discovery and confrontation included a question about his sexuality, but Bill continued to reject any suggestion that he might be gay.

At times, I resorted to extreme and expensive means to uncover and follow his activities. Besides hacking into his computer and phone, I sought the help of a sex therapist to help me understand the psychology behind this behavior. She also helped me to offload some of the emotional burdens that this situation caused and to understand sex addiction. It is much like all other addictions. The person afflicted with it is willing to risk anything and everything to experience the rush of the next “hit.” The reward and thrill of it all are worth the gamble, and so are the consequences – no matter who or what is sacrificed.

The services of a private detective tracked Bill’s whereabouts when I was forced to travel for work. He also turned me on to software used to track web activity and record all keystrokes while using the web. The use of this software exposed the grotesque genre of porn Bill was obsessed with involving a form of hypnosis and the use of poppers to desensitize the viewer to women’s sexual anatomy and the desire to have sex with a woman. It was a kind of feminization using”cock worship” scenarios where trannies instruct the watcher into controlled responses upon command. Bill spent every moment he could watching these videos to complete his “feminization.”

It became more difficult to track Bill’s activity when technology advanced as privacy advocates shaped the future of web activity with mobile apps. You can download an app to your phone where you are issued a legitimate private number for a fee. Text messages and phone calls do not appear on your mobile provider’s account because the phone activity is not routed through their servers. Apps such as MySudo even offer a private email domain.

Bill moved from using his computer to CoverMe, an app offered through Apple. This service not only issues a private phone number but features a private vault where photos taken with your camera are stored in the “vault” so they cannot be viewed in the camera’s photo book. CoverMe can also be camouflaged behind an icon that appears as a news app on the screen. (So clever.) Messages are encrypted and the app is easily closed by gently shaking the phone. I learned that Bill had downloaded both MySudo and CoverMe to his phone when the Apple receipt for the purchases appeared in his email account. I confronted Bill about purchasing these apps a few days before we were scheduled to go to Palm Springs to celebrate our anniversary. As always, these confrontations resulted in more denials and a huge argument that went nowhere.

I was going to Palm Springs with or without him. I remember liking the area’s terrain, and I was looking forward to a change of scenery. Most of my impressions of Palm Springs had been formed from the 1950’s stories of old Hollywood glamour with Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope. I would soon find out that Palm Springs had become the largest gay community in the country.

Bill decided to go on the trip only the night before our departure when he saw me packing. This time, I refused to pack his special clothing as I usually did when we traveled. (Our travels had become some kind of stage for the BDSM games as if that were the sole reason for the trip.)  The drive took over four hours, and we hardly spoke a word the entire way. The only break in the silence occurred when we took the aerial tramway to Mt. San Jacinto State Park and took in the breathtaking views of the Coachella Valley. A drink at the Lookout Lounge also helped thaw things out before we headed to the resort.

Tired from the drive, we dined at the hotel restaurant and headed down to the hot tub after dinner. It was a large spa that easily seated 10 people without feeling crowded.  Bill was wearing traditional men’s swim shorts, but the 3-inch sparkly jewelry dangling from his belly button was hard to miss. There were two other occupants – both men in their late 30’s. I didn’t think much of it until two more men showed up and then another two.  Before long, I was the only woman in a spa of seven men, and it became clear that they were all gay. Suddenly, I felt extremely out of place. I wondered what Bill was thinking – he had to know but showed no awareness or concern for my growing awkwardness.

Later that evening, while Bill slept, I flipped through the area magazines and tourist books where I learned just how gay-friendly Palm Springs was, including gay-only resorts that catered to people looking for acceptance and privacy. Somehow, I had missed identifying resorts that catered to the gay community when I searched for places to stay. As it turns out, our hotel was located in the heart of where most of the gay bars and nightclubs were located off E. Arenas Road. I looked over at Bill. The covers were off, and he was wearing a pink mini G-string. I remember thinking, “My God, what have I done?”   I had taken an alcoholic to the liquor store.

The following day, I noticed Bill had put on a pink rhinestone stud in his ear before we headed out for brunch.  Within a block of our hotel, it was apparent we were in the heart of the LGBTQ community, with bars, clubs, shops, and restaurants adorned with rainbow flags. Transgenders easily outnumbered the straight, but I noticed several elderly tourists walking down the sidewalk who seemed perplexed and pointing at young men dressed in over-the-top makeup, wild outfits, and high heels.

I popped in and out of boutiques and galleries, but Bill mostly waited on the sidewalk where he never stopped looking at and typing into his phone. We were still avoiding conversation, and I was beyond irritated at my suspicion of him communicating with his special friends through his hidden app. It never stopped.

After two Bloody Mary’s at lunch surrounded by gap couples, I began to openly taunt Bill about his earring, the hot tub company, and how he brought the perfect wardrobe for the local flavor of the community. “Why not wear some of it next time we were out and about?”, I asked. “You would fit right in.” He was not amused – and neither was I. The game of hide and seek was over.

The argument that ensued once back at the hotel was more than just laying out a laundry list of the details of his secret activities involving like-minded men. Suddenly, I reached a peak of emotional distress that resulted in uncontrollable bouts of hysterical sobbing and a state of delirium. Two years of the mental anguish of trying to cope with Bill’s compulsive behavior, the lies, the secrets, the denials, the blow to my sense of self-worth had become too overwhelming to deal with in a setting where CDs and transgenders surrounded me.

My emotional breakdown went on for hours late into the night. Bill was so furious with my uncontrolled weeping and having to witness the consequences of his disloyal conduct that he resorted to looking for another hotel. Sarcastically, I suggested one of the many gay resorts, which only enraged Bill even more. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt and humiliate him as he did to me.

It was well after 2 a.m. when the crying finally stopped. Bill had stood in the same spot for hours, leaning up against the wall staring at the floor. During the entire episode, he said very little. Bill offered no apology and didn’t even try his usual denials or his accusations that I was delusional. I never learned why he didn’t leave for another hotel. I didn’t care. I sat on the end of the bed, staring out the glass door in a kind of catatonic state, totally exhausted. The last thing I remember was laying back on the bed mesmerized by the light from the pool below dancing across the ceiling.

When I woke the next morning, my eyes were swollen shut from hours of sobbing. I soaked a washcloth in the cold water from the ice bucket and placed it over my puffy face. I felt better after a hot shower and a double dose of pain reliever for my splitting headache.

When Bill was in the bathroom getting ready for the long trip home, I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He was going about his usual routine as if nothing had happened. Out of nowhere, I asked him, “Do you want an open marriage?  One where we can each seek out our needs but without repercussions? An agreement that may level the playing field?”  Bill whipped around and shouted, “Of course not! I don’t want any part of that.” 

That was the end of the discussion about an open marriage. However, it wasn’t the end of the changes that were in store for both of us.