Fringe Florida: Travels Among Mud Boggers, Furries, Ufologists, Nudists, and Other Lovers of Unconventional Lifestyles (32 page)

for $24.95 in Scriptorium’s gift shop. Like at any theme park, gift shops

are everywhere.

One shop also houses what’s touted to be the largest indoor model

of ancient Jerusalem complete with hundreds of two-inch toy figures

posed in various daily activities: a miniature woman scrubs a patio;

toy Roman soldiers are lined at attention; tiny robed men work on flat

roofs, albeit under cobwebs.

Visitors can’t seem to get enough. They circle mini-Jerusalem in

droves, taking snapshots. A prim, red-hatted lady rubs shoulders with

a Sammy Haggar lookalike in Day-Glo green shorts and Hawaiian shirt.

proof

Mixed messages abound. Nearby, a young man poses for a photo

with his dukes up beside a painting of Jesus as a boxer. Jesus’s gloves

are inscribed with the word “mercy.”

Prize-fighting Jesus isn’t the only odd artwork. A prominent photo

from a TBN show hangs on the wall over the checkout counter. Jan

Crouch is pictured wearing her big, pink-tinged wig, and standing be-

side her is Fabio Jesus and someone dressed in a furry camel costume.

No one gives it a second look. Those who aren’t focused on the model

city are mostly spellbound by the play in the adjoining Shofar Audito-

rium—
The
Four
Women
Who
Loved
Jesus
.

The female actresses are dressed like they came straight from Bolly-

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wood. The lead, dancing in a brilliant red midriff costume, sings about

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being a harlot and how much she likes it.

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Hunky Jesus convinces her that her soul is valuable. They have a

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touching moment where she gazes into his eyes.

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“I love you, Jesus and I will always love you,” she cries as she tightly

embraces him. He removes his scarf and places it tenderly around

861

her neck. The women in the crowd “awww” as if they are watching a

Lifetime Network movie.

The harlot goes on to tell the other bejeweled actresses, “There’s no

mistaking him. His voice is so gentle and that touch, I’ve waited twelve

years for that touch.”

The crowd laps it all up; when the play ends with Jesus being dragged

away by Roman soldiers, they applaud loudly.

Afterward, as they pour into the gift shop, one woman in the audi-

ence wipes away tears. “That was just beautiful!” she tells me before

disappearing into the aisles of tourist trinkets.

The park souvenirs aren’t much different than the tchotchkes sold at

massive nonsecular parks just up the road. Instead of Cinderella snow

globes, Holy Land Experience sells Arc of the Covenants that fit in one

hand. For the flashier set, an ornate denim jacket with more bling than

a hip-hop video hangs from the ceiling, the back covered in the word

“Israel” outlined in rhinestones. There are serious religious books, cop-

ies of religious text in scrolls, men’s ties with apostles’ names, and nat-

urally, DVDs of TBN and the Crouches’ TV shows.

In the children’s section, Jesus and the disciples are action figures,

biblical substitutes for Barbie and G.I. Joe. A little boy swings a plas-

tic sword and begs his parents for it and the matching Roman-soldier

proof

breast shield and plumed helmet.

A family of five from Ohio gathers at the clearance shelf, where an

assortment of biblical dust-catchers—miniature scrolls with the Ten

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Commandments, alabaster perfume jars, plastic figurines of Jesus on

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horseback, and miniature temples of Solomon—are on sale, two for

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three dollars. The father explains biblical history as they make their

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selections.

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Barbara, the mother, says her husband is in seminary and they are

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visiting their oldest daughter whose military husband is stationed near

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Orlando. “We love the shows,” she says as she places a couple of the

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Jesus-on-horseback figurines on the checkout counter. We come here

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every chance we get.”

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As performances are the hallmark of the park, Jesus’s crucifixion

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is the highlight. The park is near, if not at its capacity of 1,500, and

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everyone wants to watch. But like the five virgins late for the wed-

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ding, James and I, along with dozens of other park visitors, find we

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have been shut out. A passageway for the actors—Jesus to carry the

961

cross, Roman soldiers to remove his lifeless body—is cleared. Those

who didn’t get on the front side of the stage, like James and I, who

were too busy downing four-dollar hotdogs from Simeon’s Corner, are

trapped behind guarded ropes.

We have a good view of the massive crowd, several of whom are tak-

ing snapshots of a bloody Jesus as he carries the cross to the mount.

The show lasts for a half hour.

Jesus, wearing only a loincloth, is nailed to the cross to the sounds

of stereophonic pounding, cast members’ operatic voices and an or-

chestra sound track. After his last breath, the Christ actor is removed

from the cross, completely shrouded in a fake-bloodstained cloth, and

carried off overhead by Roman soldiers wearing plastic breastplates.

They parade him around back to the other side of the staged area, place

him in the tomb, and roll out a faux rock to seal it. Dialogue and song

intertwine. At last, Jesus appears again. He lives!

Meanwhile, most of the crowd is dying from the heat. People are

practically panting. One woman has to be helped to the shade as a fam-

ily member scrambles to a concession for water. Holy Land Experience

employees usher everyone away from the stage and begin cleaning up

for the next horde. No rest for the weary.

proof

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Swing State

proof

The liquor and beer have been flowing all morning around the rooftop

pool of the Miami Hilton Hotel. More than seven hundred swingers

are loosening up beneath the glass eyes of the downtown office build-

ings and condos. A beach ball bounces over the crowd. Bare breasts and

scrotums jiggle and sway to the island beat of house music.

Some are simulating sex acts, and, yes, some are actually doing it. In

fact, a young couple is having porno sex in the lounge chair right next

to my husband, James.

He and I are paralyzed in disbelief and anxious despite the copious

amounts of alcohol we are downing. We’re not swingers, nor do we

have the desire to be. Yet here we are—James in jeans and a button-

down and me in a knee-length dress lugging a purse that could hold

a litter of puppies—at not just a swingers’ convention, but one that

claims to be the largest in the United States.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from a businesslike event complete

with a trade show, seminars, and speakers that centers around some-

17

thing so intimate and, for the majority of America, deviant. Swingers

1

having sex? Sure, in hotel rooms and themed playrooms. Promotional

swinger blogs and Youtube.com clips pretty much confirmed that. But

sex around a crowded pool under the bright October sun and eyes of

surrounding condo dwellers wasn’t something we were prepared for, as

if Vanillas could ever be prepared for such a thing.

I had attempted to educate myself about the “lifestyle,” which is how

they refer to their practice of swinging. I discovered that swinging is

a robust, largely underground cottage industry in Florida. Swingfest

isn’t even the state’s only lifestyle convention.

If you rated each state in the nation on a scale of 1 to 10 for swinging,

Florida would be a 15. According to NASCA, an international associa-

tion of swinger clubs, businesses, and travel agents, Florida has more

lifestyle businesses than anywhere else in the United States, includ-

ing California. SwingersClubList.com, which claims to be the “world’s

largest adult lifestyle directory,” lists thirty-seven Florida nightclubs

and party houses that allow couples to have sex on-site. There’s also

another layer of discreet clubs that only advertise by word of mouth.

My friend Larry Siegel, a Boynton Beach clinical sexologist, says the

magnitude is a little freakish but quite understandable when you con-

sider that Florida is already the largest tourism state in the nation.

“People come to Florida to play. Swingers come here to play and to play

proof

around,” Larry says. “Many like the fact that they can go to a sex club,

explore their fantasies, hook up with another couple, then fly home

and not have to worry about running into them at the grocery store.”

Swinging Floridians are more than happy to entertain the tourists.

Some have turned their homes into mom-and-pop weekend pleasure

palaces, which for legal reasons they call “on-premise parties,” as op-

posed to clubs. They can’t serve alcohol, but some do serve dinner buf-

fets. They have regular hours, websites, and names like Orlando Love

Loft, Ranch4Play, or Playful Couples.

One swinging entrepreneurial couple near Orlando planted a string

of portable sheds in their backyard and floored them with mattresses.

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Another in a middle-class Cape Coral subdivision converted their liv-

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ing room into a black-light dance hall, complete with a stripper pole. A

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Largo party house advertises twelve bedrooms, a sex dungeon, dance

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floor, pool room, lockers, showers, massage tables, swimming pool, hot

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tub, a sound and light show, love swing, and glow-in-the-dark volley-

ball. Peeking at the two-acre spread through its rickety wood fence, you

271

would never suspect the one-story house on the edge of a subdivision

is the site of megaromps.

“Donations” open the door to most swinger house parties. Party

hosts technically can’t charge an admission fee without a business li-

cense. One party host goes so far as to label his home-based club a

religious non-profit, saying that donations are tax-deductible and help

keep the sexual fellowship parties going. He takes credit cards, though

single ladies need not donate. Presumably the fellowship finds their

mere presence a gift from God.

Where’s the Party?

I got a glimpse of a controversial swingers party house during my early

days of alt-newspaper reporting, and it wasn’t “the lavish playground”

the owner claimed it to be. I gained entry with a forty-dollar donation,

which went on my expense account, and my signature, which promised

among other things that I wasn’t a cop. Other than a gaggle of young

guys with their eyes glued to porn on TV, there were only two couples

in sight. Refreshments were limited to Oreos and lemonade served in

Dixie cups.

The host assured me that “Things usually don’t heat up until after

proof

midnight.” It was still early at 10:00 p.m. on a Friday night. She gave

me the tour—the “voyeur room,” where several full-size framed mat-

tresses formed a massive bed and an assortment of whips hung on

the vanilla-colored walls; the 1920s bathroom with a worn tub where

swingers could shower; and game room with a pool table and a chess-

board set up on a small table for two. Who comes to a swinger party to

play chess?

The only hint of action was a couple of grunts coming from a dark

room at the end of the upstairs hallway. “You can look in,” the host said.

“But don’t join unless you’re invited.” The lyrics to the Eagles’ “Hotel

California” came to mind: “You can check out any time you like, but you

can never leave.” I headed for the door.

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Florida’s swinger sex-on-site nightclubs play by different rules.

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They run on private memberships and often serve alcohol. Some have

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chandelier-lit dining rooms, DJs, and backroom leatherette beds,

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showers, and lockers, amenities sustained by a large and well-heeled

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membership. Miami’s high-energy Club Velvet boasts an international

371

reputation and more than twenty thousand members. Fort Lau-

derdale’s Club Trapeze lists more than ten thousand. Tampa, being

Trampa, has the kinky Eyz Wide Shut I & II that offers saddles with

vibrators, gynecological tables, and suspension racks.

Florida even holds claim to the longest continuously operating

swinger club in the country. Deenie’s Hideway in Coconut Creek has

been open for swing since 1973, welcoming randy couples to its weekly

“Fuck My Wife” and “Full Moon Pool” parties.

Rounding out Florida’s swinger landscape are events and clubs that

meet at hotels. An especially kinky one, Club Relate, based in Orlando,

claims to be the nation’s only swinger masturbation club. It’s been fea-

tured in
Penthouse
magazine, on Playboy Channel’s
Sexcextra
, and on

HBO’s
Real
Sex
series.

Love Thy Self

Club Relate cofounder Lynda Gayle, a buxom, blond sexagenarian with