Elite Gay Warriors in Desert Hot Springs

How an encounter in a changing room impacted my Memorial Day Weekend

Hi folks. After launching this Substack last fall with a weekly newsletter and, more recently, a series of essays by other artists, I’m going to start sharing my own writing. Feels scary, but also exciting. Thanks for reading. — Chris

The Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove to Desert Hot Springs. I had found a place on AirBnB that was originally part of a leisure ranch built in the 1920s, catering to guests such as Joan Crawford, Gary Cooper and Marlene Dietrich.

The accommodations did not disappoint. It was a Mediterranean-style bungalow with French doors and period details like wall sconces with shades made of rawhide, and vintage bathroom tiles. 

When I booked the place, our host Ron told me we would be his first-ever guests. With Bobby’s and my love of history and design, and our host’s hopes for forgiving first-timers, it felt auspicious for all parties involved. 

The bungalow didn’t have a pool, so we planned to find somewhere to swim and lounge the next day. 

Sunday morning came along and Bobby and I decided to try out Desert Hot Springs Hotel and Spa, the OG of spas in the area, and a favorite of folks seeking an experience that was authentic rather than high-end. 

Desert Hot Springs Hotel and Spa

Bobby and I are not what you’d call “fancy” gays. We enjoy a diner and a roadside motel. Our travels over the years have been mostly road trips, with stops at antique malls and vintage shops along the interstate or, better yet, on some sleepy old Main Street.

We arrived at the hotel and were immediately charmed by the shabby, mid-century vibe. At the front desk, I purchased two day passes from a young woman with a dark red dye job and tats down her arms. She was warm and low key and made us feel welcome. I didn’t catch her name; for the purposes of this story, let me call her Ronnie.

Passing through two glass doors, we walked out to the pool deck. There were families, and lots of people sitting in the various jacuzzis, some were glowing pink, others were slathered with sunscreen. One or two people sat in the water with their t-shirts over their heads, like make-shift hats, shielding them from the sun. It was very bright out, and getting to be in the high nineties. 

I had read online that the hotel had a coffee shop. Earlier that morning, I shared with Bobby a vision I had of a club sandwich, sliced in quarters of toasted white bread, the way I used to get when my mom would take me for lunch at the Desert Inn coffee shop when I was a kid. Just thinking of that perfect club sandwich gave me a dose of comfort.

Vintage menu from The Desert Inn, Lancaster, CA, circa 1970s.

After taking a quick walk through the large courtyard—there were the massage rooms, balconies of the many guest rooms, stands of palm trees, lounge chairs that had been dragged into any bit of shade that could be found—we made our way to the Sunshine Cafe.

We quickly ordered, and from our booth by the windows, Bobby and I had a clear view of the pool area. We marveled at the lack of shade out there. After a lifetime of carelessness with my skin and too many sunburns, I try to avoid direct sun. Ah well, we agreed to slather on the sunscreen and make it work. 

Minutes later our waiter returned:. Bobby got an Impossible patty-melt with fries. I got the club sandwich I had envisioned—hold the bacon—with a side of onion rings.  These were honestly the best onion rings I’ve ever had. The slices were reasonably but not absurdly thick, the batter light, the fry perfect. 

Bobby and I smiled at each other and the fun we were having of discovering this funky and special place. As I dug into my dream sandwich, I again felt comforted.

Over lunch, we watched folks walk into the pool area from the lobby: groups of friends carrying beach bags filled with towels, women in long scarves wrapped around their waists wearing bikini tops. Mothers with groups of kids headed for the swimming pool at the opposite end of the large courtyard. 

After lunch, we stopped in at the gift shop to buy sunscreen. From there we walked out to the hot pavement in search of a changing room. 

Leaving the coffee shop, in search of a changing room

There it was, beneath a little painted sign: Men’s Changing Room. The entryway had a wall of lockers. We followed the hallway to the left. There was a bathroom area to one side, and a few shower stalls on the other. The space was neither the most pristine, nor the most modern; it felt more like a bathroom you’d encounter at a state beach or an aging YMCA locker room. Each shower had a short hallway to a stall with no curtain. The bathroom area was dank with two or three stalls and a floor of blue tile. 

“Where do we change?” Bobby wondered aloud. 

There was no designated area for that. However in the hallway where we were standing, and just across from the showers, were two wooden benches, smooth from years of use. Above these benches was a row of brass hooks. Must be for hanging your clothes while you put on your suit, we figured.

Bobby and I put our bags down on one of the benches and began to change.

The place was empty except for someone we could hear in one of the bathroom stalls. A moment later a man walked out of the bathroom area with a boy. They walked past us, but I didn’t take much notice of them. However looking up, I saw that Bobby had dropped his shorts and was pulling on his suit, a process that took a few seconds at most. 

With the father and son’s departure, Bobby and I were the only people in the changing area. We began to put on sunscreen, when we heard a loud man’s voice.

“I’m gonna be respectful about this.” 

Bobby and I looked toward the entrance. It was the guy who had just walked out with his son. He was alone now and unsmiling.

“But you know there are kids coming in here?” he asked. 

He was in his mid-thirties, with a muscle T, long black goatee, and shaved head. 

“And you guys are getting naked.”

Getting naked. Bobby had swapped his shorts for his swimsuit, otherwise we were clothed.

“It’s a changing room.” I said. 

“You could use a bathroom stall.”

I didn’t know what to say. 

The man just stood there glaring at us.

It’s hard to explain how the air in that hallway shifted. As much as he professed to being “respectful,” his manner was intimidating. Here were two aging men getting ready for the pool, but clearly he saw us as a threat. To whom? His son? Himself?

If you’re not acquainted with my husband and me, you should know we are professional artists—I’m a writer/performer, Bobby’s a painter. We’re both approaching sixty, I’m a little bit ahead. We have a large circle of friends, and for the past eighteen years, we’ve been the leaders of a dynamic and beloved community arts organization.

We also, and the guy would have noticed this, like to wear cute outfits. That day I had on a bright colorful bucket hat that my friend Pamela had made me for my birthday the previous year. I wore neon orange shorts and a blue Madras button down. Bobby wore a striped t-shirt and a bright blue hat. He was wearing a gray bathing suit, but moments before had on a pair of checkered shorts. So, yes, we were dressed quite colorfully. Is that what threatened him? Had we been wearing khaki shorts and polo shirts—God forbid!—would he have walked right past? 

Bobby and Chris wearing bright colorful outfits.

Once he was gone, Bobby looked at me. “What the fuck? Did you see how he was glowering at us?”

I don’t know what I said. I do know I felt afraid. My skin prickled, and a heavy weight landed in the pit of my stomach.

But we continued to apply sunscreen and prepared to head out. Bobby was ready before me so he walked out to the pools first. A minute later, he came back.

“That guy’s sitting just outside the entrance,” he said. “He’s staring at me.”

“I’ll be right out.”

Bobby went back out. I changed into my suit and walked outside. I saw what Bobby meant. The guy had placed a chair about fifteen feet from the changing room, and he sat there, facing the entrance. When I walked out, he locked his gaze onto me. I looked over and saw that Bobby was now in one of the pools. Instead of joining him, I walked over to the guy.

In the brief time it had taken me to turn away and then back, he had moved to a lounge chair. In the chaise behind him sat a woman I assumed to be his wife, and beyond her sat the boy on his own chair.

“You know,” I said, “that’s a changing room.”

“Yeah, but little kids are in there. My son…” He gestured toward the boy as if he were an object of pity. The kid looked to be eight or nine, and was engrossed in his tablet, unconcerned with whatever he might have seen in the changing area. 

I looked back at his father, who wore an expression that was part revolted, part angry.

Does he think, I wondered, that there’s something shameful about a naked body? That it’s something children shouldn’t see? Or is it a man’s body he finds offensive? An aging man’s body? A gay man’s body? Two gay men’s bodies?

I said, “So your child isn’t supposed to see naked bodies?”

“Look,” the guy said, getting up, voice rising. “I went in there and like I said, I was respectful.”

Message received. He was letting me know that he could have been disrespectful if he had wanted to. That he was being kinder than what the situation called for. He could’ve been mean, maybe even violent, and that would have been warranted. He was letting me know that he was letting us off easy. And, we should take his reproach as a warning.

“Well,” I turned to go, struggling with my words. “Now I’ve said what I wanted to say respectfully to you.”

I walked back to Bobby who was still sitting in the pool. As I stood looking down at him, I could see he was upset. I could also feel my heart pounding. I looked over to the guy again. Another man about his age had joined him.

The original guy was talking animatedly, gesturing toward us. The new guy, who wore a tank top that revealed large biceps, looked at me with a smirk.

“Bobby,” I said. “This isn’t going to go well. Let’s go.”

He climbed out of the pool, and we started packing up. As we walked past the guy, I said, “Well, you got what you wanted. We’re leaving.”

He snorted, “Oh come on!” He and his wife and his friend burst out in derisive  laughter. He then raised his hands, palms out, and said, “Hey, that’s up to you, I was just saying…”

I recognized this response. It was the same way my oldest brother used to behave. The shrugs. The sarcastic laughter. The mocking expression on his face and in his tone of voice. My brother never let an opportunity to mess with me go by. And, as with most bullies, he was also a gaslighter. What are you talking about? Why are you getting so upset? Why are you making such a big deal…? These were common phrases for him, uttered whenever I tried to remove myself from his presence.

As I turned toward the lobby a woman walked past me, carrying a drinks tray and wearing the same uniform as Ronnie, the woman who had checked us in. 

I blurted out to her in passing, “There’s a bunch of homophobes over there making it uncomfortable for certain people to be here.”

Bobby and I got to the lobby and walked up to the front desk. Ronnie was there. 

“Hey, I want to tell you what just happened,” I said, my shaky voice evidence of a rush of adrenaline. I proceeded to explain about the changing room, the benches, no doors on the showers, the hooks for clothes, then the guy coming in, how he spoke and behaved, and how he tracked us afterward.

“This shit is unacceptable,” I said. “And I’d like a refund.”

Just then the woman from outside, apparently Ronnie’s boss, appeared. 

“What I find unacceptable,” she said, “is you using swear words in front of kids.”

I looked around. There were no kids nearby and even if they had been, I figured most of them had heard the word “shit” before. Most of the moms I know swear like truckers. 

“I'm the manager,” the woman said. “And what I heard is that you two were behaving inappropriately in the changing room.”

Bobby groaned.

A man appeared at her side, also wearing a shirt from the establishment. Had she asked him to join her, as back up?

“We don’t do refunds,” she continued, jutting her chin at me. She eyed us with the same malevolent gaze as the guy who had reported us. “And, anyway, one of the guys who’s with that group of guests is gay. So…”

More gaslighting, I thought. “I can’t be racist, I have a Black friend!”

Bobby and I decided to leave. As we were walking out I couldn’t help myself and tossed a big glorious “Fuck you!” at her. My words, earlier, had faltered. These flew through the air like beautiful flowers. 

“And that’s why you’re not welcome places!” she shouted.

We made it to our car, rattled and scared.

“Shit,” I said to Bobby. “I can’t find my phone.”

Sure enough, it wasn’t in my pockets or any of our bags. We decided it would be smarter to have Bobby try to find it. I stood next to the car and watched him go. A minute after Bobby entered the lobby, the guy who started it all sauntered out to the parking lot. He began making a wide circle around me, eyeing me, and let me know he was eyeing me. In proximity to my car, I felt somewhat emboldened. “Really?” I called to him. “You told them we were ‘behaving inappropriately’?” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, that’s what the manager said.”

Then, Ronnie walked out and stood between the guy and me. Bobby walked out holding my phone and leaving a wide margin around them.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He got into the car and I put the car in reverse. We had to drive past the guy and Ronnie to reach the exit.

“Chris, can we please just leave?” Bobby pleaded, knowing my tendency to engage.

“Yes, we’re leaving.”

Ronnie hurried toward our car and flagged us down. I slowed, and rolled down the window.

“I am so sorry that happened,” she said.

From over her shoulder the guy called to us. “I didn’t say that, I didn’t say you were behaving inappropriately!” 

It was almost as if he realized what he’d set in motion. What was he feeling in that moment? Regret? Victory? A sting to his conscience? I don’t know and I never will. What I do know is that, in the changing room, when he spoke to us “respectfully,” no matter his motive, he represented the world. He reminded us that it can be a very threatening place for people like us. He reminded us, “respectfully,” that when he saw our bodies, or our outfits, or our proximity to each other, or whatever got to him, he saw a threat dangerous enough to cause him to confront us, to try to intimidate us.

“Seriously,” Ronnie said to Bobby and me, and shooting the guy a side eye, “I’m really sorry that happened.”

I thanked her, rolled up the window, and we pulled away.

Bobby reported that she was completely mortified when he went back in to find my phone, offering profuse apologies. She asked Bobby for his number. She said she was going to speak to the owner and tell them what happened. She also offered him free passes but, of course, we won’t ever go there again.

Moments later, Bobby announced that he’d found a nearby, boutique hotel with a pool. As we were checking in, the woman behind the counter asked me how my day was going. I told her I was rattled and explained what had just happened. Her manager walked out from behind the counter and gave me a big hug. She escorted Bobby and me to the pool and set up a special spot for us. She opened up a big umbrella and brought us cups of cold water. A short while later, she came back out and invited us to return the next day as her guests and to enjoy the pool as long as we wanted. As she walked away, we allowed our middle aged, gay bodies to relax in the shade, and a few minutes later, we slipped into the refreshing pool.

Taking a dip at Onsen Hotel and Spa, where we headed after leaving Desert Hot Springs Hotel and Spa

The following week, we had dinner in LA with our friends, Laura and Dave. We told them what happened at Desert Hot Springs Hotel and Spa, a place they’ve been many times. 

The next day, Laura texted, saying, “I’ve been thinking about you and Bobby being harassed and it makes me so angry.”

She added a link for an article from The Washington Post published in honor of Pride month. It told the story of the Sacred Band of Thebes, an elite ancient Greek fighting force made up entirely of gay couples. Those five hundred queer warriors defeated the much bigger Spartan army and changed history.

It felt like Laura was telling us how she saw us, as brave, glorious fighters.

I didn’t feel much like one after our hasty retreat. Neither did Bobby. 

If we are part of an elite fighting force, it isn’t one that knows how to engage in physical combat. Bobby’s too peaceful and I’m too messy. How we fight is by trying to be true to ourselves. Making our work as honestly and as rigorously as we can. And finding ways to be as free as possible. Holding hands in public when we think it’s safe. Taking care of our bodies, whether by protecting our skin from the sun, or Bobby’s yoga practice, or my aqua volleyball team. Referring to each other as husband when we have to call the bank or deal with a utility company. Dressing up in cute outfits and being as “out” as we possibly can while still feeling at times afraid to be in the world. And speaking up, even if what I often have to say isn’t measured, isn’t well put, isn’t without sarcasm or swear words. What’s the great quote Ruth Bader Ginsburg shared? “Speak, even if your voice shakes.”

And goddammit, does my voice shake. It certainly did that day at the Desert Hot Springs Hotel and Spa. But now my fingers are steady on the keyboard. And it felt necessary to write about this unpleasant, frightening, not-terribly-proud moment of ours, to share what it’s like sometimes. Even when you’re pushing sixty and you just want to go for a swim with your husband on a scorching hot Memorial Day weekend.