German bathhouses steamier than most

On a trip to Germany this month, my girlfriends and I spent two nights in the chic resort town of Baden-Baden, just east of the French border. Long a playground for Europe's wealthy (and now dominated by the nouveau riche of Russia), Baden- Baden's draw is in its baths. Spring-fed, the thermal baths offer warm, therapeutic mineral water in clothing-friendly and nude-only environments.

In the Friedrichsbad spa, which dates to 1877 and boasts marble and bronze fixtures, bathing suits are prohibited. As in, if you want to indulge in the 17-step über-relaxing experience, be prepared to drop your inhibitions and your drawers. I was dying to dive into the waters of this decidedly cultural and historical experience, but my traveling companion, Jennifer, gave the nude venue a firm thumbs down. I plead my case, even pointing out that Mark Twain once partook of the spa's baths (side note: is it strange to imagine literary master Mark Twain lounging sans-swim trunks in a German bathhouse? My jury's still out).

Ultimately, though, we opted for the Caracalla Spa, a more modern version of the Friedrichsbad, where bathing suits are mandatory. I silently berated her closed-minded American prudishness the entire way there.

Once at the Caracalla, we changed into swimsuits, stowed our towels, and headed into the largest of the mineral water pools, maintained at a constant 95 degrees. Being a Sunday, the place was crowded. The more we looked around, the more we realized the spa wasn't just crowded with people like us, but, specifically, with couples. And they were all making out. I'm talking, full-on, tongues-in-throats, hands-onrears making out. It was everywhere; we couldn't look in any direction without feeling like voyeurs.

There were a fair number of teenagers hooking up in the spa. I pointed to a boy standing under a waterfall. "Are those hickies?" Jennifer followed my finger and gasped.

"Holy cow. Those are serious." The entire right side of his neck was bruised in brown circles.

But the older folks were in on the action as well. We watched a man in his 60s bounce his wife in the hot tub, giggling each time her breasts nearly floated out of her suit.

It wasn't long before we realized that if you weren't in a couple, you were fair game. As we lounged in one of the outdoor pools, a dark-haired man with a thin face and thick red lips gave us the eye. His gaze ran from me to my friend and back. He cocked an eyebrow and his eyes said, "I'm game if you're game. And bring your friend, too."

As the sun sank lower in the sky, the making out progressed to foreplay, and we bumped into errant limbs as we navigated the spa. We ducked into one of the saunas, a fragrant steam-filled, purple-lit haze that felt like the inside of the world's biggest bong. Couples sat sweating and fondling, and we had the distinct impression we'd stumbled into a private gathering. "Swingers," Jennifer mouthed, and we beat a fast retreat.

We showered and changed back into our street clothes, rehashing the love fest we had unwittingly stepped into. On the way back to the hotel, I laughed to myself, thanking God we didn't make it to the naked bath.