Hollywood's Iconic Sex Magnate Has a New Endeavor

Hollywood’s Iconic Sex Magnate Has a New Endeavor

Damon Lawner sought to spiritualize nightlife through his erotic club, SNCTM. It satisfied the unspoken needs of a global community, but not his own.

HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA – The belief that sex is sacred may not seem convincing coming from a founder of the world’s most indulgent sex club, but after six years catering to the erogenous tastes of the ultra-wealthy, Damon Lawner is not the same man he once was.

SNCTM, pronounced “sanctum,” has made headlines since 2013 for its lavish ethos, exorbitant fees, and celebrity clientele. At its events, men, in required tuxedos and bowties, roam at the arms of women in cocktail dresses or lingerie. Venetian-style masks are worn upon entry.

For anywhere from $20,000 annually to $1 million for a lifetime membership, members enjoy decadent soirées, intimate dinners, and masquerades, all curated to inspire uninhibited sexual expression in a safe, welcoming space. Live performances which Damon calls “erotic theater,” with tight choreography and loose plots, arouse guests into a hypnosis: two smitten kittens spoil each other with endless foreplay, Marie Antoinette delights in the phallic nature of the neck of a champagne bottle. Sex is figuratively and physically on the table for voyeurs to observe and enthusiasts to join in as they wish. Aside from acquired consent – “one must always ask before touching” reads part of SNCTM’s manifesto – there are no rules.

The events may look like cloak-and-daggered swingers parties, but Damon asserts objectives that are less to do with having sex and more to do with expanding sexual boundaries. In a segment from a Showtime series on the club, Naked SNCTM, he says to the camera, “It’s not about sex, it’s about the freedom to explore. Sex is easy.”

Like his club, Mr. Lawner is provocative by nature, but purer at heart. The first half of his life – a perfect funnel into SNCTM’s conception, and now in his second half is a man spit out from the other side ready to build anew.

Members and guests watching a tantalizing live performance.

Damon Lawner was born in New York City and grew up in Fairfax, a hippie community near San Francisco. Enmeshed in the drug experimentation, partying, and free love of the 70s and 80s, he described early at-home conditions that were “not conducive to health and well-being.” His mother, a world record holding swimmer who wrote poetry, and father, a violinist with a streak of rock and roll, were affectionate people, but as parents, prioritized their own “self-discovery,” a euphemism for being “fucked up all the time,” he said. “My siblings and I were like ghosts in the house, floating around.” Lawner says he can’t fathom behaving the same way around his two daughters, 12 and 14.

Values of right and wrong were never discussed; his parents were convinced that rules came down from hierarchies society was up against – government, business, or religion, he explained. “As a free-thinking agent, I could do whatever I wanted.”

As an adult, Damon remains largely disaffected, but has come to understand the irreversible consequences of overindulgence. His mother’s battle with addiction dented their relationship and his own repeated surrendering to women led to his divorce. “I believe there are controls in place to keep us in line because if not, we’re wild animals,” he said. “But if you live too much for yourself, you end up losing others. And when you lose others, you suffer.” 

At SNCTM’s peak, Damon agonized over the sacrifices he made to live in and throw parties at a Tudor mansion in Holmby Hills, surrounded by the upper echelon who looked to him as their omnipotent; a parade of young, beautiful women; and a red and white Aston Martin Vantage GT.

Members knew him as an uber host and playboy, but behind closed doors he felt alone as his grandiose visions quieted into a re-longing for the simple things. “I’d become a Hugh Hefner character,” he said. “I didn’t want to be that person.”

Damon was never sure of who he wanted to become. After high school, he studied a variety of subjects at a junior college in Marin County for a couple of years. “Philosophy, chemistry, drama, photography – I wanted to absorb it all,” he said. Then one afternoon while skateboarding with friends, a modeling scout for fashion photographer Bruce Weber approached him. Modeling was never on his radar, but he isn’t the type to pass on an opportunity. He went on to feature in campaigns for Versace and Calvin Klein.

Life picked up in his late 20’s when he met his wife, Melissa, at 1015 Folsom, a nightclub in San Francisco. “That night I told my parents I met the girl I was going to marry,” he reminisced. “We had the feeling we needed to be next to each other for the rest of our lives.” They were for twenty years.

The couple eloped to Las Vegas then moved to West Hollywood, where Damon said he spent the next decade “making music, making love, and throwing parties.” Through his network, he became an early investor in Koi, a Japanese restaurant which later took off to become a city staple in glamour dining. He created a luxury energy drink, Marquis Platinum, and started a family with Melissa, who modeled and took small acting roles in television.

“I had the cars, the house, the black AMEX,” he listed. “I flew private with Jared Leto and Cameron Diaz;” the then-couple lived in the same neighborhood next to Chateau Marmont and became close friends. All-nighters were routine, usually hosted by him and Melissa.

Then in 2008, the economy collapsed. His cars were repossessed, and his home was foreclosed on. He found himself $900,000 in debt on the verge of homelessness.

“If you’re going to be homeless, come be homeless in my villa in Bali,” proposed his father who’d been living there since divorcing his mother fifteen years ago. Damon obeyed and sold his gold Rolex to afford the move for himself, Melissa, and the kids. The first year, the Lawner’s focused on spending time together as a family. “I began to unwind from materialism,” he recalls. “All you need in Bali is a pair of shorts and a scooter.” Then he sold what remained of Marquis Platinum for $50,000 and leased a villa of his own. Soon, a familiar social life crept back in.

During a night out at Hu’u Bar in Seminyak, the owner approached Damon awestruck by his charisma and panache. He offered him, Melissa, and their friends the same table and bottle next weekend if they brought more patrons. Damon followed through week after week until eventually, it became a source of income. “I couldn’t believe I was making money doing my favorite thing,” he said; he has always been a strong socializer. “I can get anyone in the mood to drink and dance” he boasted. “Give me an empty space and I’ll fill it with fun.”

Hu’u Bar went from lively venue to exclusive hotspot with Damon selling tickets at the door. At $10 a pop with around 200 guests per night, “it was good money for Bali,” he said. Nightlife promotion became his full-time business. He conquered the W Hotel bar, once raking in $50k in one night, and set up cabaret style Thursdays at Anantara Bar’s rooftop and Sunday pool parties at Cocoon Beach Club called SPLASH, still running to this day. “Holy fuck,” he thought. “Here’s this skillset I’ve never tapped into.” For a while, things were back on track.

Damon describes his ex-wife Melissa as the love of his life. “I would give my life for her,” he said with no hesitation. Still, he questioned his loyalty, not to her–their immediate draw was more than infatuation–but to the principle of monogamy. He craved sex and didn’t feel guilty about it. “Society tells us sex should be hidden away and kept in private because it’s evil and wrong” he said. “I thought, ‘No. It’s fucking luxury.’”

Melissa insisted on moving back to Los Angeles. Her conservative upbringing favored a “picked fence” lifestyle for their daughters. Damon complied.

“It’s hard being 40 and starting over,” he said, exactly his task once settling the family into a small room in his mother-in law’s house in Woodland Hills. He was back at square one, prospectless, with literal holes in his shoes and an unemployable resume. “I’ve never worked for anyone. There’s not one person you could ask, ‘Did Damon work for you?’” he said. He applied to be a parking attendant but with no references or credentials, he didn’t get the gig. Desperate to claw in anywhere, he got a real estate license and became a realtor at Sotheby’s in Beverly Hills.

An inventive, rebellious energy permeated inside of him as he began scraping together an alternative to a life he now dreaded. “I had the urge to spiritualize nightlife,” he said. The nightlife in Bali had buzzed with spirituality. “Indonesia is Muslim, but the religion on the island is Balinese Hindu. They practice yoga, meditation, burning incense and making offerings to higher deities,” he said. Known as the Island of the Gods, its energy was unmatched by the States where he says there is no meaningful social culture. “Go to 1OAK or whatever. It’s reflective of LA,” he said. “You’ll find lost, pretty girls scantily clad to attract a man who just wants to put another notch in his belt.”

For nearly two decades, he’d reveled in world-class cities like Los Angeles, New York City, San Francisco, and Bali, and wanted to create a club of his own. “My parents were at Woodstock,” said Damon. He suspects he inherited their taste for counterculture and joyous gatherings of ecstasy.

It was in this lull of brainstorming a new endeavor that Damon rented the cult-classic film by Stanley Kubrick, Eyes Wide Shut. An erotic slow-burn delving into the psyche of a husband and wife in Manhattan played by Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Kubrick calls on the same underestimated hurdles that tantalized Damon for years – the confines of monogamy, an insatiable sexual appetite, the adhesives of marriage.

After Kidman’s character admits to almost giving up their life together for a night of crazed sex with a handsome stranger, an embittered Cruise embarks on a nocturnal journey intended to blur his own moral compass. An internal tug-of-war begs ‘Should I?’ or “Shouldn’t I?’ At the night’s peak, he wears a cloak and mask inside a mansion in Long Island watching the clandestine orgy of an unnamed ensemble.

“It’s not about sex, it’s about the freedom to explore. Sex is easy.”

Damon became captivated by the idea of a secret society. He yearned for a similar discovery of freakish dogma wherein permissive debauchery thrived. Kidman and Cruise’s on-screen marital discord mirrored his own; neither him nor Melissa had explicitly expressed wanting to step outside of their marriage, but unfed desires were beginning to boil.

Damon researched other underground clubs like Skull and Bones, a long-standing undergraduate society at Yale University, and Freemasonry, the world’s largest fraternal organization. Both are subject to various conspiracy theories and criticism. He studied Christianity, citing it as the most successful and ancient example of spiritual mass adoption. “Cult plus time equals religion,” he said.

The right iconography and backstory were important. Damon drafted a logo–an all-seeing eye and cross inside of a teardrop–meant to symbolize collective awareness. SNCTM would become a morally awakened and sexually charged slice of nightlife whose illustrious predecessors handed him the keys to present to modern society. “That SNCTM always existed, you just didn’t know about it, was the messaging from the beginning,” he said.

At SNCTM’s first few parties held at night clubs in Los Angeles, Damon confiscated phones and hung up a curtain for guests to watch live sex shows (these would mature into erotic theater). Sex was prohibited inside of the clubs, so when the Russian mobster-looking owner walked in on a show one night, Damon prepared for the worst. “I thought I’d get kicked out or beat up,” he remembers. Instead, the man peered over at the couple having sex, then to Damon, toggling back and forth before reading the room and leaving without a word. “Everyone there felt the same,” Damon said in amazement. “One guest said it was like seeing the rock band Nirvana play for the first time–walking on stage fucked up wearing flannel during a time long-haired metal was the norm. No one had seen anything like it.” Damon knew he had something special.

SNCTM rapidly evolved into the fetishized Cirque du Soleil featured in press and an episode of HBO’s documentary series, Real Sex. He had replicated the Balinese vitality and elusive Eyes Wide Shut aesthetic within SNCTM’s walls, and others noticed.

Damon and Melissa pose for Prestige Indonesia, the islands’ only luxury magazine. "“Together they are the “it” couple behind Bali’s most exclusive parties,” the feature reads.

Millionaires and billionaires applied to become members. Celebrities and business moguls had a new party in town, one with the opulence meant to allure exactly their type. “Money to them is not the same as money is to us,” Damon said about his clientele. “It’s fun when there is no budget.” Oscar-winning actors, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and talk show host, Bill Maher, have reportedly stopped by.

SNCTM held events in Los Angeles, New York City, Moscow, Mexico, and Kiev–each an otherworldly celebration of sex with no hang-ups. “As long as you have permission, if you want to make love or fuck someone, go ahead,” he said. “You’re surrounded by people of like-mind.” Five-star hotels, historic buildings, and global markers like Cannes Film Festival became revolving homes for the club’s affairs.

Now a sex magnate and daring founder, Damon strove to broaden his own sexual purview. He gravitated towards dominance and aggression, but when going that direction with Melissa, she turned away. He felt stifled in his bedroom but had no interest in joining an existing club or the BDSM world as he knew it. Instead, he tailored SNCTM’s value proposition to offer a judgement-free environment for members, including himself, to play. “I didn’t want to wear leather and have a ball-gag in my mouth. I wanted to be naked with the person I lust one-on-one,” he told me. “That’s heaven on Earth.”

Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman star in Eyes Wide Shut, 1999.

“Give me an empty space and I’ll fill it with fun.”

Although him and Melissa divorced at SNCTM’s peak three to four years in, her now living with their daughters in Brentwood and him in the Hollywood Hills, Damon says love can evolve into something richer after a relationship ends. Romantic longing, wavering in nature, graduates into a fixed pledge of mutual respect and gratitude.

“’I always allowed you to be you,’ she said to me,” he recalled. Melissa was empathetic to his wandering eye and knew there had been indiscretions within their marriage on his end, but reasoned that at least they were in private. At SNCTM, everyone knew. “She said she couldn’t be married to the guy that owned SNCTM.”

After losing Melissa–his most painful sacrifice–Damon grew cynical. The club’s ostentation had extended beyond his own allowance, but outsiders still wanted in and members wanted more. He wondered how much he could get away with. “I sold memberships for $425k by offering a special ring and ceremony to be indoctrinated into this society that I’d made up,” he said after a sigh. “We all want a departure from reality.”

SNCTM members were either rich or beautiful or rich and beautiful. Cost-prohibitive fees ensured the men had drooping pockets and a careful vetting process favored women with objectively attractive features and slender physiques. The club’s allegiance to wealth and beauty feigned no resemblance to the inclusive nature of many public brand today.

The press perpetuated its indecencies by printing terminology that would sink most reputations, but for SNCTM, shone golden – “The idea of the Hollywood elite up to no good – it worked perfectly,” he said.

By its fifth year, Damon’s cynicism turned into disheartenment. His ambition to spiritualize nightlife had become a "catering service for rich perverts,” he said. Somewhere along the way, the SNCTM sketched out by a slouched over realtor had derailed into an entity he was no longer proud of.

On November 19th, 2018, in Founder Manifesto No. 14, Damon wrote, “The last many SNCTM events in Manhattan and Los Angeles have been revelatory for me… I didn’t want to be at my own events anymore, the message had been lost.” On August 12, 2019, in Founder Manifesto No. 20, Damon announced he had sold SNCTM to investment group, The Circle. “SNCTM has been an all-encompassing affair of mischief and madness, triumph and sorrow, feast and famine, dreams and nightmares,” he states. “I have passed the golden ring.”

He moved out of the SNCTM mansion hoping to mend his relationship with Melissa and reassemble his family. “I confessed to her that the man I’d become was not the man I was. It was all just a phase,” he said. As enduring as she is, Melissa did not want to try again. He sat back at the drawing board, this time by his own accord.

***

Today, Damon, who now goes by Father Damon on social media, is a reincarnation of his former self. “I went through a lot of self-induced suffering,” he said, justifying his enlightened state. “It took a lot of insanity.” He claims the name “Father Damon” came to him on a whim and isn’t all that serious, but by borrowing the title of a priest, an embodiment of chosenness, Damon seems comfortable inferring himself as a spiritual influencer and thought leader.

His next project, The Sanctuary, is a final destination for his lessons learned in sex and love. Another members-only club, The Sanctuary encourages its disciples to shed excess ego in search of pure love of self and others, “regardless of race, social status, and other defining characteristics,” reads his website, www.fatherdamon.com. “We don’t discriminate against anyone for any reason.”

In quarterly retreats called The Gathering, members will follow guided yoga and meditation; drink organic elixirs; and practice breath work, tantric sex, and soul gazing with their partner to become “love warriors,” or masters of their romantic domain. Ideally, a couple’s connection reaches new depths. If not, Damon advocates for “conscious uncoupling,” a term first introduced by relationship expert, Katherine Woodward Thomas, and later popularized by Gwyneth Paltrow when she separated from her husband, Chris Martin, in 2016.

The Sanctuary will prohibit alcohol; advise loose, neutral-colored clothing; and discourage couples from sexually interacting with others to focus on reaching their highest joint potential. To assume Damon merely swapped each pillar of SNCTM with its inverse would be easy, but he insists The Sanctuary is an evolution of his vision, not a do-over or replacement.

“At SNCTM, the purpose of sex became akin to drinking, doing drugs, or driving fast cars: immediate gratification, to feel thrilling and sexy. “How much can I consume before it destroys me?” he said. “Now I know there is no fulfillment in that.” He hopes to provide a new vantage point to those hungry for money and power like he once was and so many he knew at SNCTM – “power idiots,” he calls them.

Participation is still expensive. Annual membership runs $20,000 for access to The Gatherings and a lifetime membership to become an Original Founding Member (OFM) costs a quarter of a million for access to The Gatherings, 24/7 entry into The Sanctuary estate in Topanga, and a deeded ownership of the property valued at $150,000. Both tiers include caftans with designated member patches and fresh flowers upon arrival.

“I’m a hippie at heart, but love luxury,” Damon said sitting cross-legged in an ivory colored caftan with his personalized Father Damon logo stitched onto the chest and a $40,000 watch.

“SNCTM existed within both worlds, too. At times feeling pagan with mud, wine, and fire, but you’re also in a tuxedo or La Perla lingerie,” he laughed. The Sanctuary will lack the erotic theater SNCTM was known for, appealing to a different kind of elitist. “Prior SNCTM members will want to join,” Damon said, anticipating he will accept about twenty percent of them. “But I’m looking for new people.”

He does not want to end up with another SNCTM. A Rolex wraps around his wrist as a daily reminder to not regress into old ways. “Don’t get me wrong, parts of it were fucking amazing,” he said. “I want to take the best parts of SNCTM and bring it to The Sanctuary.”

Soul gazing is a Tantra method of nonverbal communication meant to foster intimacy and trust.

Above all, he wants to fall madly in love again. What he has long considered the root of his suffering is now his superpower–“an unusual capacity for love,” he said. “Its energy is the highest form of consciousness. If I can teach and practice that for the second half of my life, I’m the luckiest man.” He intends to reinstate monogamy into his next committed relationship, claiming his non-monogamous period was a coping mechanism and symptom of an addictive personality.

Damon’s phantom resume is still incomprehensible. He’s held space for the unraveling of animalistic libido and turned Stanley Kubrick’s final film into a reality, but in 2020 and onwards, he will tackle a bigger feat–enveloping the roles of sex therapist, spiritual guide, and master host into one. Knowing his track record, he will succeed.

“I’m not sure I should tell you this,” he began, unwinding his grand vision for The Sanctuary. “Inside a beautiful dome are couples soul gazing and practicing breath work and elements of tantric sex. After a while, they’re rewarded with a deep, long-anticipated kiss that progresses until each couple is making love, physically unaware of their surroundings, but spiritually all connected. Intimacy builds. Emotions build too. Until in one moment, everyone climaxes,” he said. It just might be heaven on Earth.