03 June 2014

Swing at Your Own Risk - Part I



Swingers clubs have always fascinated me.

What drives people to pay beaucoup bucks just to have others watch them have sex?  Exchange of money for sex is an ancient practice but swinging is a bit more mentally complex than the desire to fuck. Is sex with strangers really more thrilling? And could this be the key to a healthy sex life and a happier relationship? Can sex really just be sex, with no strings attached, for all?

One rainy Saturday night a few weeks ago, Mr.Rockstar, a tall, hot musician from Europe I'd been dating, asked me if I wanted to check out a swinger party. My curiosity and cabin fever got the better of me. Hell yes, I say. Would it be like watching a real live porno or  like Eyes Wide Shut, the voyeuristic final film of Stanley Kubrick? After Googling, Yelping and emailing, we find a spot downtown that seems "interesting" called Bowery Bliss.

Mr. Rockstar told me he had attended a swinger party in the past with his ex-girlfriend and watched in jealously, shock and heartbreak as she fucked three men at once. This is a mistake many swing novices make. They fail to set guidelines for their partners and miscommunication occurs.  Or they simply underestimate how emotional they may become watching their spouse be devoured & enjoyed by strangers. Mr. Rockstar had opened the Pandora's box to swingerdom but somehow he wasn't prepared for the outcome....nor was he  entirely turned off enough from the idea of sex with strangers and the possibilities of crossing swords with another guy, hence our sequel. 

I assured him, there would be no repeats of his ex's gangbang performance with me. I'm a sex snob. I prefer to be body-worshipped by many but enjoyed by a very, very few. I prefer to watch. And I certainly don't need men on first, second, and third bases to score a home run.

We lay some ground rules for one other.
Mine for him: "Safe sex. No kissing. BJ is OK. If you see a very hot guy bring him to me and tell him what I like because you should know by now."
His for me: "No sex.....Well, let's go with the flow and see what happens."

One bottle of expensive champagne (the venue had no liquor license), a golden box of Trojans, half a Molly capsule and an Uber ride later we arrive to the venue in Nolita at 1a.m.

It's a discreet loft building on Bowery and Broome, about a block from my apartment. No signage. No trendy people hanging outside smoking. No big, burly bouncer dressed in black. Just a cold, wet metal door daring us to enter and swing at our own risk.

A flight of dark stairs leads us to the check in area, a shabby, dimly lighted foyer with banged-up threadbare furniture. This should have been our first clue to turn to the exit and run like hell.
But curiosity tugs at our kinky, naughty,  little wild hearts. An older man wearing sunshades, who I assumed was the owner, was seated lazily in the corner, throws us a puzzled look, as if we were lost.

The young receptionist behind the desk takes our names.
"Have you swung before?" She asks.
"Yes," Mr. Rockstar answers, nervously.
"Where?" She asks.
He says Trapeze, a spot in midtown, with his ex.
We pay the $120 entry fee for couples plus the $20 membership fee and stow our valuables in the lockers behind the receptionist.
The old man explains the layout of the three-level venue with such nonchalance & monotone he makes sex sound staggeringly unsexy.

"First floor, dance floor. Check your bottle with the bartender and she'll serve you. Second floor, lounging area. Rooms for privacy. Third floor, lots of fucking. Crowded. Everyone's there. Fucking."
The dancefloor is totally empty. The bad '70s porn music blaring from the rusty car speakers in the corners ensures it would remain so.  I ask the manager to play some Kanye or Rihanna and he replies that he can only play what's on his iPod.

"What's an iPod? You mean iPad?" I ask.
Crickets.

In the back of the room,  we check our bottle of champs with the matronly Hispanic woman behind the bar who serves it to us... in small plastic cups. I ignore the sweaty charcuterrie & stale crakers near the bar. I guess this was they call a "buffet".
The second floor was as deserted as the first. A lofty dark room, it looks like the aftermath of a serengeti massacre.  Zebra print curtains, rugs and throws cover the room. Toward the back of the room, there's a large empty bed with red sheets and two tiny private rooms carved out with pressurized walls. Each private room is just big enough to hold an exhausted queen mattress set with loose off-white bedsheets.

"You want to have some fun in there?" Mr. Rockstar asks.
I told him I did not leave his large apartment and $10,000 king bed to roll around in a tiny room. Plus we might catch bedbugs, which would annoy me ad much as catching an STD.
So we move on up. As we ascended to the third floor, a wave of anxiety, heat and fear washes over me. Could this swingers dungeon get any worse?
Abso-freaking-lutely.
Immediately I get the feeling that I am in the middle of a bad porno with no greasy haired, goateed director to yell: Cut!

The low lighting sets the mood...it also conceals a multitude of body blunders. Queen sized mattresses line the walls side-by-side, like summer camp. On them, naked men and women gyrate, bodies stuck together by sweat.  Despite the lack of air conditioning, the couples are all getting busy, moaning, kissing.

A few spectators wearing only bathrobes look on, like in a cinema. I spot a pair of single fat girls in the corner dressed in bathrobes and sipping from plastic cups. Perhaps awaiting their turn.  How....sad. I knew Manhattan bars had tough door entry. But surely there's a dive bar with no weight limit.
Avalanches of peachy, moist flesh, combined with and the faint odor of sweat and sex in the and the sweltering heat makes my head dizzy.  For once, I'm glad my eyesight isn't 20/20. Saved by the blur.

As I back-pedal toward the exit, I bump into a man in a robe. He looks inebriated. High as a kite. No, the moon. He takes my hand, looks appreciatively at my body -- I'm wearing my guy's white button-up shirt, leather hot pants and 5-inch stilettos. Sex on legs...

"Wanna hang?" He asks.
"Oh, I only just arrived," I reply. "Let me get settled and I'll find you." I hurry to the exit before he has a chance to respond.

Later my date and I return to the bar. The heat has left us thirsty and we're both in swinger-shock from all the flesh. And short, wide people.

Beyonce is now playing in the speakers. The iPod Gods have answered my prayers.
I saunter over to Mr. Rockstar, who's seated near the bar and give him a striptease. We draw a small audience, and seated front row is the sunshade wearing manager. A lady feeling empowered casts off her robe and jiggle-wiggles near her man. Sexy is contagious.

"No wonder the manager looked at us weird," Mr. Rockstar says. "We're literally the hottest fucking couple in this place.....I don't like how that old guy is looking at you. What a creep. Let's get outta here"
Mr. Rockstar  grabs my waist, throws me over his shoulder and we go home, where the real fun begins. 

No comments :

Post a Comment