I stiffen as I enter the party, taking it all in. Moms (not MILFS) mill around in pastel lingerie. Nude men pass by, penises bobbing beneath their beer bellies. A DJ to my left plays Kid Rock’s “Cowboy.”
On the spiral staircase, someone’s legs spread in the air and a man stands, humping between them in time to Kid Rock’s backup singers. “Ridin’ at night ’cause I sleep all day. I can smell a pig from a mile away.”
I’m here undercover, reporting on the city’s first all bisexual swinger club. I’ve brought my husband and until now it was unclear if that meant I “owe him one” or he “owes me.” But as we’re whisked away for the tour, I mouth an apologetic “thank you” in his direction.
The kitchen is the space for congregating, just like at your parties. A few naked men stand over the food table, pilfering for bits of cheese. I’m introduced to a group of scantily clad strangers, in their 40s and 50s. “We are just here to observe tonight. Just curious,” I say. These new friends are relaxed and nice; I finally exhale. It’s the swinging golden rule: be friendly and courteous. That, and shower and mouthwash before a party.
I’m talking with Ivana, a middle-aged woman with Anna Wintour hair, when a droopy blonde saunters by. “I don’t like fat,” she lowers her voice. “But sometimes you are in the midst of it, and you just don’t know someone is there, or you don’t care. But you must always remember to say no if you don’t like it.” I turn around and the rest of the group has disappeared, taken by the blonde’s proposition for group sex.
This is orgy etiquette. The men hang back and the women make the moves. There is ideally asking before touching and definitely asking before money shots. But one of my kitchen-friends tells me this party is a bit skewed. Because it is bisexual and men hit on men, the propositioning is back in their hands. “It’s more of a masculine vibe here,” she says.
With my friends gone, I explore. Up the spiral staircase, past a traffic jam of pink skin and Laffy Taffy-like dicks, I find an orgy room. It’s dark and the room is filled with sex sounds: moans, sucking, flesh smacking flesh. There are bodies as far as I can see. A three-way blowjob is happening at my knees and in front of me, a wiry blond man pumps a queen-sized black woman, who muffles her howls into a pillow.
With the exception of oral, everyone is wearing condoms. I was told at some swinger-parties people refuse rubbers, but a bisexual party makes people extra careful. Watching the bodies, on the floor, on beds, I marvel at how fluidly they move between partners, and realize that Ivana’s “just say no” advice makes sense.
Later, we take a breather on the couch. A woman in her 60s snores loudly next to me. A skinny woman comes over. “I don’t know. I just, I just, can’t get into it tonight.” She is jumpy with wet permed hair and smeared eye makeup. “I just took a shower,” she points at her hair. “She is on the verge of having an anxiety attack,” my husband whispers to me.
The room fills and suddenly a naked man stands in front of the anxious woman’s face. She politely begins to perform fellatio. Watching, I wonder if the golden rule should be less about manners and friendliness and more about protecting what you want, and what you are OK with sexually.
I go to find my kitchen friends, who are still locked in orgy. One of them pats a place on the bed, for me to watch. Inches away, a triple set of couples do it in doggy-style: guy on girl, guy on guy, guy on girl. An earthy smell filters the air. Men huddle, pants off, pulling their dicks. I assume this is also orgy etiquette, a sort of auditioning, waiting to be invited in.
A woman in the center stretches across the bed, grabbing a towel and water bottle (etiquette: BYO) before getting into place for a double penetration. The woman next to me also “just isn’t into it tonight.” She tried, wanting to please her husband, but had to finagle herself out of the orgy. As she talks, we watch her husband go from receiving anal sex to getting blown to burying his face in a vagina then penetrating someone else.
My eyes start to grow fuzzy. I must have been watching for an hour or two, but I’ve lost my sense of time.
It is 1 a.m. and the party is breaking up. A couple in front of me puts on their clothes and are transformed into suburban folks in their 50s. The cheese cubes on the buffet have surely grown sweaty and most people left long ago, just as soon as they’d come. The sex I saw was in a way so pure. Just about getting laid, about touch and getting off. But seeing this sex was emotionally intense, to take part of it means being present, being able to assess what you are comfortable with in the moment. Simple sex, I conclude to my husband, is no easy task.
Photo: iStockphoto
Original by Rachel White
