“I was a single swinger, but my sex life was far from fantastic”

In the swingers community, single women are “unicorns” because of their great rarity. As a general rule, most swingers indulge in this practice as a couple. Couples looking for a bachelorette swinger are sometimes referred to as “unicorn hunters”.

I know this because I spent four years in the skin of a unicorn, which allowed me to learn a lot about human relationships, in bed and outside. Above all, I learned a lot about myself, about what I wanted and what I didn’t want.

When I was 23, a friend I had known from college discovered a swingers club in downtown Cleveland. Neither of us could resist the temptation to do something that would shatter our image as well-behaved young women.

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After registering online for an annual individual membership ($ 10 for women, and $ 75 for men and couples), we went through the “etiquette” while waiting to receive our passwords. The club did not sell alcohol and had a zero tolerance drug policy. You could bring your own bottle and leave it with the bartender, and the club would provide the mixers.

During the summer of 2008, I swore by champagne and Red Bull. My friend and I drank a few “champagne cocktails” before going to this club. By the time we got there, we were already drunk with post-adolescent rebellion and full of alcoholic courage. After leaving a bottle of champagne for the bartender, we started our visit.

The layout of the place was nothing out of the ordinary. There was a bar, a dance floor, a room filled with surprisingly comfortable sofas and a whole host of private rooms, along dimly lit hallways.

Where was the sexual trapeze hanging from the ceiling? The domineering woman with pinched nipples and her inevitable whip? What about the sleazy looking middle aged white dude cumming on the cake? It was not at all as I had imagined reading erotic novels or watching porn movies. We thought we were going to a place of debauchery and we actually found ourselves facing normal people, in a normal club.

After dancing and having two or three more drinks, we decided to go see what was going on in the private rooms.

Quality libertine clubs pay close attention to the notion of consent and establish rules to ensure that everyone feels comfortable and safe.

When a door is closed, it means that the game is already complete. Conversely, when it is open or ajar, you can come in and watch. If you like what you see, you can ask the couple or the group to join them. Whatever the answer, it cannot be disputed in any way. My friend and I had no desire to participate that night. We just wanted to watch.

Wide-eyed, we poked our heads around all the rooms with open doors, giggling. We saw a man being sucked by two women, an erect penis coming out of a “glory hole” like some sort of disembodied phallic fantasy, and a man kneeling in front of a woman sitting on a bedside table.

When we returned to the bar, a middle aged woman was on the dance floor. She wore nothing but a lacy bodysuit and encouraged men to pinch her nipples and stroke her body through the mesh.

This woman, who was easily 20 years older than me, an imperfect body and questionable sense of rhythm, yet danced with self-confident abandon. She was in control of her sexuality, and I wanted to feel that control too.

After that night, I got into the habit of looking at the club’s events page. Every weekend, for almost five months, I reasoned with myself to convince myself not to go back. I was tempted by the idea of ​​a dungeon or neon party, but I could resist it.

But there is one thing I couldn’t resist: the Sybian, a tremendously effective vibrator. This device, which has the appearance of a saddle, has a more powerful electric motor than those of most lawn mowers. A rotating dildo is at the center of the device, and vibrating pads are located at the base of the “seat” to stimulate the clitoris. I had only seen this device in porn movies.

Women’s faces say a lot about the porn you watch. Depending on the genre, they seem ecstatic, or ashamed. But Sybian porn is different. Women who ride this device have a deformed face, a sign of a very powerful orgasm.

Unless there was a big unexpected cash flow, I could never buy myself a $ 1,500 sex toy. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, which would not happen again.

I had to go back to the club. This time I went alone.

A line of women waited for the ride to ride the Sybian, and a circle of men watched. I was close enough to the door to see the women having fun. Their faces were contorted with ecstasy. One of them even cried. They seemed so free!

My turn has arrived. The Sybian had been disinfected and covered with a condom, ready for use. The man in charge of the machine offered me some lubricant.

“I don’t need it,” I said with a wink, eager to impress the crowd.

A word of advice: when someone offers you lubricant, always say yes.

There were so many stares on me that I couldn’t relax. It felt good, but I felt like I wanted to urinate. Since I was not aroused enough to cum, that was surely it. I let myself be carried away by the movements of the device, making sure that my chest bounces attractively, while saying to myself: “Above all, don’t pee!”

The guy to my left asked me if he could fondle my breasts. I said yes. It was nice but, just like the Sybian, it wasn’t enough to send me to seventh heaven.

It wasn’t the ride of my life. I was thinking too much, and the orgasm was slipping through my fingers. But I had stood in line for an hour, and all these horny men around me were waiting to see me cum.

I faked an orgasm so as not to disappoint them, without realizing how much I was betraying myself.

I went back once or twice a month after that, determined to have a real orgasm. During this period, I encountered:

  • The guy who only used technical terms during sex. Him: do you want me to kiss your beautiful brown anus? Me: Uh, no thanks.
  • The guy who keeps apologizing for slavery until the Civil War. Weird.
  • The super cute guy who never really got a hard-on (we met twice outside of the club. I respect the three-try rule).

No matter what I did, I was never able to relax enough to have a real orgasm. Let it be clear: I loved the sex, the kisses and the carnal contact as much as the report itself, but I was not enjoying it.

And then, in October 2008, I was arrested for drunk driving in the parking lot of my building (in defense of the policewoman, it is true that I threw up on her). I had spent a good part of the evening drinking tequila shots with a bartender I wanted to spend the night with.

I was managing really well at work, but my personal life was getting out of hand. So, quite naturally, I decided to drown my grief in anonymous reports. But the more I went to the club, the more I randomly slept with people, the less I loved myself.

Even though I was a unicorn, my life was not a dream.

Warning: there can obviously be magical moments in a libertine club, especially between partners who sincerely appreciate swinging. I experienced it once, with a couple that I had chosen during the summer of 2011.

By then, I had become quite good at giving women orgasms. There is something about female orgasm that gives you a sense of accomplishment that you just don’t find with men.

This man and his wife loved to make love with women. Most of the couples I have been with have been heterosexual and voyeuristic. But this man and woman both wanted me, and it was an intoxicating feeling.

I was having sex with her husband when she started to cum. She sat up, staring at him as I stroked her dexterously.

“You are beautiful,” he told her.

“I love you!” she replied. They were having an incredible moment of intimacy and I was just … there. The voyeur was me. It penetrated me, but I was still the fifth wheel of the carriage. I went home and cried.

I should have stopped everything then, but that frustrating, anonymous sex had turned into a drug. AND it was free. At church, no one could smell my heavy breath, or the sex oozing out of my pores. I didn’t hurt anyone except myself.

The escalation continued, until that night when I agreed to have violent sex with two men. The next day I was bruised and aching all over, but part of me felt like I deserved it.

I broke down and ended up confiding in my psychologist that I was sleeping with strangers.

“Is this sex enjoyable?” she asked. I nodded no. “So why are you doing this?”

I did not know what to answer him. I decided to abstain until I found the answer.

I finally realized how much I lacked confidence in myself. Sex was just the last item in the chain of drugs of all kinds that I used to satisfy my thirst for unconditional love. The problem was not with the club, but with me.

Most of the single people and couples I met in “this environment” went to swingers clubs to explore their sexuality in a safe and non-judgmental environment, to strengthen their intimacy with their partner, or to have sex. consensual and without consideration.

I was not part of that majority. I was deeply depressed and emotionally fragile. I used this club to avoid confronting myself with the intimacy and vulnerability of a real relationship. I couldn’t believe anyone wanted to stay with me longer than an orgasm, since I was already struggling to put up with myself.

In retrospect, I realize that I was looking for something that should have come from me. The woman who danced in her bodysuit and the couple whose complicity had moved me to tears already knew what I am finally discovering: unconditional love of oneself is the safety net essential to all freedom, that she either sexual or not.

This blog, published on the American HuffPost, was translated by Elisabeth Mol for Fast ForWord.

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“I was a single swinger, but my sex life was far from fantastic”


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