Giving “The Lifestyle” a Second Chance
The last “lifestyle” party I went to was about four years ago in a converted office space of an industrial park outside Boston. While I did end up hooking up with an attractive professional couple, I wasn't dying to become a regular in that world. Swingers seemed too straight, too male-dominated, and too suburban to intrigue me. I never thought of the current generation of wife swappers as queer or kinky enough for my tastes. Recently, I was invited to a swingers' party in a suburb of the city I was visiting, and decided to give "the lifestyle" another shot.
When my friend and I drove through the gates of the property, the parking lot was full, so we got a spot far away from the main house. When I stepped out of the car, I heard the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Great, I thought, a lot full of rocks and me in my high heels.
"The gentlemanly thing to do would be to carry me all the way to the door," I said to my companion.
"How about a piggyback ride?" he replied.
So I pulled up my dress around my hips, jumped on his back, and wrapped my legs around his waist. I prayed the whole way there that we wouldn't run into anyone. A piggyback ride was not my idea of a good first impression. Inside the heavy wooden front door, I informed the guy at the front desk that we were guests of the couple who had invited us.
"It's $60," he finally said. We were in.
A short fellow wearing gray silk pajamas was our designated tour guide, and we followed him to the dining area (where, under a table, two men were enjoying some very special dessert from their companions), which was just past the dance floor. A single guy with a guitar and a laptop belted out covers of everything from Stevie Wonder to ZZ Top. We proceeded on the tour. The place was packed with people ranging in age from 20 to 60, who looked like they could be at my cousin's wedding with one important exception: the women wore peekaboo teddies and garters, and some of the men were in towels. Those towels were for the indoor pool (too chilly to take a dip in the one outside), where several naked folks frolicked, and the nearby jacuzzi, so full it looked like there was more flesh than water in the tub. We passed a locker room, a fireplace with people lounging around it, and a large sectional couch facing a wide-screen TV playing some sexy movies. The size of the house was impressive, its modest, resort-like decadence felt warm, inviting, and very conducive to what the lifestyle has to offer. These people were obviously serious about sharing one another.
We stopped at a spiral staircase, where two signs read, "No Street Clothes" and "No Single Men." Our guide explained that no strip-down was necessary since we were on a tour. We headed up the stairs, and walked past room after room, each with mattresses, most with piles of people going at it. Tangles of breasts, hands, and other body parts, all moving to the sounds of grunts and groans. Now we're talking, I thought to myself.
"No unaccompanied guys are allowed up here, so," he turned to my friend, "you can only come up here with her or another woman." We both nodded to convey our understanding.
"But, if you wanted to bring like five guys up here to do them all, well, you could do that, as long as they all stayed with you at all times." I smiled. "And if he had to go to the bathroom, he could go up here, but then he would have to make a beeline right back to you, no wandering around by himself." I loved these rules: It was like we were on some island of Amazons where men weren't allowed to roam free. Works for me.
After our tour, we went up to the balcony that overlooked the dance floor to indulge in some old-fashioned voyeurism. As the night went on, everyone was half-naked or completely bare (hey, it does take the guesswork out of the equation), and we felt like the most overdressed couple there. I would have been up for enjoying the company of someone else while bringing my friend along and explaining, "He's shy, he just wants to watch," but it seemed like all the good stuff was going on in that third-floor area, and up there you had to be pretty much naked.
To avoid looking like the tourists we were, I decided to borrow from two lovely ladies we watched earlier in the evening and give my friend a private lap dance; this way, I could also shed some clothes so we wouldn't look so conspicuous. I proceeded to shimmy around, teasing him with my curves, and peeling my dress off slowly. I had to pee, so I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, a group of men had descended on my man. They were trying to take him under their wing and show him how it's done.
What was amazing is that we didn't even get hit on! (Well, except for the guy who told me, "You make my wank harder than Chinese arithmetic.") People were warm and welcoming. I have to hand it to them for figuring out what they like, and then making it happen. They're more radical than I originally gave them credit for. After all, wildly pleasuring your friend's wife is pretty kinky.
Article taken from puckerup.com
