I would like to write that my worst fears of a meat market were realised and I put on a tantrum and swanned out of the house party like a woman possessed by virtuous principles, but that wouldn’t be true. I would like to write that The Drummer and I met hordes of like-minded couples and enjoyed hours of grinding and bumping and fucking and can barely walk today, but that wouldn’t be true, either. The truth is more and less interesting all at the same time, and nothing like the pre-conceptions in my previous post.
We went to the swingers’ party but neither of us had sex. I don’t know if that labels us swingers or not. It reminds me of the rock’n’roll analogy that we went on the tour but didn’t get the t-shirt.
The Drummer finished work early and came home with dinner while I searched for something alcoholic to take the edge off my nerves. The best I could find was the last slug in a bottle of white rum with some flat diet cola, but down the hatch it went.
Later The Drummer, dressed in jeans, loafers and shirt, jiggled his car keys as I watched television and wondered where time went. At the last minute I showered, applied make-up and threw on a black shirt, skirt, stay-up (the liars) stockings and heeled pumps in record time. There was nothing stopping us from going although we giddily reminded ourselves in the driveway that no one was forcing us.
It was the quickest 25-minute drive in time-warp history to an average house in an average street in an average outer suburb. Average cars were parked on the street and an average-looking couple walked up the driveway to Swinging Central while The Drummer and I sat in our darkened car and checked them out. We indulged in a mini-argument when a car parked behind us because I wanted to wait until they too had entered the house. I am rational under fire. The lone man who emerged from the car loped to the front door and I fretted that perhaps the couples-only rule had been broken, but he was turned around with quiet efficiency.
The organiser beckoned us in the door with a friendly flourish. She and her husband were of an age to have adult children who had flown the coop so the spare bedrooms could be turned into orgy dens. She had breasts left to run loose in a singlet-style bodysuit with her bottom half dressed in a leather skirt half a size too large and simple scuffs on her feet. I didn’t realise until later that the ‘regular’ women wore similar outfits: stretch fabric dresses or singlets and skirts for quick removal and re-dressing, and kick-off shoes that wouldn’t cost a packet to replace if they got lost under someone’s nightstand. The men started in casual wear that disappeared into a selection of fabric and leather g-strings. About six couples were in the kitchen and lounge room when we were taken on the house tour and we were the youngest by at least a decade.
On reflection after checking out our potential playmates, we had selected the right environment for our first party but it was the wrong age group on the night. There’s plenty of time in my future years to be with people entering their sixth and seventh decades and it just isn’t now.
Later a younger couple arrived and we struck up a conversation. It was L’Homme and La Femme’s first party as well and we laughed nervously when we exchanged tales of summoning the courage to knock on the door. They were attractive and friendly but I struggled to maintain small talk and settle into a groove.
The Drummer asked La Femme if she was interested in playing and she answered that she wasn’t ready at that time. I would have been interested in watching and possibly joining if she assented but it wasn’t to be for any of us. They were the first to leave and didn’t spend time in the bedrooms. The Drummer offered our phone number if they wanted to meet in a quiet setting another time but they didn’t take him up when they left. C’est la vie.
We spent the next hour watching male-centric porn with the sound replaced with classic hits and memories music. I broke one unspoken rule of a house party, it seems. When the DVD ended of Gladiator-style heroes with puzzling facial expressions double penetrating bear skin-clad women, I started looking through the spindle of DVDs for something less misogynistic. Within seconds of lifting the first disc off the platter, the house owner materialised from thin air and took the stack from my hands with a cold stare. I blushed and handed back the ‘XXX Assorted’ I had taken from the top. He selected a disc and we were subjected to more interchangeable Eastern European women in gang bangs and facial cum shots with men wearing Grim Reaper-style rubber masks on their heads. I couldn’t see how that would excite anyone of any sexual persuasion.
A compact, eager woman in her forties sat next to us to chat. Her candour was refreshing when she confessed to driving around the block several times before parking the car. It was a shame she reminded The Drummer and I too much of a family friend because she wandered off and returned to invite him to romp as we talked about going home. We all deliberated — I’d have hung around in the lounge room if it was an hour earlier but we were tired and I wasn’t part of her invitation. We said goodbyes and saw her leaving as we drove off. Brave woman for getting off her backside and taking a chance.
We didn’t talk much in the car on the way home as we made sense of the evening in our own minds. Everyone in the 10 or so couples was welcoming and understanding of our first-night nerves. We were included in conversations if we wanted to join in and left to our own devices when we needed down time. Disappearances into the bedrooms were discreet and no one crowded doorways to view the action or intrude. For a while I thought it was a shame I didn’t share the regulars’ relaxed attitudes, but we do things at our own pace and mine on the night was slow and unco-ordinated. I need time to reflect and understand how new experiences fit into my world view.
We got home and The Drummer went straight to bed and I stayed up, roamed the house for a while and listened to the rain falling outside. Sorry for not jumping your bones, darling, but seeing uncle-aged figures in leopard print g-strings and non-stop dreadful porn put up a ‘closed until further notice’ sign on my genitals.
By this afternoon we were on the web looking at larger-scale swingers’ parties so it can’t have been all bad. I doubt it’s something I’ll do regularly, but there’s no reason to exclude it from our repertoire when the mood strikes.