The Swinging Accident

I accidentally attended a swingers’ party last weekend. Even I didn’t know that was possible. I mean, sure, in Hollywood movies, where everything about sexual subcultures is totally misinformed, one might see an unsuspecting Owen Wilson open the wrong door and walk into a wife-swapping orgy. But me?

Let me back up for a minute, to tell you how I got there, at the wife-swap fiesta, before I tell you what transpired. I had a long week working for Fleshbot, culminating in me running the whole ‘bot Friday for a hot! naked! boobies! rampage on my part, and much giggling and spinning to myself in my office chair while Jonno was off enjoying his sexy self around New Orleans. Unfortunately the week also culminated in finding out that a sex toy dot com startup sleazebag I did freelance writing for is not going to pay me; I asked for the thousands of dollars he owes me, he told me I’d have to sign a legal document to get my money. I told him I wouldn’t sign anything and just wanted my money, and he threatened to sue me, and sent me the craziest, most belligerent and abusive email I’ve received in a long time, with him even excerpting long portions of my blog to prove that I’m out to get him and how I used him to get to work for Fleshbot (?!?) or something. It really kinda scared me, because this guy has my phone number and home address, and it’s a really psycho reaction to have when all I asked for was to get paid. It really makes me never want to work for any sleazy sex toy people again, and is a good cautionary tale about the people in the adult business — especially start-up people who think the adult biz is where they can make piles of money and fuck people over because it’s about sex, so less worthy of normal human business ethics. If it wasn’t for Fleshbot, I’d be feeling really like the whole sex business is full of liars, cheats and sleazy men who bully women around when they owe them money. What sucks is that now he’s got a month’s worth of my work, my writing, and I’m left with abusive emails and a really creepy feeling. All this for writing sales copy for vibrators? So not worth it.

So friday was a lot of fun for me, and set me up for a pleasant weekend. Saturday I lectured twice to SFSI human sexuality students, one rap about oral sex and one rap about sex toys, and seeing the educators and admin people at SFSI was like a return to family — kinky, dirty, potty mouthed family. In case you were wondering, sex educators like these are really funny, smart and energizing to spend time with, and educating is rejuvinating. I forgot how much I knew until I opened my mouth, and I had fun with the students, using words like “poon-tang” to make them laugh.

Before I hopped on my motorcycle to go down to the SF State building for my lectures, I got a nervous phone call from a horn-playing boy I know (not my Hornboy); we’ll call him Trumpetboy. He was wondering if I would want to go with him to a sex party that night. I told him I’d need to call him after my lectures, and of course, after seeing what Hornboy thought. You see, Hornboy and I are committed to each other, yet we are also committed to having fun and enjoying being young while we can, and having adventures. We’re not swingers, “poly”, have an open relationship, or any of those things that people much older than us seem to do, but we do enjoy life and sex on a case-by-case basis. It’s hard to explain, but we love sex, and each other, and don’t fit into any relationship models we’ve seen so far. So we’re making it up as we go along, and talking a lot. But also not talking about things too much. See? Hard to explain, maybe kinda gay. At any rate, when I asked Hornboy what he thought about me getting dressed up and going to a sex party with Trumpetboy, he said he didn’t care.

But Trumpetboy isn’t just some random sexy horn player; like Hornboy he’s also in SRL. We all just did a show together in LA, and while Hornboy ran the telerobotic Air Launcher, Trumpetboy (in his first show as an operator), ran the Inchworm with me. I selected him as my co-operator, based on his hard work on other shows, alertness, ability to excel under pressure, and excitement about SRL and everything that comes with it. And as per other SRL shows, we saved each other from *serious* harm at least twice during the show, each. Almost getting my legs mangled by a machine that came out of the smoke while I was focused operating my machine; both of us (and Mark Pauline) getting a full on blast of fire in our faces from the mobile jet engine, with nowhere to run (we just hit the ground). Anyway, I couldn’t resist posting my second favorite show picture of me (above) in my full riot gear with my remote control, after the show. This one is still my absolute favorite (from the first LA show two years ago).

And yes, SRL and the intensity of the shows that go along with it do become hotbeds of attraction; in fact plenty of steam was blown off after the show in couplings that defy the macho stereotypes: boy-boy, girl-boy, girl-girl, boy-boy-girl-boy… I made out with a *really* hot girl that night (she still melts me, but is famous, so I will not brag unnecessarily), so even I wasn’t exempt. But my point is that there is a lot of trust built here, and so, we trust each other.

I called back Trumpetboy after my lectures to say yes, and he was thrilled. This was a very special sex party, an invitation-only deal that he’d been invited to, in a place where I’ve been to secret sex parties before. But even I wasn’t aware of this party, so I was like, wow, cool.

Trumpetboy showed up at the door an hour late (reefer’d Hornboy: “He’s not making a very good impression on you!”). But wow. Over six feet of boy in black; shiny dress shoes, black slacks, tailored leather coat, glasses, blue eyes and a nice smile, on my doorstep, for me. I was in cocktail fetish with touseled hair; I remembered that he’d only seen me sweaty, grease-covered, in ill-fitting work clothes, with no makeup and probably smelly for the past few weeks. Shouting orders and making fun of people. Later, he told me he thought that was just as hot as my sock garters and 8″ heels, nice.

We entered the party and he covered the sixty! dollar! door fee, then seeing the place mostly vacant at 11pm, we took a seat on a couch to drink beer and chat about everything. Trumpetboy took the opportunity to change into a silk smoking jacket and high heels with his boy clothes; a nice combination, subtle kink: I like. After a beer and more conversation, we noticed that the people floating by us in the room all looked… the same. The women were in almost-stripperwear (lots of “naughty schoolgirls”), a good number of fake boobs, and the guys looked, as I put it “like a Hollywood sex party.” We remarked how straight everyone looked, and it seemed like the non-queerest place I’d been since AVN, except even at AVN there were infiltrators. No rubber, no tattoos — odd for the space and the kind of parties usually thrown there. Trumpetboy said, “You know I’m the only slightly kinky boy here — I’m feeling really uncomfortable. Would you mind if I put my boy shoes back on?” Of course not, but I was starting to get the vibe he was feeling. Like a football barbecue in a gated community, but with the wives dressed “slutty.” He said, “I need some air, want to go out?” I really did, so we went out on the smoking patio. On the patio we encountered a chatty man and a glum-looking woman. Th guy started chatting us up, “So, wow, you two are in The Lifestyle? Lifestyle Lounge?” Trumpetboy and I looked at each other, smiling. “Um, no.” The guy followed up, “…but you’re married.” Uh, no, we’re friends. “My wife feels sick,” he explained and changed the subject. Then she stood and ran out the door. “Uh, I should go check on her.”

A flood of married couples came outside, and we decided to go back in; I went to pee and listened to wife #1 vomit in the toilet next to me. When I came out, Trumpetboy almost squealed with glee (I think) when I said I wanted to leave the party. He went to get our stuff and I wandered over to the dance floor to watch the swingers “get down.” In tightly paired couples they sat or danced, and the women “sexy danced” with some of the worst moves I’ve seen. Elbows tightly at sides. Butts: left, right, left, right. Then a couple of wives decided to sexy dance together; a tight circle of men closed around them until I couldn’t see the women anymore. I had wanted to come to this party, spend time with Trumpetboy, find another girl like me, and put Trumpetboy through the ringer at the hands of merciless sexy girls; sexual “torture” (read; pleasure) for being a naughty slut-boy in heels. Looking around the room, not a single one of these women looked like they could even come close to pulling a scenario like this off.

They looked like it might fry their circuits. And this type — my type — of light-hearted sex play might be met with more than disapproval. I watched one woman dance with her husband; she was pretty, she watched me back, and I felt like a sexual predator of some sort. I wouldn’t fake lesbian tongue-kiss her for her husband to watch. I would make her lick my patent leather stilettoes. I would do all kinds of things the non-kink, homophobic crowd would hate, I’d wipe the floor with her sexually, literally. I wanted to top the fuck out of her, then and there… I’d — “Sure not the usual crowd, eh?” interrupted one of the proprietors. “Definitely not,” I smiled, glad to be yanked out of party-crasher sexual vulture mode. He continued, “Yeah, it was an idea to host a party for these folks here, and it seems to be successful, they seem to be having, uh, fun! I mean, it’s not what we usually do here and they’re pretty straight but I have to say that it’s awfully nice to have people compliment the decor. I spend so much fucking time around jaded hipsters that they come in here and no one even notices how the place looks. These people were like, ‘are you artists, oooo!’ and it was a nice change.” I laughed; that explained everything. While I waited a minute more, I overheard a guy saying, “You met my sexy wife? She’s the bait, man!” That explained everything, too.

Which still meant that Trumpetboy and I were relieved to get the hell out of there. Him more than me, I think — I always underestimate how bad someone can be made to feel simply by being uncomfortable in a room where who you are isn’t acceptable, might even make people hostile. A pair of women’s shoes on a handsome man. I was particularly moved to write this all out after I read this post about porn and sexual healing by the talented Sexual Awakening of a 30-Something Wife, whose blog I really enjoy.

Trumpetboy wrote me a beautiful email after the ill-fated, but still fun evening. His feelings are, I think, universal, so I have to quote: “That “scene” has actually got me thinking. Especially about the “why” I kept my sexuality private for so long. The boys ALL fit into one version of male sexuality. The girls ALL fit into one version of female sexuality. And neither were even close to my version. Walking in the door, I was ready to flaunt and celebrate my sexuality. And then as I became aware of the “vibe” and “uniformity” of the crowd. I was amazed how quickly I shut that door. How quickly, these things that I’m learning to share, once again became something to keep to myself.”

Needless to say, I’m taking Trumpetboy high-heel shopping, soon.

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