Tales Out of Camp - Pt. II
I have all sorts of notes compiled for a post about moving to Philadelphia, including such gems as "LIGHTBULBS, 10 PM: WHO DO I HAVE TO BLOW TO GET ONE IN THIS TOWN?", "GAS STATION MINI-MART: HAS HIBACHIS AND TEN DIFFERENT KINDS OF ROLLING PAPERS BUT NO LIGHTBULBS? WHAT UP W/THAT? IF YOU'RE STONED AND EATING A HOT DOG, YOU WON'T CARE THAT YOU'RE DOING IT IN THE DARK?!" and the delightful "NOT ONLY IS THIS NOT MY STREET, BUT THIS NEIGHBORHOOD SEEMS TO HAVE AN AWFUL LOT OF BAIL BONDSMEN!"
However.
Ever since my last post, it's been nothing but, "But what about the SWINGERS?", "Tell us about the swingers RIGHT NOW!", etc. I had no idea that my heavily-domesticated audience would be so enraptured by tales of debauchery. I may have found the most lucrative crossover market since Spanglish pop ("If you don't give me todo su amor, I'll kick your culo right out that door!"): gonzo journalism for the PB&J set. You're not quite ready for German scheisse porn, but you're going to poke your own eyeball out with a rubber-tipped spoon if you don't find a form of entertainment more titillating than "Goodnight Moon" (which I generally finish reading to my short-attention-spanned infant thusly: "Goodnight to the following: bears, chairs, bowl of gruel, disturbing anthropomorphic rabbits. Goodnight noises everywhere, including the ones YOU'RE going to make when mommy unceremoniously dumps you in your crib").
On with the show!
When we last left our intrepid ("intrepid" being a kind euphemism for "drunk") heroine, she was trekking across a darkened field in search of a rumored swingers' party. Her flagrantly silly imagination ran wild during her brief stroll... Jenna Jameson-esque nymphs being lashed to logs with vines, nudes prancing around a moonlit pond, pine cones being employed in ways the original tree definitely wouldn't condone. Upon reaching the campground's pool, however, those naughty-Narnian fantasies (perfect title, should any adult-movie producers wish to whiz on C.S. Lewis' grave: "The Layin', the Bitch and the Whore-Probe") were laid to waste even faster than her present use of the clunky third-person tense.
It was... professional. Slick. Completely, consummately competent.
There was a bar! A DJ! Inflatable pool sharks! Women in Gap bikinis sipping Cosmos!
At that moment, a part of my soul left my body, dissolved into the layer of steam blanketing the pool and floated lazily into the night.
For me, grown-up activities have always been the antithesis of diamonds: best when unpolished.
The first time Junket and I tried pot, we weren't aware of the availability of commercial rolling papers. As a result, our first-ever shared joint was approximately 8" long and bright orange as a result of being rolled on... origami paper. It's one of my favorite memories, and it's largely because of - rather than despite - the coughing, sputtering, and combustion of enough orange dye to mutate the next-door neighbors' DNA.
One of the best kisses of my life occurred mere moments after my co-osculator had consumed a Big Mac. I may be the last person in America who has never tried one of those delightfully caloric concoctions. I always figured there wasn't really any point; by the time I was done customizing it, I'd be left with nothing but a forlorn sesame-seed bun. When it comes to burgers, I'm a purist... no stupid lettuce, no briny-ass pickles, no reeking onions, no baptism by sauce, no matter how purportedly "special".
I remember that kiss, though - fast-food lights reflected in my boyfriend's glasses, his fingers hesitantly twining through my hair, the deep, gas-slurping thrum of the Ford Granada in which we were parked - better than any of the thousands of more ideal lip-locks I've experienced since.
Clearly, not everyone shares this view... hence the popularity of lab-created babes such as Pamela Anderson-Lee-Lee-Rock. But again, personally, the perfection's in the imperfections. And watching women with better hair than I'll ever have aquatically gyrate to "Can't Get You Out Of My Head" sucked all the eroticism out of that scene faster than a flotilla of expensive penis pumps.
"So... is this your first Eros Adventures event?" asked Raoul (note: all names and identifying details changed to protect the... um, not-so-innocent?). "Um... I guess?" I said. I was huddled in the shallow end, sipping the remnants of my rum 'n Gatorade and doing what I do best: no, not THAT, smart ass... observing. During the event's first hour, my observations were limited to the following:
- If these are enlightened, adventurous grown-ups, then why are they all standing on opposite sides of the pool like kids at a junior-high dance?
- Attention, women confronting post-childbirth "spread": while I'm truly happy if you can embrace your body's new contours, objectively speaking, you MIGHT not want to descend a waterslide nude at this point in your life. I'm just sayin'.
"So... whaddya think?" said Raoul. An older, less-intolerably-hammy version of Cuba Gooding Jr., he and his taciturn blonde girlfriend were frequent Eros Adventures attendees. "Uh... I kinda thought there'd be... y'know... more HAPPENING," I stammered. Apart from the occasional al fresco waterslider, the event was surprisingly tame. Couples clung together, rarely venturing apart to chat up their fellow attendees. "It's still early," said Raoul, "Things'll heat up!" "Say," he said, eyes lowered, "Those are some NICE breasts you have there. Mind if I... touch them?"
If my libido had been wounded by the earlier Ethel-Merman-meets-Kylie-Minogue acrobatics, Raoul's eerily polite request for a handful of tit flat-out killed it. It was the spirit of adventure (coupled with the unavoidable fact that my boobs are like the town bicycle's horn - everyone's had a squeeze!), however, which led me to say, "Sure, knock yourself out."
It was then, my mammary suspended in Raoul's respectful grip, that I had an epiphany.
"Actually, I have a confession to make," I said, more literate than I'd been all evening ("Um... waterslide... naked... chafing?"). "I'm a writer, and I'm here to learn more about your lifestyle."
"Really?" said Raoul, dropping my boob like an ignited potato. "Well, what do you want to know?"
As it turns out, rather than being disappointed that they wouldn't get to feast on my supple (um... jiggly? Squish-tastic?) young flesh, the swingers were delighted to discuss their lives, loves and pervy peccadilloes. It also turns out that - unlike casual group sex - I have a natural affinity for the writer's role. Never was I more comfortable than sitting back, watching the action (Raoul was right... while no slippery orgies broke out amongst the FunNoodles, I did get the dubious pleasure of seeing a man orally serviced to the Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun"... something tells me Gordon Gano would approve) and interrogating the participants about the interesting twists and lubed-up turns which their lives had taken to bring them to that particular moment. About that, I have to say this:
- While each of the people with whom I spoke had a fascinating back story, I have a feeling that any given individual off the street would’ve been just as interesting. In this culture, in these crazy, topsy-turvy, CrunchWrap-fueled times (note: I've got nothing against the CrunchWrap. It's got more angles than any other fast-foodstuff, so it's a-okay by me. I'm actually looking forward to the development of the CrunchDodecahedron in a decade or so), people rarely open up to one another. We miss this shared dialogue with our fellow humans... hence the popularity of alcohol (KY Jelly for the consciousness) and reality TV.
- Despite their free-lovin', self-confident ways, the swingers were some of the most uptight individuals I've ever met in terms of their raw hunger for acceptance. To a person, everyone with whom I spoke wanted nothing more than for popular society to stop ridiculing, lambasting and persecuting the polyamorous populace. Now, forgive me if I'm being insensitive, but I was unaware of any widespread malice towards those of the swingin’ persuasion. At very least, they don't face the daily challenges of, say [gays, Jews, blacks, the handicapped, immigrants]. I doubt very much that members of any truly marginalized population would take kindly to the swinger's heartfelt pleas for understanding.
Like all good (or at least perversely fascinating) things, my stint as pseudo-interviewer to the rurally wanton had to come to an end. While I was chatting with the adorable female bartender about her current husband, her former husband and the impossibility of utter honesty, a shirtless, Kris Kristofferson-ish man strode up to me.
"So... you're the writer?" he said in a not-entirely-friendly tone.
"Yup!", I chirped, oblivious.
"Well, GREAT!" snarled his companion, a stringy, Crypt Keeper-ish blonde. "Although I don't suppose it matters NOW... party's already over!"
True to her words, lip- (and other appendage) locked groups had begun drifting away from the pool, presumably for adventures of a differently-steamy nature.
"See, we're a little SENSITIVE to the media's portrayal of our way of life," said AngrySwinger, "Ever since our last meeting spot got shut down because a story in the local paper made everyone all hysterical."
"Why can't you people just leave us alone?" spat FuriousWife.
Not having the heart (or humility) to 'fess up that I only "wrote" for an audience of dozens and $4.79 a month in AdSense revenue, I sputtered, "Um... trust me, y'all don't have to worry about anything from me."
"Yeah, whatever," said FuriousWife, "Like I said, the party's OVER."
"My wife's just a little worried about what happened last time," said AngrySwinger apologetically, "We'd appreciate it if you didn't use any names or identifying details (note: I didn't... please don't kill me, swingers!)... maybe just say something positive about alternative lifestyles?"
"I think I can do that," I said, not wanting to be found dead in the woods with a Hitachi Magic Wand-shaped divot in the back of my skull. "You were all really nice, interesting people" (which is true, the fact that I found their gathering roughly as erotic as Sunday mass notwithstanding).
"Thanks," said AngrySwinger, "Time for us to get going now."
I took that as my queue to vacate the premises, which I did rapidly but happily, bounding across rocks and logs with giddy glee.
"Where the hell WERE you?" marveled my companions when I strolled back into camp. "You were gone for, like, THREE HOURS!"
"DUDE!" I yelled, "I... I... PISSED OFF A BUNCH OF SWINGERS! AND I NEED TO WRITE ABOUT IT, NOW!"
"It's four in the morning... you're INSANE," they said as I rolled up my sleeping bag and busted down my tent, intent on heading towards a keyboard as quickly as possible (which, after minor detours such as "caring for short-tempered short person" and "moving to Philadelphia", I did).
I s'pose, in addition to lovers and fighters, there is a third group in which people can be pigeonholed... writers. And while I may not have discovered how to have repeated, Mt. Vesuvius-caliber orgasms or vogue to "Get Down Tonight", I was rather happy to learn that I'm a minor, nonprofessional member of the Scribe Tribe. Swing THAT, suckers.
However.
Ever since my last post, it's been nothing but, "But what about the SWINGERS?", "Tell us about the swingers RIGHT NOW!", etc. I had no idea that my heavily-domesticated audience would be so enraptured by tales of debauchery. I may have found the most lucrative crossover market since Spanglish pop ("If you don't give me todo su amor, I'll kick your culo right out that door!"): gonzo journalism for the PB&J set. You're not quite ready for German scheisse porn, but you're going to poke your own eyeball out with a rubber-tipped spoon if you don't find a form of entertainment more titillating than "Goodnight Moon" (which I generally finish reading to my short-attention-spanned infant thusly: "Goodnight to the following: bears, chairs, bowl of gruel, disturbing anthropomorphic rabbits. Goodnight noises everywhere, including the ones YOU'RE going to make when mommy unceremoniously dumps you in your crib").
On with the show!
When we last left our intrepid ("intrepid" being a kind euphemism for "drunk") heroine, she was trekking across a darkened field in search of a rumored swingers' party. Her flagrantly silly imagination ran wild during her brief stroll... Jenna Jameson-esque nymphs being lashed to logs with vines, nudes prancing around a moonlit pond, pine cones being employed in ways the original tree definitely wouldn't condone. Upon reaching the campground's pool, however, those naughty-Narnian fantasies (perfect title, should any adult-movie producers wish to whiz on C.S. Lewis' grave: "The Layin', the Bitch and the Whore-Probe") were laid to waste even faster than her present use of the clunky third-person tense.
It was... professional. Slick. Completely, consummately competent.
There was a bar! A DJ! Inflatable pool sharks! Women in Gap bikinis sipping Cosmos!
At that moment, a part of my soul left my body, dissolved into the layer of steam blanketing the pool and floated lazily into the night.
For me, grown-up activities have always been the antithesis of diamonds: best when unpolished.
The first time Junket and I tried pot, we weren't aware of the availability of commercial rolling papers. As a result, our first-ever shared joint was approximately 8" long and bright orange as a result of being rolled on... origami paper. It's one of my favorite memories, and it's largely because of - rather than despite - the coughing, sputtering, and combustion of enough orange dye to mutate the next-door neighbors' DNA.
One of the best kisses of my life occurred mere moments after my co-osculator had consumed a Big Mac. I may be the last person in America who has never tried one of those delightfully caloric concoctions. I always figured there wasn't really any point; by the time I was done customizing it, I'd be left with nothing but a forlorn sesame-seed bun. When it comes to burgers, I'm a purist... no stupid lettuce, no briny-ass pickles, no reeking onions, no baptism by sauce, no matter how purportedly "special".
I remember that kiss, though - fast-food lights reflected in my boyfriend's glasses, his fingers hesitantly twining through my hair, the deep, gas-slurping thrum of the Ford Granada in which we were parked - better than any of the thousands of more ideal lip-locks I've experienced since.
Clearly, not everyone shares this view... hence the popularity of lab-created babes such as Pamela Anderson-Lee-Lee-Rock. But again, personally, the perfection's in the imperfections. And watching women with better hair than I'll ever have aquatically gyrate to "Can't Get You Out Of My Head" sucked all the eroticism out of that scene faster than a flotilla of expensive penis pumps.
"So... is this your first Eros Adventures event?" asked Raoul (note: all names and identifying details changed to protect the... um, not-so-innocent?). "Um... I guess?" I said. I was huddled in the shallow end, sipping the remnants of my rum 'n Gatorade and doing what I do best: no, not THAT, smart ass... observing. During the event's first hour, my observations were limited to the following:
- If these are enlightened, adventurous grown-ups, then why are they all standing on opposite sides of the pool like kids at a junior-high dance?
- Attention, women confronting post-childbirth "spread": while I'm truly happy if you can embrace your body's new contours, objectively speaking, you MIGHT not want to descend a waterslide nude at this point in your life. I'm just sayin'.
"So... whaddya think?" said Raoul. An older, less-intolerably-hammy version of Cuba Gooding Jr., he and his taciturn blonde girlfriend were frequent Eros Adventures attendees. "Uh... I kinda thought there'd be... y'know... more HAPPENING," I stammered. Apart from the occasional al fresco waterslider, the event was surprisingly tame. Couples clung together, rarely venturing apart to chat up their fellow attendees. "It's still early," said Raoul, "Things'll heat up!" "Say," he said, eyes lowered, "Those are some NICE breasts you have there. Mind if I... touch them?"
If my libido had been wounded by the earlier Ethel-Merman-meets-Kylie-Minogue acrobatics, Raoul's eerily polite request for a handful of tit flat-out killed it. It was the spirit of adventure (coupled with the unavoidable fact that my boobs are like the town bicycle's horn - everyone's had a squeeze!), however, which led me to say, "Sure, knock yourself out."
It was then, my mammary suspended in Raoul's respectful grip, that I had an epiphany.
"Actually, I have a confession to make," I said, more literate than I'd been all evening ("Um... waterslide... naked... chafing?"). "I'm a writer, and I'm here to learn more about your lifestyle."
"Really?" said Raoul, dropping my boob like an ignited potato. "Well, what do you want to know?"
As it turns out, rather than being disappointed that they wouldn't get to feast on my supple (um... jiggly? Squish-tastic?) young flesh, the swingers were delighted to discuss their lives, loves and pervy peccadilloes. It also turns out that - unlike casual group sex - I have a natural affinity for the writer's role. Never was I more comfortable than sitting back, watching the action (Raoul was right... while no slippery orgies broke out amongst the FunNoodles, I did get the dubious pleasure of seeing a man orally serviced to the Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun"... something tells me Gordon Gano would approve) and interrogating the participants about the interesting twists and lubed-up turns which their lives had taken to bring them to that particular moment. About that, I have to say this:
- While each of the people with whom I spoke had a fascinating back story, I have a feeling that any given individual off the street would’ve been just as interesting. In this culture, in these crazy, topsy-turvy, CrunchWrap-fueled times (note: I've got nothing against the CrunchWrap. It's got more angles than any other fast-foodstuff, so it's a-okay by me. I'm actually looking forward to the development of the CrunchDodecahedron in a decade or so), people rarely open up to one another. We miss this shared dialogue with our fellow humans... hence the popularity of alcohol (KY Jelly for the consciousness) and reality TV.
- Despite their free-lovin', self-confident ways, the swingers were some of the most uptight individuals I've ever met in terms of their raw hunger for acceptance. To a person, everyone with whom I spoke wanted nothing more than for popular society to stop ridiculing, lambasting and persecuting the polyamorous populace. Now, forgive me if I'm being insensitive, but I was unaware of any widespread malice towards those of the swingin’ persuasion. At very least, they don't face the daily challenges of, say [gays, Jews, blacks, the handicapped, immigrants]. I doubt very much that members of any truly marginalized population would take kindly to the swinger's heartfelt pleas for understanding.
Like all good (or at least perversely fascinating) things, my stint as pseudo-interviewer to the rurally wanton had to come to an end. While I was chatting with the adorable female bartender about her current husband, her former husband and the impossibility of utter honesty, a shirtless, Kris Kristofferson-ish man strode up to me.
"So... you're the writer?" he said in a not-entirely-friendly tone.
"Yup!", I chirped, oblivious.
"Well, GREAT!" snarled his companion, a stringy, Crypt Keeper-ish blonde. "Although I don't suppose it matters NOW... party's already over!"
True to her words, lip- (and other appendage) locked groups had begun drifting away from the pool, presumably for adventures of a differently-steamy nature.
"See, we're a little SENSITIVE to the media's portrayal of our way of life," said AngrySwinger, "Ever since our last meeting spot got shut down because a story in the local paper made everyone all hysterical."
"Why can't you people just leave us alone?" spat FuriousWife.
Not having the heart (or humility) to 'fess up that I only "wrote" for an audience of dozens and $4.79 a month in AdSense revenue, I sputtered, "Um... trust me, y'all don't have to worry about anything from me."
"Yeah, whatever," said FuriousWife, "Like I said, the party's OVER."
"My wife's just a little worried about what happened last time," said AngrySwinger apologetically, "We'd appreciate it if you didn't use any names or identifying details (note: I didn't... please don't kill me, swingers!)... maybe just say something positive about alternative lifestyles?"
"I think I can do that," I said, not wanting to be found dead in the woods with a Hitachi Magic Wand-shaped divot in the back of my skull. "You were all really nice, interesting people" (which is true, the fact that I found their gathering roughly as erotic as Sunday mass notwithstanding).
"Thanks," said AngrySwinger, "Time for us to get going now."
I took that as my queue to vacate the premises, which I did rapidly but happily, bounding across rocks and logs with giddy glee.
"Where the hell WERE you?" marveled my companions when I strolled back into camp. "You were gone for, like, THREE HOURS!"
"DUDE!" I yelled, "I... I... PISSED OFF A BUNCH OF SWINGERS! AND I NEED TO WRITE ABOUT IT, NOW!"
"It's four in the morning... you're INSANE," they said as I rolled up my sleeping bag and busted down my tent, intent on heading towards a keyboard as quickly as possible (which, after minor detours such as "caring for short-tempered short person" and "moving to Philadelphia", I did).
I s'pose, in addition to lovers and fighters, there is a third group in which people can be pigeonholed... writers. And while I may not have discovered how to have repeated, Mt. Vesuvius-caliber orgasms or vogue to "Get Down Tonight", I was rather happy to learn that I'm a minor, nonprofessional member of the Scribe Tribe. Swing THAT, suckers.
Labels: Best Of, Dating/Mating, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew
posted by thumbscre.ws at
8/09/2006
28 Comments:
Nicely done...
A
At one strange point in my marriage, the Ex and I went to a swinger's club. Nothing terribly interesting happened that night, except I saw a sign for a "Lady's bi-nite!" event. Ok, why not?
"Lady's bi-nite" ended up consisting of about 20 of us, sitting around trading out various BYOB concoctions and talking about our kids.
Gordon Gano would TOTALLY approve of blowjobs set to Blister In The Sun. TOTALLY.
I've been waiting to hear part 2! Loved the story and the writing? Yours is the first blog where I've had to stop after each paragraph and re-read it, just to digest how awesomely constructed it was. Ta!
You really should have gotten to this sooner, moving and child-care bedamned! I just KNOW that you thought of "swing THAT, suckers" while you were collapsing the Coleman and you've been walking around for days muttering it under your breath as the lawyers at your office trade concerned looks. "Did she just say...?"
And what happened after you busted down the tent? Later that morning? Dude, I bet you could make that funny. Very funny.
Hoo Haw Haw. Sounds like you found swingers to be a tad more normal than you expected, no? While there are occasional public displays of erections, most of these swing-dings are more mellow, with the infrequent breakout of oral sex and straight sex, and the more common nudity and fondling.
That said, (and trust me here), many, many swingers use these events as a way to meet people for sex, either later that night, or next week, or next month....whenever.
As for swingers and discrimination....yeah, it exists. People are fired from their jobs for this,(which is legal in most cases), and I wonder how the other parents at ECFE would feel if they knew there was a swinger in their midst? Or perhaps the neighbors? Talk to a swinger that has been outed sometime if you REALLY want to learn the definition of uptight. They will have experienced it.
Now, lest you think this poster is wearing a pair of rose colored swing-shades, I'll tell you the main flaw with swinging, IMHO: Boy girl sex? OK. Girl Girl sex? OK. ANY Boy Boy contact? NOT OK. Seems odd to me. Just sayin'.
Swingers DO have much to fear from the media, BTW. Many a swinger soirée has been ended by the police (even if no laws have been broken). It has long been the policy of the power brokers to try and control sexual freedom, and this practice has not ended. In a club I have enjoyed (an off-premisis place, meaning no sex happens there), the police busted in and kicked everyone out, but ONLY after taking everyone's name AND PHOTO. For what? Attending a dance?
I'm guessing that you don't know much about screwing your average but atractive strangers, but please look into it before you condemn the whole movement and its participants.
Curious? Just google around for the several swinger Websites (avoid AFF though, it is full of posers). There are good times to be had (though the lifestyle is too damned chock full of suburbanites and republicans, IMHO).
Enjoy,
D in the M. P. L. S.
Honey, if you go to a swinger thang and get your true kicks from hanging back and observing, then racing home because you have to get it down? You aren't a minor, nonprofessional writer: you're a writer, period. Welcome to the oh-so-lucrative club!
PS. This is so fucking funny I nearly wet my pants.
LL: hee, that sounds like my kind of party!
Aussiegal: thank you very much!
Caer: heh... already working on it.
Anon: okay... here's the deal. When did I ever "condemn the whole movement", or even ONE of its participants (well, maybe FuriousWife, but she was a BITCH)? That's right... I didn't. I made it clear that organized swingin' wasn't my particular cup of tea, but I also stated that everyone I met at Swingapalooza was "interesting", "nice" and flat-out normal. Which is exactly how I expected them to be from the get-go, actually... 98% of people are like that if you give them a chance. The only expectations I had which were utterly dashed were those of massive poolside orgies produced by my own overheated imagination.
Re: discrimination. Okay, here's my take: I fully agree that the police, neighbors, etc. should mind their own damned business; consenting adults not harming anyone and all that jazz.
HOWEVER.
I also feel that any OTHER discrimination faced by those in the swing set could be eliminated with a modicum of common sense and discretion. It's not wise for ANYONE to expect that their private sexual preferences will be met by general society with open and loving arms. SHOULD they be? Sure, I'd agree, so long as the Neurosurgery Maxim is followed ("first do no harm"). HOWEVER... remember, "nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed". While society SHOULD be a lot of ways, it's NOT. Sometimes, unfortunately, discretion has to be the name of the game... you can't expect to change society's backwards-ass views by brute force, and if you DO, you'll only wind up getting fired, shunned, all that unhappy crappy.
Oh, and by the way? Whatever you "guess" about my personal sexual life, you guess wrong. The fact that I choose not to proselytize about my own preferences isn't indicative that they're vanilla and boring... just that I'm using some of that aforementioned common sense in not broadcasing them from the rooftops. So don't make assumptions about exactly how happenin' things are under non-swinger's skirts, either, bud.
Bihari... hee hee. I'll tell you what, I'm glad to be a WRITER, rather than just a social dork, which is what I thought I was before!
2 comments:
(1) "while I'm truly happy if you can embrace your body's new contours, objectively speaking, you MIGHT not want to descend a waterslide nude at this point in your life. I'm just sayin'." Screw you. If I'm comfortable nude, what's your problem with it?
(2) Do your realize your advice about Swingers being discrete is the same advice used to tell gay folks to stay in the closet or light-skinned folks to just go ahead and pass or jews to change their last names?
Just sayin.
Caer, could there really be more to this story? Must've been one hell of a weekend for there to have been a "Later that morning..." I mean really, now I'm intrigued.
I found your blog as a fan of Pygwife's, and loved this blog. It is interesting, entertaining, extremely well written, and fun. I thought it was very open to swingers, and not discriminatory at all.
Diane
Dude, who invited the swingers? I thought we left them at the campground! Shake out the tent next time, Jul.
Yeah, lex, I can't believe how much Jul doesn't blog about. She could write a novel about what happened before lunchtime on any given day, I'm sure. Of course, Jul could write a novel about cement and it would be funny.
Caer said to ask you about Pyg's wife.
anonymous...take your hissy fit someplace else. I'm sure you could find lots of other people to bitch at in less accepting environments than here. And your haughty indignation about "...the same advice used to tell gay folks to stay in the closet..." rings false after your comment about boy-boy contact NOT being OK in your estimation. Jesus, man (or woman, or thing), get your story straight!
'Nuff said... just sick of anon's posturing.
"Do your realize your advice about Swingers being discrete is the same advice used to tell gay folks to stay in the closet or light-skinned folks to just go ahead and pass or jews to change their last names?"
Um, not exactly. The difference is this: swinging is not who you ARE. It's not who you LOVE. It's simply how you get off. No one should be discriminated against simply because they enjoy, say, fisting, but if they won't stop talking in the office about how much they enjoyed last night's especially rough session, and how sore their ass was today, well, I wouldn't be shocked if they got their sore ass fired.
(This is not to say that I think swinging is in any way wrong between consenting adults. And I wouldn't care if there was a meeting place on my block. I just don't like to see accusations of racial or sexual discrimination where they don't apply.)
There are 2 different anonymous comments above, from 2 different people - this is the 2nd one coming back here. I surely didn't think my comment constituted a "hissy fit", but whatever. Also FWIW not a swinger myself.
doctormama - good point. But your example is of a specific behavior (i.e. fisting) - which is what they DO not who they LOVE. Straight folks fist too. And straight folks would also be well advised not to talk about it at work the next day. But I know polyamorous folks, and the fact that they have both a husband and a girlfriend is a part of who they ARE, yet they feel they can't even mention their (plural) partners in most situations without risking discrimination. And that, for them, is a real bummer.
Re: anon #2. DoctorMama said it better than I could've. I have this to say about polyamory: I am personally an adherent of the "whatever floats your boat is a-okay by me" school of sexual liberalism. However, I also feel that, as much as members of various non-straight-'n-narrow tribes SHOULD be able to be fully open with their lives/loves, they CAN'T in our current society, and to expect an overwhelmingly accepting response in this social/political climate is foolish (and sometimes dangerous). Is it WRONG or self-loathing for a gay person to stay closeted in front of their ninety year-old grandmother? No, it's just what makes sense in that particular situation. In the same vein, it probably makes sense for, say, those into 24/7 BDSM to leave the chains off when going over to the Andersons' house for Scrabble night. It'd be GREAT if Mrs. Anderson were capable of cooing, "Oh, what a LOVELY choke chain! Where EVER did you get it?", but odds are she ain't. It all comes back to "Nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed".
And DocM... after how quickly HellBoy managed to locate the hosts' stash of grown-up products at his inaugural playdate, I'm not sure you DO want a swinger's meeting on your block. If you let him out of your sight for, say, twenty seconds, he'd probably come toddling back clinging to a greased-up inflatable sheep or something.
Man, I thought Swingers would be, I don't know, funnier. Or at least have more of a sense of humor.
You, on the other hand, are so frickin' hilarious I don't know where to begin. How about "the Layin, the Bitch, and the Whore-Probe"? Now, where to end? "Swing this?" Or maybe with your Readers' Digest condensed version of Goodnight, Moon: "Goodnight to the Following" (HA HA HA)and include Swingers: Good night Swingers, everywhere! See, inclusive-like!
p.s. You are the next Sedaris.
The Next Sedaris? That's the best compliment ever!
And Rod, I meant EMAIL her! Not that she definitely knows what PygWif is up to, but that she might know more than I do. This post was not about PygWif, who has nothing to do with swinging, I'm sure. EMAIL!
And if you post as anonymous, you run the risk of being lumped together with the other anons. I personally don't listen to anything posted by someone who won't reveal themselves. ESPECIALLY when they're preaching about how they have every right to broadcast their sexual exploits. Aren't YOU daring? Then why don't you fess up to who you are? Even a name would help us tell the anons apart, dude.
You should be writing for far more than an audience of dozens...This was hilarious.
Hey on th rod and Pyg's wife thing,
I kinda get the feeling Rod is PYG. He is awfully concerned about what she is doing don't you think?
Jul if you were to talk to her tell her we hope her and the kids are ok.
Dawn in ky
Did you ever see the documentary called "The Lifestyle" about aging swingers? There is a great scene where they are at a party hanging out nude in the pool having the most boring conversation about which is the better grill - gas or coal. B turned to me during that party scene and said it reminded him of the parties his parents used to throw, minus the nudity and sex. Yep, they seem to be just like anyone else - boring and grumpy.
Thanks for sharing your special moment with us!
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I've had a slow day and I've been perusing your blog for hours now. I positively love it. You are understandbly obscure sometimes as I'd imagine privacy might dictate, but keep doing it because it's some of the most unique I've read!
I must apologize for the over-sensitivity of the swinger crowd. Yup, my wife and I are one of them two. We fit the profile perfectly. We just go to watch and sometimes show off and find partners (usually women) to bring home for our own kind of fun. Yes, it can get all involved into all kinds of trouble.
I only apologize because
#1. people are still way over-sensitive about the closing of the "other" club. They should have recognized the difference between that TV "expose" designed to titillate and enrage the morally stunted. When in fact a few outlets like City Paper and its writers were wholly supportive of the other place.
#2. The "other" place, small and dark as it was, was still better than this new place which you painted perfectly. Oh how we miss the casual non-judging place of old! The new one is a bit to in-your-face. No pun intended, that is.
You didn't do darn thing to put anyone on guard. They excluded you without a second thought just as others might judge us without a second thought. That is not a good turn for the karma of the group. I'm just sorry to hear you ran into that kind of crowd.
I say you're awesome for checking out alone. It's a bit intimidating when solo was woman with no friends there (though they can just get in the way of one's own explorations as well though!). Bravo, I say.
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