There was nothing particularly unusual about the situation.
Doug was a married man who just so happened to have a handful of my butt in his right hand, groping with no shame. I’m sure this happens to women all the time whether they're aware of said groper’s marital status or not. What might strike you as unusual however is that in his left hand (the one not grab assing) was his cellphone, which was being held to his ear as he spoke lovingly to his wife.
"Oh my God [Doug’s wife’s name], Nyree’s ass feels just amaaaaazing. Yes. Uh-huh. No, she's really hot. I’m so glad I met up with her in person. Yes? I’m hard as a rock. What? OK. I'll pick that up on my way home. Love you too baby. Bye."
Right here a mental record scratch should have gone off in your head unless, you know, you’re really into swingers. Which, I’m not. Or wasn’t.
Yet, there I was, being groped by a real life swinger in an Italian restaurant less than three blocks from my job and wondering the same thing you probably are right now. How the hell did I get myself into this? That's an easy enough answer. I put myself there.
One night, I was on my couch halfway through a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, and in-between boyfriends (read: I hadn’t been laid in quite some time). Add some mindless Internet surfing, a very special swinger episode of "Nip/Tuck" and POW! I'm googling "swinger clubs."
Next, I’m filling out a “free” profile. Then I’m uploading some pre-existing dirty faceless pics to my free profile. (What? You don't have any?) After that, I just sat back and waited for the "We dig witty black women" couples to come a callin. It didn’t take too long.
Within minutes, your girl was busy answering all bazillion chat requests. By hour two, I’d gotten a little cocky and learned I needed to be a little more selective. Only attractive couples please and pics are a must, thank you very much. By hour three, I’d used up all my free options and the damn site had locked me out of my mailbox.
If I wanted to go further, I’d have to whip out the plastic. In other words, I’d have to make the leap from “Just playing around and curious” to “I’m a fully fledged paying member of an online swinger site.” Eww.
Suddenly, I saw myself 10 years down the line, taking the witness stand in some courtroom drama while the District Attorney hits me with, “Why should we believe you? Isn’t it true, Ms. Emory, that you were once a member of an online swingers community where you had and answered eagerly, let’s see, no less than 200 requests in one night?”
Whatever. I could totally mask this purchase with an "I'm writing about it" and blur the obvious line between skank and journalist. Besides, it’s three months for only $19.99! I pay five times that for cable and don’t have nearly as much fun.
And so it began.
And yeah, fine. During my membership, I had one teensy wincey video mutual masturbation session with this incredibly hot dude who tried to get me to meet him in a Starbucks bathroom, but other than that, I pretty much kept things anonymous and “for adult entertainment purposes only” level.
Fast-forward to about a month later. Doug. The middle aged, outrageously happily married father of two who had been swinging for the past 10 years was more than happy to be the Yoda to my Skywalker, and I was more than happy to learn. No, he wasn’t fat, bald or out of shape. Doug was, by middle aged married guy standards, hot and kind of awesome.
He would teach me swinger lingo, “Hey, do you want to meet us at a party later? Don’t worry, its mostly ‘vanilla.’” (Meaning non-swingers would be there.)
He didn’t judge me. “Well, your ex-boyfriend is stupid as hell. What kind of man turns down anal beads?”
But most of all, Doug was really committed. To his wife, the lifestyle, and more importantly, to getting me to stop dipping my toe in the water and jump in the damn pool already. He wanted me. Well, he and his wife did, and seriously, how can this not boost a single girl’s ego?
"So you said you have a strap-on dildo, right?" he asked during a late night online chat.
"Umm, yes I do. Do you want to know why?”
"Not unless you want to tell me. But that’s great, because we’ve been dying to do a DP with a woman.” (Google “DP” if you’d like, but just a warning. You might not want to tumble down that hole if you’re not ready. No pun intended.) “And you've used it before, right?"
"Yep." I typed. Though I didn't have the heart to tell him I’d only done it once and the experience was so bad it may have knocked all the bicuriosity out of both of us.
Our ass groping lunch happened about six months later. It was our first in-person meeting. Nothing really happened except for the obvious ass groping. Two months later, I was having dinner with Doug and his wife. Nothing happened that night either.
I totally punked out. Well, except for that part where Doug's wife watched as he kissed me goodnight. I looked over at her when he was done and instead of punching me in my face, she just smiled. I couldn’t tell what that smile meant. Yes, it was awkward.
“Do you ever get jealous?” I asked her at dinner.
“No.” she replied. “I know he belongs to me and only me. What we do physically with other people is just for fun. I know where his heart belongs.”
“Do you ever have sex without her there?” I asked him.
“Absolutely not. Look. I’m the luckiest bastard I know. I have a beautiful family and a hot wife that lets me sleep with other women. Why would I mess this up?” he smiled. Doug and his wife have rules they’ve established amongst themselves. That’s why it works. If one of them breaks the rules, the arrangement is off. Period. Non-negotiable.
“So, all of your friends are swingers?”
“Most of them.” Doug said.
“Do your 'vanilla' friends know?”
"No. They just wonder why we’re so damn happy all the time.” She laughed.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering, Are they normal? Totally. They’re completely normal with sprinkles of “did that just happen” moments that jolt you into remembering what you’re actually dealing with. Like when, over dinner, Doug whipped out pictures of Doug’s Wife getting nailed by his best friend, beaming with pride about how she took it “like a champ.”
“You should come over for dinner sometime and meet the kids.” He said.
Huh? Wait, what? You want me to meet, your children?
“We’re friends, right? All of our friends have met them. They’re really young. They don’t know any better right now.”
I’m going to have to say "no" to that. Sure. It’s pretty hard to saddle up on a moral high horse right now but whatever. I’m not meeting the kids.
Meeting the kids meshes two worlds I believe should be morally compartmentalized and separated. Innocence and children go over here, sexually deviant adult acquaintance behavior go over there and neither the two shall meet. I couldn’t even believe they’d suggest it.
“Well what happens when they get older? Aren’t you afraid what they’ll think when they find out that their parents were swingers?”
That was the moment most of the sexy glitter began to rub off of the entire idea. Suddenly, it wasn’t “hanging out with swingers” anymore. It was more like “sleeping with a middle-aged married couple with kids.”
It had as much appeal as fucking the Bradys.
I still haven’t done it, with them or anyone else. And yes, we’re still friends. As a matter of fact, I had lunch with Doug last week. However, no asses were groped this time he still hasn’t given up hope that one day, I’ll finally take the plunge. (Wonder if that’ll change when I tell him I tossed the strap-on?)