Welcome to Swing Town

The more I’m exposed to this phenomenon, the less I understand it. Many first dates I’ve recently encountered casually inserted references to a puddle of swingers they almost stepped in. Naturally, while green when it comes to swinging, I’m no rookie at bullshit detection. Anyone who tells me they “kind of, almost, thought about it once … when drunk,” is lying.

So, what gives?

Well, there are different varieties of swinging. The best most men like me can give a nod to is the two girls on one guy thing. We get it. Four tits are better than two, etc. But, page three paragraph four of the Swingers’ Manual (no, there is no fucking such thing) says:

“As Husband-A makes love to Wife-B, while she orally pleasures Wife-A, Husband-B is to station himself bedside on Chair-C, touching nothing but his own Dick-D.”

Say what?

Let me get this straight. I have to sit here and flip my bippy whilst watching Horace leave his man-stank all over my woman? Nope-se-doodles.

I have enough difficulty peeing next to another man. There’s no way I could be in the same room with a second erection. It would be boner see-saw — his grows, mine shrinks. Would not matter one scintilla how hot the women were or how into it my woman was. Not gonna happen.

I’m not judging. You go get your freaky-deaky on, girlie. Just don’t get it on me.

There are many swinger types and swinger parties in SoCal. That’s no surprise. I understand some couples need to spice things up, so they might attend one just out of curiosity, but nothing will happen — unless it does — then, welcome to the shit storm.

Whatever happened to spicing things up with, oh, I don’t know … lingerie? Hey, get crazy and try out the whole oral with an Altoids thing, maybe. Wait, what about flavored lube? No? What’s that? You want some random dude we meet in a bar to get balls deep into you and his tongue-pierced bisexual clit-bopping maven while I keep score? Oh, fuck, no. Are you fucking crazy?

God, I need a drink.

Where are the old-fashioned women? I met my ex-wife at a happy hour. We chatted, spoke nothing of second-hand sodomy, went through the usual five or so dates, then sealed the deal … probably missionary style without any oral or dirty talk. I can’t totally remember because I’m fucking old and killed those brain cells. Still, I’m damn sure she’d vouch that it was a pretty fucking plain-Jack-and-Jane first date that led to 13 years of marriage without vicarious boffery and bedside meat beating. Go figure.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

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