Swingers

“Hello?”

“Jefferson? It’s Marcus. How are you, baby?”

“Fine.”

“Where are you?”

“Beach.”

“And where’s Bridget? Is she there with you?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it going? Are you doing okay? I know you were anxious about having so little privacy lately . . . is it okay, being with her?”

“Yes.”

“What, can’t you talk? Can she hear? Well, if things are good, say something about the weather. If not, talk about something else.”

“It’s very sunny.”

“Okay, good, good! So did you go to the sex club? How was it?”

“The sex club was good.” My voice wavered.

Bridget laughed. “Yes, like you remember anything! Is that Marcus? Tell him about how you couldn’t keep your towel on.”

“I have slender hips . . .”

“That you do, snookums.”

Marcus interrupted. “Is that Bridget? Let me talk to her. I’m getting nothing out of you.”

“Here.” I passed the phone to Bridget. “You tell him about my towel.”

I adjusted my sunglasses , returning my eyes to the blonde Brit sunning nearby.

She looked like Nicole Kidman—paler than me, covered in oil and wearing only a slim bikini bottom.

She would remain uncovered all afternoon, never showing a hint of color on her bare ivory breasts.

I sat under an umbrella, slathered in sunscreen.

By day’s end, I would have a sunburn.

“Marcus? It’s Bridget. Jefferson can’t talk. He’s got a hangover.”

I put a finger to my lips. “Must you shout?”

“God, I can imagine. A sex club and booze—that’s so Jefferson. So details! How was the club?”

“Ah, it was okay. It’s called Miami Velvet, and it’s huge. There are two bars, a dance floor and lots and lots of rooms for boinking. We went because it was bi night, and I wanted to see snookums with some cute boy.”

“Nice. And did you?”

“No. Two reasons. First, they seem to use the word ‘bi’ to mean only girls. None of the guys were doing anything.”

“Don’t you hate that!”

“Well, yeah, because I don’t like girls, but I like watching guys.”

“And the other reason?”

“Oh, the other reason is that snookums fell asleep in my lap.”

“It was late,” I complained. “And boring!”

And okay, I was in my cups.

“He fell asleep at a sex club?!”

“Yes. Twice. Once with his head in my lap, another time when I was blowing him.” She patted my hand. “Snookums should’ve had a nap!”

As Bridget had napped during the afternoon, I wrote and had a drink. The writing went well, and the drink went too fast. I had another.

As we fortified ourselves on lobster and oysters, I had another. And wine.

I was pretty loopy by the time we got a cab to the club.

Never mind that Bridget had packed my flask.

We held hands as we explored the club. No one seemed to be doing anything. The club allowed single men, and lots of them. They oogled us as we walked.

The vast space seemed empty to me. Bridget estimates there were one hundred and fifty people there.

We danced.

I kissed Bridget’s cheek as she sang Debbie Gibson in my ear.

“You’re wobbly, snookums.”

“I’m a little lit. How did that happen?”

“At least you are a sweet drunk.” She laughed. “You remember our rule? No girls for you tonight, except the one you are dancing with. Boys are okay so long as they are cute.”

“One name on my dance card,” I nodded. “Got it. And no boys either, unless they are hiding the cute ones someplace.”

It was well after one. Couples began to head to a locker room to switch into towels. Single men followed, hot on the trail of voyeurism.

We followed along. Soon we were in towels and of even more interest to hungry eyes.

“These guys don’t look bi to me,” I complained. The men followed couples from place to place, or watched porn, with no interaction—not even conversation—between themselves.

“Perhaps they are too distracted by my beauty to notice you,” she suggested.

“Perhaps, but I am way hot. And I feel invisible.”

We saw a cluster of men peering into a window and jerking off.

We looked and saw a room in which three couples were fucking. A sign on an adjacent door warned that this room was for couples only, and detailed a long list of rules my blurry eyes could not follow.

“Let’s go in here,” I said, tugging Bridget’s hand.

“Okay, follow me.” Bridget pushed her way through the wankers, pulling me with her.

Inside, the floor was covered with vinyl mats. There was no additional furniture. The window was mirrored, keeping the wankers' faces hidden from view.

The three couples fucked in a far corner, keeping an arm’s length between their pairings.

“Let’s go over there,” I said.

“No, no. I don’t want to be in the line of view of that window. Let’s go over here.”

We lay on the matt, far from others, and kissed.

The combination of drink and sleep deprivation was getting the better of me. The matt felt very good under my back.

As Bridget sucked my cock, I drifted off.

My eyes opened as another couple plopped next to us.

I smiled at the woman. She smiled back.

I caressed her calf by way of saying hello, just I would do at my parties. Like, hey, isn’t this fun?

Bridget looked up and saw that the boyfriend was not keen that I touched the woman he was fucking. Bridget retrieved my hand, never missing a beat in her blowjob.

That sealed it for me.

I was getting bummed.

The territorial attitude, the lack of conversation, the oogling wankers . . . this place was loserville compared to my gatherings.

Bridget was fun, though.

We found our way back to the dance floor. The DJ was playing “When Doves Cry.”

“I guess they haven’t been to the record store since 1988,” I said as we danced in our towels.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Bridget said. “It allows me to indulge my fantasy that we met in college.”

We giggled as Prince warbled.

“You are muh drunk boy-freeeeen,” she laughed.

“Yes, I am yo’ drunk boy-freeeeen,” I agreed, allowing my towel to drop to the floor.

sex
sexblogs
bisexual
oral sex
swinging
Prince