Come Out Swinging — or Don’t

Note: Today’s column by Maria Padhila originally published on July 9, 2011. — Amanda

By Maria Padhila

I love The Official Map of Non-Monogamy — created by Franklin Veaux, a witty and bracingly cynical writer whose topics include polyamory — not least because it’s a fine visual display of information. And then there are the very funny examples it cites, such as: “My husband died. As his brother, Onan, it is your duty to give me a baby,” proving that non-monogamy in one form or another has one hell of a long pedigree.

On the map are a couple of green and gray-green rectangles labeled “swinging,” “closed-group swinging,” and “soft swing,” which makes me think of something that safely soaks fine washables clean in three minutes, or maybe takes care of rough elbows.

Both of which I suppose I could have used as I poked around the edges of swingtown recently.

In an attempt to get an official definition of “soft swing,” I went to Wikipedia. (For anything hard, you have to go to WikiLeaks.) It tells me this means “the couple engage in sexual activities while two or more other couples perform sex acts in the immediate vicinity.”

I admire the subject-verb agreement, a lost art where “couple” are concerned. It’s that “immediate vicinity” part that stumps me. Down the block? Like Eric says, masturbation is queer; and having sex in a hotel, and certainly in a campsite, means a couple are soft swinging.

Wikipedia also tells me that swinging occurred in the 16th century when “a formal arrangement was signed by John Dee, his wife Jane, his scryer, Edward Kelley and Kelley’s wife Joanna on 22 April 1587, whereby conjugal relations would be shared between the men and their spouses. This arose following seances which apparently resulted in spirits guiding Dee and Kelley towards this course of action.”

[Wikipedia also says: “The sobriquet ‘communist’ has sometimes been applied, especially in Germany during the mid-19th century, to people who advocate spouse-trading. In fact, communist philosophy is rather anti-sexual [citation needed]…”]

Well, I should say so. I guess these days they just call them socialists. Socialites? Social swingers? And the behavior of the right might be all the citation needed—they appear to be doing nothing but having variations on illegal hot monkey love, while the left sort of hang out and wonder.

But swinging. Excuse me. I make jokes when I’m nervous, and I was. Some polyamorists are also swingers. Some are swingers but don’t identify themselves during the working week.

I got Chris to take me to a couple places and parties, mainly because I was looking for a nice girl, not just for myself, but for Isaac. While I’m more about true love, he prefers no strings. He just likes nice, healthy, pretty, smart, grown-up women. Is that so much to ask? Apparently so.

I was also terribly curious, and I saw Chris, who had navigated much of that world over the years, as the Virgil who could lead me softly, so to speak, through that underworld (and definitely keep me safe — he’s sober and strong).

Was the prospect of going to a swinger club or party exciting? That took some thinking. Uppermost in my mind was the element of hygiene — and it’s not so much what you’re thinking. Things like lice, strep, MRSA, bedbugs, e coli — these are much harder to protect yourself from than the Usual Suspects, and in some cases, harder to get rid of and more dangerous. I’m a bit of a germaphobe (and in real life, I do a lot of health-related work, so I hear more than my share about what’s scary and why). I was likely to go into a swinger club and wipe the place down with Betadine.

At the same time, I have no worries about taking my clothes off in front of anyone else. The guys say I’m an exhibitionist, and maybe some of it is true and/or leftover from my desultory stripper days, but I think it’s mostly the athlete/performer factor. You don’t regard your body as something that can necessarily provoke others, and if it does, that’s their problem. Your body is a tool—something that gets you around at a satisfactory rate of speed, or that gets injured, or that has an off day and costs you a good time in the race. Once Chris said something about not wanting random men to use me as “fantasy masturbation material,” and I burst out laughing. There are certainly many more likely candidates out there for that, as close as your computer screen.

But that’s the kind of thing love will do — make you think everyone is lusting after your beloved. And love, it seems, is what I need in order to have sex with someone. Any kind of swinging I might do would be as soft as a buttercup-petal eiderdown.

I was still curious, though. So with Chris, I went to a club where people actually had real sex; with Isaac, I went to more of a dance club, one focused on bi-femme women that let “select” men in. The problem hetero/biwomen clubs apparently seek to avoid is what my dearest friend (another former stripper) sings out as “too many dicks in the club!” At most of these places, a “select” man, presentable and well-dressed, can get in with a woman or two, but not alone.

[It’s beginning to sound less like communism and more like Catholicism, of a particularly Byzantine kind.]

What I found most beautiful were the people who ran, organized and administered the parties. Again, the parallel with religion comes to mind. There was something heart-touching about the polite, respectful and firm demeanor of a woman who met us at the door of one room, in leather and spikes and odd weaponry, who asked a series of patient questions to be sure I would know what I’d be seeing and perhaps getting into. People asked about boundaries and gave others the space to consider what they want, and answer. I’m touched again by the idea of people who relieve others’ loneliness, insecurities, fears and give them something to enjoy for a while, some kind of pleasure. I may be romanticizing, but maybe that’s better than judging. There was, despite the crappy music and plastic cups, something holy and healing about the scene at its base.

And being a Gemini ascendant/Libra Sun, I saw the other side, and cranked up some serious snark. It starts with the terminology — “lifestyle?” A “lifestyle club?” Seriously? I love the 70s, too, but can you please call it something else? All three of us wanted to grab a pen when we saw the term “on-premise,” which means you can have sex on the premises. Add the S! It really matters! Premise is for movies and novels!

Then there was the point I looked over and saw some prix-dieu-looking bondage thingy covered in, I’m not lying, actual contact paper of a vintage that must have been leftover from the kitchen cabinets of a suburban ranch home in our country’s bicentennial year. And door prizes? At a sex club? It was like some demented cruise line — and I still couldn’t get over my fear of bedbugs.

Any trace of arousal dried up. The DJs were the last straw. They just weren’t as good as the DJs I’m used to and would like to hear. Because I am, unfortunately, the kind of wanker who can be surrounded by topless women, and of course, I’ll just be sitting there (or standing, because I’m scared of MRSA on the barstool) pouting and muttering “hang the DJ.” Because the music matters. And spelling and grammar matter, and I enjoy hanging out with people who like what I like. And those are the kinds of things I look for in people I love, and I only want to sleep with people I love. I am not a success at swinging. I need romance, good music, and as little floral-printed vinyl as possible to get in the mood.

I seem to be muddling along as a polyamorist, but I’m an utter failure as a swinger.

But all the compulsive snarking and joking and tsking was there to cover up a fear bigger than a bedbug, and it didn’t take me long to figure it out. I was at the home of some friends of Chris’, and a couple of the couples were swingers. One was expounding on his theory that women should have more orgasms than men (well, OK) — optimally, 11 per session, which I find a little excessive, and honey, if a long-distance runner tells you you’re excessive, you are excessive. But anyway. They were swingers, but none of them asked me to swing along.

For 45 years, I’ve been last picked for kickball. So I expect nothing else. I imagine people look at me and think: She doesn’t look like she can play very well. If she’s playing, I might lose the game.

People have tried to tell me that I don’t get hit on because people are scared of me, or that I am getting hit on but don’t notice it, things like that. But I know the real reason. I’m ugly and awkward and maybe not a good friend. Maybe not a good daughter. Guilty of something! And I will pay, by being the last-picked forever.

Ah, but if I were to have sex in front of other people… they might be interested, they might be aroused. It would be OK to be sexual. It would be approved. I could feel better about it. I would have validation of my attractiveness, my sexuality.

But that’s not a good enough reason to have sex, for me. Love will have to do. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.