CONFESSIONS OF AN ALMOST TEENAGE SWINGER

Holding Hands

Eighteen was a very strange time in my life. Between depression, eating disorders, and rampant drug/alcohol abuse in the years leading up to it—popping pill medley’s and chasing them with straight whiskey as if they were just milk and cookies—I was admittedly a bit “damaged.” Then I met this guy who kind of pulled me from the fire. I’d been eyeing him from across bars for a few weeks, then one night finally mustered up the courage (Xan’d out stupors help) to sit myself on his lap and initiate what would turn out to be a very serious, several-year-long relationship.

Though he definitely helped calm me down, being significantly older and more stable, there was still that teenage flame that wanted to burn inside of me. Since drugs, alcohol, and self-abuse (my biggest highs at the time) began to dwindle, I focused my energy more and more into sex. Finally feeling safe in the first loving, trusting relationship of my life, I made it my mission to explore every sexual facet out there, and naturally he was more than receptive, this young woman choosing him as her beacon of sexual discovery.

Up until then I’d had very few sexual partners, all unmemorable, so he and I started with the usual testing of limitations: different positions, different holes, toys, dirty talk, getting tied up, etc. But being a slave to a life of extremities—I’ve always been all-or-nothing; binge eat or starve, don’t drink or get alcohol poisoning—that routine of exploration eventually got boring. Looking back on things now, so many years later, I think it was more him that I was bored with than the sex, but I digress.

After a while, I started getting obsessed with the thought of a threesome, even more than him. It just seemed like the natural next step. Again, in retrospect I almost can’t even fathom it, as jealous a person as I’ve become in relationships, but those were hazy times. Of course he was into it though, and so I began seeking out the ideal partner, which was the hard part. I didn’t really want a stranger in bed with us, but then again a friend would have been too weird. Would we find her out at a bar one night, or via some strange Craigslist ad? Safety and anonymity where my biggest concerns—plus making sure she was hot, though obviously not hotter than me.

Then one day I was reading the sex advice column in Time Out, which had a whole section on threesomes, orgies, and swingers—like a heaven-sent message from the Slut Gods. The author suggested that one curious party should try Manhattan’s “Carousel Club,” a well-known (in that world) weekend swinger’s party in the city. I’m not sure how I talked him or myself into it, but the next weekend we were out.

To make matters even sleazier, since we knew there was no way we could show up sober, we decided to buy a bag of blow. I know, it’s despicable. Pulling up to the address that cold night, I still remember stepping out of the cab and looking up to see the Empire State Building creeping out behind the buildings above. We were right in the garment district, in front of some completely unassuming garmento-style office building. Still too nervous to go up, we did a couple bumps in the bathroom of some Korean deli, then finally got ourselves together. 

We took the elevator up to a middle floor, then stepped into a hall that looked like a waiting room of sorts. There was an older man in a white shirt and black vest standing behind a little reception desk, smiling warmly alongside a hefty coat rack. There was a little piece of paper taped to the wall reading ‘Carousel Club’ with some shitty clipart carousel underneath. It was beyond surreal, and the Coney Island cocaine wasn’t helping at all. I suddenly felt like I might shit myself.

But it was too late to go back. The next part is a bit too blurry to remember, but I think we just signed some little paper. They never even asked me for I.D., and looking back that always really bothered me. I was barely legal then; I’ve always wondered how much other bizarre, underage SVU-type shit went down in there. Suddenly a radiantly smiling Black chick in nothing but her panties appeared out of a door to our right. “Welcome! Is this your first time?” We obviously looked terrified. She grabbed us by the arm and ushered us into “the club,” which was a booming, darkly lit lounge, not much different from the typical New York night club. There were people everywhere, but it wasn’t a full on freak-fest with people f***ing on the walls like in Don’t Be A Menace. The only topless or naked women I could see were those hosting or serving, like the woman who welcomed us inside.

I’d need to do much more coke. Ironically, you couldn’t go into bathroom as doubles. You could f*** nine people in the middle of the floor, but when we tried to go into a stall together they shut it down. We got some drinks and decided just to scope the place out. Aside from the main lounge, there was indeed a much more typically dungeon-like back area, encased by cages and heavy curtains, and lined with couches where people were conversing or making out or petting. As overwhelming as the place was, we were here on a mission after all: to find our threesome girl. But the crowd seemed mostly older, which made sense. There was this one couple, rich-looking older White folks, both greying. As soon as the husband saw me, he smiled from ear to ear. I wasn’t interested in anything sexual, but the thought of this guy who was probably a well-off doctor with a Hamptons house in a place like this? I couldn’t pass up conversation. It in fact did turn out that he was a psychiatrist, a beautiful paradox that makes me giggle to this day. He even offered me prescriptions as he stroked my wrist, but on that note I quickly pulled myself from the dungeon, about ready to call the night quits.

Suddenly I saw a woman who pretty much fit our ideal model; she seemed no older than 25, attractive, and a brunette. It was about the best we’d get. I sat on the couch and talked with her a bit while my boyfriend watched from afar. We exchanged some compliments, then started kissing. It was at that moment that some very powerful, somehow sober voice inside of me said, “What the f*** are you doing?” This wasn’t me, at all. I wasn’t a lesbian. I wasn’t even bi. I didn’t want to kiss this chick whatsoever. And then the whole entire thing felt disgusting, like I’d subjected myself to something that made me feel violated and weird.

After that, we got outta there pretty fast. I took her number, but we never had our threesome. In fact, I think the entire experience brought my explorations with him to a halt. Whatever I had been searching for through all that—sense of self, acceptance, excitement—had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t about strengthening what we had through sex, it was just me being selfish and bored and a bit mentally unhinged. Later on towards the end of our relationship, I’d find myself pushing the limits and testing the boundaries in similar ways. I’d create these sexual fantasies with other men in my head and take them right to the brink of going too far, right before the point of actually acting on them, and I think it was all about some sick, twisted desire I had to get off on doing things behind his back.

In the end I did the right thing and ended our relationship—I’d lost all sexual desire and it wasn’t fair stringing him along with my wandering mind just out of comfort. Thought I never actually cheated, the desire to and guilt of thinking so alone made me feel bad enough. These days I’m still a firecracker and practically insatiable, but in a much more intimate, lucid, scaled-back way. And even though I occasionally look back on those times and cringe, wondering how I can kiss my mother with this mouth, I’m also so f***ing happy I got it out of my system. Like drugs and embarrassing fads and the lame emotional tantrums we throw as adolescents, it’s so much better going through those things young and getting them out of the way while the repercussions can still be minimal.

And that’s not to say I would never revisit the idea of a threesome or something more—next time it’ll just be a much chicer, discerning affair. Without clipart.

By Anonymous

Gimme More Sex + Dating

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