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I ask him what's the wildest thing he's ever seen. "There's a female bodybuilder, and the line for the gangbang will wrap around the room entrance," he says, "and you'll overhear the men leaving the room talk about how tight she was. There were at least 10 or 20 men there before him. How can she be tight?" he laughs. "I'm not judging," he clarifies, "I'm just saying."
I pay Trapeze a third visit, this time with a smokin' SoCal surfer-looking friend. It's a Sunday night. Specifically, my last night in Atlanta before I move to Las Vegas. In the back of my mind, I know this is the last chance I have to play at a swingers club. At least, in Atlanta. At least, for a while. I'm wearing a polka-dot dress with black Mary Jane heels. I feel sexy as hell.
I meet my date at Noni's for drinks. There's something about his hair, all dirty-blonde and wild, that makes me want to run my fingers through it. I feel carnal. My nerves are heightened, but not like the first time I went to the club. I'm walking straight and with a swing in my step, shoulders back. I feel starved; my hunger demands satisfaction. We talk for a while about nothing in particular, laugh about nothing in particular, before we head to the club. He's down to play, but worries people will find out. I forget about the whole under-the-radar aspect. It's a strange occupational hazard, to bring others into the mix. I reassure him no one will find out.
We merge onto the highway and head to the club when R. Kelly's "Ignition" comes on my car stereo. We make waves through the air with our hands, windows down. We're singing the lyrics out loud. "I'm about to take my key and stick it in the ignition." The summer heat is on its deathbed, and the night air feels cool. We are all smiles. I feel free. Like what I thought it would feel when I first saw that "Real Sex" episode.
At the club, we lubricate our nerves and build the tension over a couple of drinks before we head to the back area. I take his guiding hand like a child at Disney in line to Space Mountain, unsure what the end of the hallway's darkness has in store for me. We don't swing, neither of us is ready for that, but we do make it to the locker room. Our clothes come off quick, as if they're to blame for the static in our touch. I wrap the towel around my chest, when a light bulb goes off in my head. I undo it and wrap it around my waist. "You have beautiful breasts," he says. "Thanks," I reply with a big smile and an even bigger kiss, mouth open, tongue wet, a light nibble that ensures I mean business.
We remove our towels and climb into the hot tub, naked. There's no one around. It's the allure of the taboo, without the prying eyes and bodies of others. Even under the Jacuzzi area's less-than-forgiving white light, I forget all my physical insecurities and dunk the back of my head in the warm water like I'm in some kind of Victoria's Secret swimsuit video campaign. His stare is gentle, but ambitious; determined. Even before he pulls me closer, I can feel his touch.
We begin to make out before he grabs my hand and we head to one of the private couples room, along with some complimentary condoms provided by the club. The room is small, but has enough space to hold a twin-sized bed and two bodies, maybe three — or four. Soon we're switching positions without exchanging words, just the reading and guiding of our bodies.
Between the moaning and dirty talking and hair pulling, I mercilessly consign to oblivion. Consumed in our revelry, my exclamations are a reflection of each other forgoing all sense of time and space, as others overhear and begin to peek their heads in, curious as to the details of our festivities. We stop only when the door opens. We forgot to lock it. "Sorry," a woman says softly, "just looking." We freeze in our tracks and stare at the door. The lighting is dim. We can't see her. The door remains slightly open for a few seconds before she closes it. It happens several more times. We never lock it.
A few hours later, we step out of the room, back into our clothes, and sit in the dining area with the goofiest of satisfied smiles on our faces. We eat a warm, much-needed meal as we talk literature and life for another hour or so before we leave around 4 a.m. I'm pretty sure at that point that I will return to a swingers club someday. Swingers clubs are like tattoos: you end up wanting more. Then again, I don't have any tattoos. And that tongue ring I got in high school was a short-lived phase. Sometimes once is enough to satisfy our curiosity.
My dirty-blonde surfer dude texts me a few days later. "Thoughts of us interlocked in a sweaty tangle still pop up in my mind and make me feel tingles." I smile. I know exactly how he feels.EDITOR'S NOTE: This article has been updated to accurately reflect the differences between certain local swingers clubs.
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