What do you wear to a swingers’ club?

No, not a ’40s-inspired dance club. My wardrobe is well set up for such an establishment. I mean a down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred (whatever that means) sex club.

I stand in my closet, a space rather devoid of PVC and latex. And other than an ill-advised pleather skirt, I possess very few clothing items made from oil by-products, with the exception of a few lycra workout tops. Which even I don’t think are de rigueur at swingers’ clubs.  Read More….Click on Headline.

I settle on a little black dress. A dress I last wore with pearls out to dinner with my in-laws. I decide to leave the pearl necklace at home, lest it send the wrong message for the evening. I do, however, pair it with my highest of high heels and a kicky little scarf. I look like I’m ready for a cocktail after the PTA meeting. Oh well.

Who knew that swingers are suddenly a big deal again? It’s a phenomenon I thought died with the ’70s — key parties and hairy-chested men and suburban dinner parties gone terribly wrong. But apparently swinging has been rebranded for new millennium — it’s called “The Lifestyle” now, and apparently everyone is living it. Or at least 50 million people in North America, according to a study by Dr. Curtis Bergstrand at Bellarmine University in Kentucky. AdultFriendFinder.com, one of the oldest sites for, well, adult friend finding, has over 30 million members, with an additional 20,000 people joining on a good day. And Edmonton is home to four — count ’em! four! — Lifestyle Clubs for meeting and greeting and whatever else you do at a Lifestyle Club.

Which I’m about to find out.

But first, I want to talk to some swingers, or Lifestylers, to find out what to expect. Which shouldn’t be hard to do, since I have 50 million people on the continent to choose from.

Except no one’s talking. Swinging seems to be the final taboo. In a sex-obsessed culture where everyone talks about everything — and on network television, no less — swingers are the last to kiss and tell. Discretion and anonymity are the watchwords, with real and severe consequences, including job loss and family dis-ownment, should they be discovered. For that reason, everyone appearing in this article, even me (as I work with children in other aspects of my life, and I don’t want folks to draw false conclusions after a quick Google search) are here under false names.

So I’ve searched for weeks to find brave swingers willing to talk to me. I understand the unwillingness to air one’s clean and dirty laundry in the public arena of an alternative newspaper. But I also have to question why, especially if people know their identities will be protected, no one wants to talk.

Finally, through a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, I find a couple who is willing to talk about their little secret. “We’ve been swinging for about two years,” says the woman I’ll call Katie. Katie is much like me. In her thirties, professional, well-educated, married. In fact, Katie rather fits the mould for female swingers, according to Bergstrand’s research. She was 31 when she and her husband started swinging, and had been married for almost 10 years before they joined the Lifestyle. They are also actively religious — also common, according to Bergstrand. And her reason for doing it is also the most common response: “It makes life just that much more exciting,” she says with a cheeky grin.

Katie’s husband — I’ll call him Charles — agrees. “Before we started swinging, we were caught in the nine-to-five grind. We had a mortgage, full-time jobs, a dog. We still have all those things, but now the grind is gone. We have a lot of fun.”

Just how much fun, I want to know. “We’ll go to the clubs a couple times a month,” says Katie. “Or we’ll meet people we’ve found online. We’re pretty active, but it’s not our whole lives,” she’s quick to reassure. She also belongs to a book club.

So now for what I really want to know. What happens at a Lifestyle club? “Not a whole lot,” says Charles.

Really? That’s disappointing. But I’m also kind of relieved.

“I mean, sure, stuff happens,” says Katie. “But most of the really juicy stuff happens off-site. It’s more of a place to meet people.”

And by “juicy stuff,” Katie means whatever your imagination can summon, all within the confines of adult consent. From straight, full swap (i.e., trading partners with another couple) to orgy-rific fun with one or two or as many more partners as you’d like to the more gentle of options — “play,” meaning heavy petting with any or all members of a group of whatever size you determine. BDSM activities are also popular, with gentle (or not so gentle, depending on your predilections) flogging and bondage all part of the fun. And by the way, says Katie, “the Lifestyle isn’t just about swinging; it’s about open-minded play and woman-centred sexuality.”

Open-minded play and woman-centered sexuality. It sounds like a brochure. I almost expect Katie to whip one out of her purse. But what does that really mean?

“It means that Lifestylers truly revere women,” says Charles as Katie nods enthusiastically. “Women control the activities, and it’s all about female satisfaction,” says Charles. Katie nods again, her grin even a little brighter.

Charles regales me for some time on the benefits of the Lifestyle for women. “It’s a chance for a woman to embrace her sexuality and to have a wide range of experiences with the safety of her partner,” he says. “It’s so much better than exploring these things outside of a relationship, because she always has her partner to look out for her.”

Katie continues to nod and grin. So I ask her. “Oh, yes,” she says. “I find it very fulfilling. I can pursue fantasies, but I always have my anchor in my husband.” She’s still nodding.

How did they get into it, I ask? “We were married for 10 years,” Charles says, “and frankly a little bored. With ourselves, our lives. We were having some trouble, and thought about splitting up.”
“But we didn’t,” says Katie, fervently. “The Lifestyle saved us.”

Perhaps my face reveals what my brain is thinking, that I have a hard time believing that sleeping with someone else is going to save your marriage, because Katie quickly jumps in with “I know it sounds strange but it really works for us.”

Hey, to each his own.

I have to admit that throughout our conversation, I’m struggling hard not to judge. I have an overwhelming urge to critically dissect each statement they make and view it with a psychologist’s eye. Which surprises me, because I like to think that I’m an accepting, open-minded, liberal person. I like Charles and Katie, but there’s something in their proselytizing air that I find, frankly, threatening.

Or maybe I’m just nervous about going to the swingers’ club.

My mother doesn’t help. “Don’t do it,” she says, when I tell her where I’m headed for the sake of research. “They’ll rape you at the door.”

My mother is not the only one picturing images of Caligula’s cave. Residents along Edmonton’s Stony Plain Road have been up in arms for months at the prospect of a new swingers’ club moving into part of the former Jasper Cinema, claiming that a sex club will lower property values and cause the neighbourhood to go to pot. And this is a neighbourhood of pawnshops and porn stores.

As the hours count down to our grand entrance at the club, I get more and more nervous. My husband tries to be reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know kung fu. Well, at least, I’ve seen it on TV.”

Thanks, honey. Which leads me to question, what will we see at the club? What will the people be like? Sure, Katie and Charles seemed normal, nice, even. Is their normal act a cover for rash violence and drug use? Will we be raped at the door?

Finally the time has come. And, as it turns out, the only rape at the door is to our wallet. A steep club fee is charged to pay for the privilege of meeting and mingling with people who may or may not want to sleep with us. Which makes me wonder; it’s hard enough to meet one person’s criteria when dating as a single. Is dating as a couple even harder? How can anyone (or any two) meet two people’s ideals for sexual compatibility?

We walk into a large-ish room. Leather couches to our right, a bar to our left. A small dance floor. A few tables and chairs, a pool table at the far end. Seems pretty much like any neighbourhood karaoke bar. Except for the large screen overhead playing some truly bizarre fish porn. Yes, that’s right: a computer-generated woman is on the receiving end of a strange fish-man’s tongue. Talk about your fish-out-of-water stories.

But as my husband and I settle into our chairs and sip our water — it’s a dry club — I realize the room isn’t quite what I expected. No one is chained to the walls, moaning in terror — or ecstasy. There are no whips or sex toys. There isn’t even any nudity, except in the fish porn. And the women in the room are dressed much as I am — little black dresses abound. A few brave souls are wearing scanty lingerie, but I find out later it’s for a fashion show. Otherwise, people are generally sitting or standing in couples or small groups, looking vaguely bored. Kind of like any bar.

But one of the things that makes it different from Jasper or Whyte Avenue is the mix of people. It’s definitely an older crowd. I see one or two girls who might be in their twenties; otherwise everyone is on the other side of 30. Or 40. Which is admittedly kind of nice. It’s not the kind of bar where you have to worry about stepping on broken glass, or getting your nose broken in a fight.

And they’re such a mild-mannered crowd. Men in button-down shirts, most looking slightly geeky and uncomfortable. I suspect, from their general demeanour, many of them are accountants. The women are a little showier, but the atmosphere is not unlike a school dance after the popular crowd has gotten drunk and left early. There is a sense of quiet desperation in the room, a desire to fit in, to find a home.

Some have definitely found a home here. A few of the women walk proudly in their five-inch heels, strutting, enjoying the attention from both men and women. These women look like soccer moms in their other lives, but tonight, tonight they can be goddesses.

As for what goes on in a Lifestyle club? Katie and Charles were right. Not a whole lot. At least in the public room. A lot of standing or sitting, swaying to ’80s tunes. We try to make eye contact, to at least appear friendly, for the sake of research. But no one even looks at us, let alone comes over to talk.

Perhaps they can tell we’re not swingers. Maybe there’s a secret handshake or something.

A few couples and small groups do make their way to the private area, and my husband and I decide to check it out. The rules are simple. You can peek, or you can participate. But there will be no loitering.

So, we peek. The room is dark, with plenty of private corners. I get a fleshy impression of a naked couple on some leather chairs close by, and there’s something going on behind closed drapes on the other side of the room. The group we followed in have found a trio of leather chairs in the corner and are quietly chatting.

Our peek is in danger of turning into a loiter, so we leave. And then we leave the club, content with the fact that we are leaving with each other.

So swingers’ clubs as dens of iniquity? Not exactly. As chambers of purity and innocence? Not exactly that, either. As bastions of open-minded play and woman-centred sexuality? Okay, with reservations, I’ll go with that. The women certainly seem to rule the roost and many have found a place to be, ahem, revered, to use Charles’ word.

But I can’t help but feel that if I were setting up a fantasy sandbox to play in, there’d be a lot more hot guys. The absence of hot guys, my husband excluded, makes it feel like either a wonderland for the bi-curious and their beards, or a middle-aged male-driven fantasyland and its perception of female satisfaction. Not to paint myself as overly shallow, but my sense of the room made me question whether the slightly geeky accountant-type would be as thrilled if his wife were swapping up — instead of just swapping. Would swinging be as popular if the women could actually make all their fantasies come true? Where are Brad and Angelina when you need them?

So anyway, my one night as a swinger was pretty tame. Can’t say I felt like I fit in or found my people, but it also wasn’t a night dodging secondhand smoke, lame pickup lines and bar fights, like my night on Whyte Avenue a couple of weeks earlier.

I guess, really, to each his, or her, or their own.

You know when run across a concept, a design, a product idea so ingenious in its simplicity, so fail-safe in its delivery, so irresistibly beguiling that you can’t believe you didn’t think of it first? Ladies and gentlemen… 3DD. That book, and its latest companion, 3DD Deluxe, features 3D photographs of breasts by Brooklyn photographer Henry Hargreaves, himself a former piece of fashion eye candy for Prada, YSL and Jil Sander. The pair are almost childishly mesmerizing (we’re not judging; we looked).  Both books, understandably instant hits with cool kids and bros alike, come with 3D viewing glasses, feature all natural breasts of every shape and size in eye-popping surround vision and are way better than Avatar. Hargreaves is also responsible for the viral collection of photographs featuring Star Wars characters in the streets of Williamsburg during a blizzard.  We’re telling you, this kid is in the pantheon!

All images copyright Henry Hargreaves

By Dominick Scala

Maybe it was the glance, or the thickness of desire pulsating with every heartbeat. Between the comfort of that look in her eyes and the blood red, lace stockings outlining the all-too-familiar curves of flesh, I was born again and beside myself with anticipation.

Was this some sort of ploy, I wondered, as we sat there in the front seats of my truck? It felt as if our skins were two cages side by side confining the instinctual animal impulses driven by passion and intuition. I was salivating. We hadn’t touched each other in almost two months and the solace in her voice was mesmerizing me past her sly jabs and relentless negativity.

She moves over and lays into my chest. Grabbing her head and stomach, I move closer until she feels my breath on her cheek. “Nope! No kissing,” she says forcefully with a hint of humor. “You just want to fuck me,” she groans. “Well, yea I definitely want to, but that is far from all I want.”

She props back upright in her seat and I can almost feel what she is thinking as she motions towards the back seat. “Wanna do it back there, like the old days?” My eyes peer into the dark and the freshly cleaned rear of my truck as I give her the nod of, “Hell fucking yes!” “Yeah, that’s probably a bad idea.” She sighs then curiously begins to crawl her way back and lies facedown, her dress pinned up above her waist.

A few moments pass and I’m glaring now, trying to make sense of her and this whole situation, completely overtaken by emotion. My longing, and inexplicable intensity for this woman send me into a frenzy. I reach out and caress her leg in massaging motions. My fingers keep getting caught between the strands of her stockings that at this point I’m ready to tear to shreds. She arches her back as her ass seems to scream for me to squeeze it. Slowly my hand slides between her thighs, up and around every delicious curve, then back to the warmth of the inside of her legs as she pushes her ass into my hand again ever so slightly. I comply with my palm fully covering where her stockings meet her panties as a moan or two slips from her breath. I kept pushing and squeezing, rubbing and tickling her, over and over, until I was burning from the inside out. I reach up to her lower back, grab a fist full of fabric and pull it down to just above her knees. I take her by the hips and bury my face inside her thighs from behind. As she rises to her hands I strengthen my grip and kiss every inch of skin within my reach. She turns over and our eyes lock as I pull on her stockings. I struggle with my boots as she does the same yet we remain eye to eye. My jeans are down, her panties are dangling from her ankle. I hold up her legs and slide my tongue down her thigh.

Kneeling above her, I pause. She is laid out before me, her arms reaching out, head slightly to the side, dress still above her stomach. I take in the moment completely. I look in her eyes then down below her belly. She reaches for my cock and wraps her hand around it, giving me a slight tug.

I open her legs and go down to lick her once more. As I raise my head there is a line of spit from my lips to hers. I wipe the wetness from my face and place it around my cock. I grab her hips as she slowly guides me inside her. Her warmth feels like heaven on earth. I rip open the snaps of my shirt so our skin is touching. Finally, we kiss. I am as deep as I can possibly be inside of her. We grab each others’ heads and I thrust slow and steady.

It’d been way too long since I’d kissed anyone so the faster I move my hips the more imminent my demise. Our fucking was hot and intense, yet we were making love, at least I was.

We were on a roller coaster of slow and deep movements to pounding penetration. Being in that moment and feeling it fully, meant that I was on the edge of an orgasm the moment she motioned toward the back seat. Being on top of her was giving me some sort of explosion control but when she whispered in my ear, “Want me to get on top?” I knew this would take a yogic mastery of tantric restraint that I should have been practicing all that time alone.

I reluctantly agree and move her on top of me. We are in the center of the back seat, hot, sticky and the fog on the windows is ready to drip. Her legs straddle me, my hands gripping her ass and thighs–as if I wasn’t deep enough before. She takes control and begins to bounce into me–slamming me. Fuck! The hardness of my cock, the wetness surrounding it, the warmth and her tightness stroking me, was all I could handle. I stopped her for a second. “Easy gunpowder. Think of cockroaches or something.” She gasps and proceeds to grind into me. “Squeeze me, pinch me, make me bleed,” I pleaded. She digs her nails into my flesh. “Harder! More!” I begged. My mind races and I try to block out her beauty, how fantastic it is to be inside her again, how bad I want her to explode all over me and me all over her. Of course, the harder you try to avoid a thought, the fiercer that thought becomes.

Watching her moan, her breasts bounce and her body quiver, I can’t take it any longer. My mind gives in. I squeeze her hips, kiss her lips, pull myself out and unleash. She strokes the last of it out of me, smiles and says, “That’s it? That’s all I get? That’s what I waited all this time for?” I didn’t try to explain myself and I didn’t argue. I was just amazed and chuckled. She has no filter, and I know she knows me, so I let it go.

We dress, get out of my truck and walk towards the movie theater. She clutches my arm and I feel the bittersweet torment once again pierce my chest. I can see no future beyond this moment. The only thing I can grasp is my love for her, my intensity, my passion and my romance. All these things I give to her but she will never take away from me.

Read more by Dominick Scala and other upcoming writers at Amenthes Press.

By Girl Next Door

Benny
$1500

I meet him at Absinthe in Hayes Valley. I wear the black Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress with the super low neckline and the long Van Cleef & Arpels silver chain that hangs to my navel and nestles just in between my breasts. He asked me to wear the red D&G shoes he bought me, so I do, although they are a size too small and hurt my feet. I think he secretly knows that and likes to walk a bit faster than me, forcing my tiny Geisha steps to keep his pace.

He seems to know the chef well and has her send out a six-course tasting menu, a different glass of wine appearing with every course.  I drink slowly but he’s watching and although I don’t like to get drunk I can tell that’s what he’s wants. He rubs my back, my shoulders and kisses me on the head twice when he gets up to go to the bathroom. We talk at length about his fiancé, how beautiful she is and why he’s so unhappy.  As he speaks of her his hand wanders up my thigh to between my legs and he begins to rub my panties. The restaurant is crowded and though I am a bit embarrassed I never take my eyes off him.

He keeps a small apartment not far from the restaurant that I’ve been to twice. From the lack of personal effects, it doesn’t appear that he lives there although the closets are full. While he’s in the shower, I strip down into a black lace La Perla thong, leave the necklace on and wait for him on the fur spread covering his bed.

He likes to take me from behind and as usual quickly flips me over onto my stomach. I try to open my legs but he pushes them back together. I think he must like the friction of his dick sliding in between them. Although he tells me I’m beautiful he rarely looks at me once sex has begun.  I make the general moans although for him I keep them quiet in a sweet, pleased attempt at seeming docile.  He whispers in my ear stories of how he’s going to come in my mouth. It’s the same speech every time. At first I was worried it would happen but now I know if I wiggle my hips a little more at just the right moment, he won’t be able to wait.

It works and he falls, sweaty on my back. He lies there for a moment then walks to the bathroom and once again I hear the shower. I made the mistake once of staying and quickly learned this little bathroom trip was a polite way of asking me to leave. I dress and exit quickly walking back to the restaurant to grab a cab. Not 10 minutes later I get a text, “Your smell is still on me. When can I see you again?”

He wanted to take me to the Massive Attack concert at the Fillmore. He asked me to wear a short skirt although he didn’t explain why or give any other instruction. Men often like to dress me up. I picked a flouncy Michael Kors silk skirt in black and paired it with a Dolce blazer I just bought that day. I wore my hair down, long and straight and shiny red lip gloss.

We met at the second floor bar and chatted for a while. He asked me to turn around so he could see me from every angle and then motioned for me to sit on his lap. “I want you to go into the ladies room and take off your panties.” I did as I was asked and when I stepped out of the bathroom he was waiting for me. He grabbed my hand and led me though the crowd. The concert had begun, the lights were low and it was difficult for the two of us to get very close to the stage.

As the music swelled the movement of the crowd pushed us forward and soon we were swaying along with the mass. He managed to pull me in front of him and began to kiss my neck. I could feel his hands grip my waist tightly and before I knew exactly what was happening he was fucking me from behind. His arms were wrapped completely around me now and he was moving inside me along with the rhythm of the crowd.

I rarely engage in public sex and may not have done it had I been forewarned, however this turned out to be a pleasant surprise. The music got faster and his thrusts inside of me began to gain speed. With each beat he was deeper. It felt so scandalous and exciting to be doing this with people grazing either side of us I almost cried out when I came. He bit my neck as I felt him convulsing against my back and I knew he was happy. He slipped out of me, smoothed down my skirt and we watched the rest of the concert. As we turned to leave, the couple beside us winked at him. “Nice show.”

Read More Snapshots From a Call Girl:

Snapshots From a Call Girl – Benny

Snapshots From a Call Girl – Sanjay

By Kelly Kate Warren

Despite my best attempts, these guys still wanted to hang out…

S&M

Andre the Seal

READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES:

An Introduction of Sorts

You Should Message Me If…

Zero Degrees of Separation

By The Wife

Tuesday: Mission District: 11:30PM

I am lying naked next to my husband. My finger traces his nipple– slowly and
deliberately making its way down… down… down.

I drag my nails lightly back up towards his chest grabbing- perhaps a little too hard once I reach my destination. My hand wanders back towards his waistband, I slip a finger into the elastic
of his underwear. I hear a breath catch in his throat. I stop and listen intently.
He is snoring.

B and I have been together for nearly 11 years and married for nearly 6.
We are, by all accounts, a hot couple. We are pretty madly in love with one
another, sexually active, and sexually adventurous, but even still things like this
occasionally happen. Tonight, I let it slide. I finally drift off to sleep as well.


Wednesday: Mission District: 8:00 AM
Again I find myself lying naked next to B___ after having woken him up in the nicest way
possible. “You fell asleep on me last night” I say, and we both give a little laugh.
We are both relaxed, well-sexed, bathed in morning light and endorphins. We
don’t even entertain the notion that soon I’ll have to hop out of bed and run off to
work. He gently strokes the side of my neck and I contemplate whether we have
time to go round once more before the day begins.

Saturday: Mission District: 10:30 AM
My dear friend C_____ has invited us to a party tonight and I want something
new to wear. I’m thinking that a new corset is in order something black and shiny
to go with my new fascinator with the lovely little veil. We head to Stormy Leather
where the lovely girls lace me into sexy shiny things and ooh and ah at the way
I spill over the tops of the leather, satin, and patent corsets. They squeal with
delight when I ask if I can lace B___ into the corset I’ve chosen for myself, since
I’m sure we’ll be sharing at some point.

Saturday: Dog Patch: 11:30 PM
“J_______ is here!” I smile, that is one hell of a greeting. I had seen flashes
going off from the street, so I assumed there was some sort of photo shoot
going on, but I was surprised to see a set up like this in the living room. C____
is getting her photo taken- she’s dressed in a white lace and sequin bustier and
a tiny pleated pvc skirt. She has amazing thigh high boots on and looks very
hot perched on a spanking bench. B___ is so sexy in his gender fuck getup– thick
fishnet shirt, black satin corset, thick stretch satin underwear, and knee high
black leather shit kickers. I have opted for a black shiny lycra halter skating dress
from American Apparel with a black patent underbust corset from Stormy Leather
over the top. I am wearing black opera length-gloves that button all the way up,
black fishnets, and a black fascinator with feathers and a netted veil. My shoes
are silver and black leopard print and are death-defyingly tall at 7.5 inches. My
hair is shiny, straight, black with perfect Bettie bangs, and I am spilling over the
top of my dress in a way that I’m sure makes some people nervous and others…
well, pleased.

People begin to hover around us as soon as the street clothes have been
removed, and I can tell immediately that I won’t be having sex at this party.
C____, B___, and I are definitely the most fashionable, best looking people in the
room and if I’m going to be inspired to have sex in a house full of people, it will be
because there are steamy, creative, wild, and inspirationally sexy people there.
At this little soiree, the sexiest thing I can see happening is getting my photo
taken. The photographer shoots B___ and I as a couple first, but B___ quickly
loses patience but I am happy to stay the center of attention awhile longer as the
photographer tells me how fabulous I am in front of the camera and fawns over
me just enough to keep me entertained.

We head upstairs as there are two more floors with people kissing, fondling,
and getting beaten. One woman is doing Nitrous from a canister on the bed
after being taken down from a St. Andrew’s Cross. It is here that we sit down
for a spell. There are people our age in this room, it has the least “Lord of the
Rings” vibe, and a woman whose dress and hair I like. The woman turns out to
be called S_____ and she is smart, sexy, and wickedly funny. B___, C_____,
S_____, her lover J____, and I have delightful conversation full of laughter
and completely annoy the people trying to do Nitrous and have kinky Elvin
playtime. Oops. We all decide that it’s time to leave, but not without exchanging
information. Perhaps tonight was not a total bust after all.

Keep it Hot Until Next Time,
J

I know, I know, “til death do us part,” and “I only have eyes for you” sounds really romantic, but let’s be honest, that’s a holy crock of shit for most of us. After watching our parents divorce and cheat with the best of them, many of us are left scratching our heads thinking, “what’s next?”  While the monogamous dydadic relationship model still works for a good 30 to 40% of the population, what about the rest of us supposed heathens and sluts?

According to national surveys ranging from the prestigious Kinsey Report to the Cosmo magazine scratch and sniff girl surveys, over half of us are lying through our pretty teeth about what we say we want and what actually happens behind closed doors, and the statistics surrounding infidelity are staggering. Indeed, most experts do consider the ‘educated guess’ that at the present time some 50 to 65 percent of husbands and 45 to 55 percent of wives become extra-maritally involved by the age of 40. Conservative infidelity statistics estimate that “60 percent of men and 40 percent of women will have an extramarital affair. And with this many marriages affected, it’s unreasonable to think affairs are due only to the failures and shortcomings of individual husbands or wives.” (The Monogamy Myth, 2003)

So what are we to do with modern love relationships? Fuck like bunnies without abandon until we drop? Join Swingers-R-Us and call it a day?  Walk around feeling disconnected, doomed and jaded about all prospects of long term relationships? Abandon our princess bride banter on the joys of Wuv and Maaawwage for good?

This might come as a surprise to some of you,(it was to me!)but it seems that there are OPTIONS to being a big bad nasty cheater.  Out of the mucky underworld of infidelity there are cultural uprisings of alternatives in the world of sex, love and relating, and they are definitely giving the status quo a good run for their money.
This shake up seems to include snapping ourselves out of the often unrealistic cultural coma we were all force fed to begin to redefine relationships to encompass who we ACTUALLY are versus who we CLAIM to be, as well as developing a little known aptitude called TELLING THE TRUTH!

And big surprise, many of these paradigm-stretching folks are right here in our beloved San Francisco.But who are these people? And can these new paradigms really last when the culture is so entrenched in a sometimes ill fitting and deceptive cloak? How do we retrain ourselves to live beyond our programming?  These are the questions many of us are grappling with…

The truth about the relationship revolution might surprise you, and in the upcoming issues of Sex+Design; we will explore the lives and thoughts of real life relationship revolutionaries, social activists and educators in the field of non-traditional relationships to allow you to see for yourself….

In the next issue, I have the privilege of interviewing  the world renowned author and relationship expert Deborah Anapol.  In her own words, Deborah readily admits that her new book, Polyamory in the 21st Century, “would have been impossible to write when she first started exploring this territory 30 years ago because at the time, only a handful of survivors of the sexual revolution were willing to admit they were still non-monogamous – it was very unfashionable! Four books, hundreds of TV shows and magazine articles and thousands of workshops later, it’s a new world!”

Our in depth conversation will cover her perspectives on intimate relationships that don’t conform to our culture’s monogamous ideal but endeavor to be honest, ethical, and consensual.  This will include exploring the practical, the utopian, and the shadow sides of this intriguing, yet often challenging lifestyle while shedding light on the reasons people choose these alternatives and how their lives have changed as a result, including her own.

The Sensitive Player by Alex Crevar

Why is it that no matter how well you plan, you can never get to bed at a reasonable hour the night before a trip? You can pack your grip a week ahead of time. You can lay your tickets, passport, and itinerary out on the bureau with OCD precision the day prior. You can eat an early dinner, flip on the white-noise machine, pull the mask over your eyes and still, still you end up on a barroom table in Croatia, minus one shoe, sleeves rolled up, shirttail out, bourbon stain across your chest, and sports coat balled up in a corner while trying to sweet-talk a miniskirt-ed co-ed with red-bull-and-vodka breath over a blaring Missy Elliot remix.

To make matters worse, on this occasion, the Sensitive Player hadn’t planned his evening’s refreshments very well. He’d mixed the aforementioned bourbon with a few glasses of a popular Croatian beverage known as a bambus – red wine and coke – a tumbler of grappa here and there, beer, and a celebratory trio of bad tequila shots in honor of someone who did something … the details were blurry at best. End result: On the pre-trip morning in question, Señor Sensi P had not quite made it to the bedroom and was on the floor in the living-room doorway in socks and green-and-yellow-polka-dotted boxer shorts clutching a square of paper upon which two numbers and names were scribbled in two different female handwritings. For some reason, trying to remember which one was Lucia (raspy voice? leather pants?) and which was Martina (nice behind? could shake it?) was more important than looking at the clock, which clearly showed that Monsieur S. Player had 20 minutes to gather his belongings and make the 15-mintute walk to the station for a train headed to Budapest.

My only goal was to find a car with a vacant cabin to lie down, draw the curtains, and feel sorry for myself. Instead I was forced to squeeze into the last, non-adjustable seat in the smoking compartment. No, second-to-last. A fellow American filled the last one. A gum-smacking, coffee-filled New Englandite. A Yankee.

Had I ever been to Budapest? Oh, I love Budapest. Don’t you love Budapest? I know a super little restaurant in Budapest. Would I like her to draw a little map to that little restaurant? No? Well if I change my mind, she’d be happy to. She draws really “awesome maps” she told me. Really.

In the tinny echo chamber that was my head I was trying to float away on the Marrakesh Express. My reality was something akin to a 5-hour sequestering with Steve Urkel. But here’s what you learn as a Sensitive Player bopping about cultures where word-of-mouth is the main source of down-and-dirty party info: listen – even in the darkest of moments – and you will learn. This spry lass knew of a hip wine bar, where her fellow study-abroaders – ladies mostly – start their evenings. They’d love me, she said. You are so funny, she insisted. I grunted and burped a mixture of tequila, tic tacs, and Old Grand-Dad.

As if this news wasn’t good enough, all at once – after explaining this potentially trip-altering detail – the gum-smacker wore herself out and grew quiet. I caught a wink. Sawed some logs. I was on the Marrakesh Express now. I seem to remember a lute and a flautist and someone thumping a noise harp. Certainly there was a contortionist. No question there was sandalwood wafting. Lots of sandalwood. When I woke, I was in Budapest’s Keleti Station. The car was empty … a map to the wine bar stuffed in my shirt pocket.

There’s a vibe I always get when traveling that makes me feel like anything is possible. When I walk in a shop, restaurant, bistro, café, or random apartment in a new town I feel I can do no wrong. I am not just Mr. S Player. I am Mr. S Player’s even more adorable half-brother. Same father. Sensitive Player, Esquire-edition, is just certain everybody wants a taste of this foreign matter. This funk machine minus the afro-sheen. Lawdamercy.

Walking into the wine bar, tiny map in hand, all the stars were aligned. I walked with a gentle swagger. Distinct but not too cocky. And it’s a fact that homeboy’s hair was looking good. Not too much humidity in the air so it had just the right wave. In the omniscient words found in the Book of Brown, first chapter, first verse, the Godfather said a mouthful when he spoke unto his disciples: “Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things he’s got it all.”

The gum-smacker nearly peed herself when I came in. Actually she really might have. If there was little wetness it probably came when she jumped straight into the air and squealed like a really small pig. Not an adolescent swine. A newborn with its little legs moving super fast trying to catch up to mama with an ecstatic zeal rooted in fear and milky hunger. “Oh you really have to meet Dorika. And this is Nusa. Here’s my roommate Janka.”

“Ladies,” SP said as if he were adjusting his monocle and as he was handed a glass of wine.

“Will you come with us to a house party?”

“Will I come with you to a houseparty?! ….” I said, almost peeing myself, then reeled it in and played it cool. Got to hang the carrot, you see. I gulped down the rest of my red Hungarian wine called Bikaver, which means bull’s blood. “Hmmm, you sure I’ll be welcome?

“Oh yes. Bring a bottle. There will be sushi. There will be music. There will be ….”

The Marrakesh Express was rolling again. This time there was a definite hint of ginger-flavored gummy bears. Was there a monkey in tux? Seems I could just make out a trapeze artist in a singlet two sizes too small and with a blond and downy sheen that could only be seen when she stood at a profile and the moon was just so.

Lawd knows Sensitive Master Playah ate some sushi. Drank some wine, too. And when that was running low, he gave a cutie a fistful of forints to jog down to the 24-hour kiosk for more, “how you say, blood of bull?” Then, just as a joint started making the rounds, SP, Esq., changed the music. But he did it smoove. There wasn’t the harsh song break that draws attention. There was the silky trans that says: “Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage.”

It was then that Katarina, a sandy-haired Hungarian honey, walked in with the sugar toting the new bottles of wine. My Katarina flooded the room with fresh life.

My God what a package my Katarina was blessed with … all the right curves. Not too much. Just enough to jerk a neck and with a face that made me breathe through my nose for fear of dropping spittle on the dance floor. She was perfect. She walked over just as MJ was talking about “mama-say mama-sah ma-ma-coo-sah.” When I asked if I could get her a drink she nodded. When I returned, she was waiting. When “American Boy” came on she put her arms over her head, closed her eyes, straddled my knee and wriggled hips. When folks started to leave she gripped my arm and kissed my cheek. She pulled me out the door and kissed me hard as we walked down the stairs of the apartment.

We walked through the crisp, late-spring Budapest night and held hands. We never spoke. I was already thinking of where to file for a marriage license the next day. We stopped and kissed against a street sign with genuine abandon until the sun started to creep atop the horizon and shimmied along the Danube. As her bus pulled up I realized why we’d stopped here. “Come stay with me, I said.” She nodded politely, beautifully, no. As we kissed one last time she said only: “I hate you for not living in Budapest.” She smiled the most precious, pouty, longing smile I have ever seen. We watched each other through the window until she turned a corner and was out of sight. I didn’t get her number. Forgot.

I slunk to my empty hotel room like a popped and dirty balloon being dragged on a string across the gravel and straw and peanut shells and cigarette butts in a carnival’s parking lot by a kid worn out from too much cotton candy and the hollow, once-in-a-lifetime realization that he came this close – this close – to hitting the 50 hole in skee-ball.

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