Clubland

by Jay Walker

Let's muddle through the euphemisms for a second, shall we? The topic at hand is what others call "swinging" or "swapping," terms that haven't been updated in decades and are fraught with as many problems as the practice they strain to describe. Swinging conjures up getting all the wacky sitcom neighbors together -- Mr. Roper, Mrs. Crabtree, the pre-spinoff Jeffersons, Kramer, etc. -- stripping down and going to town. I could diet to a picture of that party.

Swapping, with its fair exchange of property, is sexist at best, sexless when you consider it and reduces my girlfriend to the level of a baseball card. So, in an attempt to remove one of the myriad targets for mockery the subject presents, I call any exploration we've done "going to couples clubs," an activity ranging from watching/being watched to checking out every nook and cranny of people able to convince you they're using their real first names.

Before we start, let me address the doomsayers among you. All the criticism you can heap on couples clubs is true: (1) Unsafe sex abounds, so just say "no" if you'd like adequate sleep for the next eight to 10 years. (2) Plenty of people, mostly men, will gladly pick their partners up by the ankles and club you to death with them in order to get between the legs of your significant other. (3) Many club goers exhibit the same endearing qualities they display at Jets games or the local OTB. However, all that only affects you if you let your guard down. There's actually latitude for a good time. Honest.

I'm not in a position to dole out advice since I've yet to have the perfect experience (or even anything worth lying about in Penthouse Forum), but I'm willing to share snippets of nights my partner and I have had in our quest for variety without cheating.

Julia and I have been dating for more than three years and plan on getting married. We don't blithely put our relationship in jeopardy and getting her to the front door of a club took a lot of talking. I won't understate that -- a lot of talking. She was willing to try something different but insisted we set ground rules. Either one of us can pull the ripcord at any time, no questions asked, and no fucking or trading fluids with anyone outside our impenetrable, unassailable twosome.

Genie was 30-ish, attractive and looked like Barbara Eden with dark hair. Of course, Mojo was another story.

Since late adolescence, I've been fascinated with the "swing" world. It started with my first Christ-I-hope-no-one-I-know-sees-me foray into an adult bookstore after admitting Playboy was no longer an adequate masturbation enhancement, or what we charmingly called "whacking fuel". After sheepishly passing the Manson family cashier/gatekeeper, I discovered Unreal People.

For the uninitiated, Unreal People -- it really should consider a new name; the Sarah Purcell debacle is now but a dim, shudder-inducing memory -- is an unabashed, hardcore magazine with advertisers seeking other couples, singles or any combination they can dream up. Post-Meese Commission, it doesn't allow any scatological or animal material, but barring that it's the big leagues.

There are pretenders and one, Looking Glass, sports 100 percent full color but nothing seems to equal Unreal People for unmitigated decadence. Despite the title, the people are very real looking. No airbrushing or silicon here. Advertisers cut across all social strata and levels of attractiveness. They're thin, heavy, pretty, ugly, young, middle-aged and older, but they're all doing it. And nearly everyone's smiling.