Clubland

by Jay Walker
(Page 2)

But how to join them without facing the depressing prospect of sitting by the mailbox? I did what everyone under a question mark does; I consulted Screw, which lists several on- and off-premise New York clubs (on-premise meaning you actually can get your rocks off in the club).

Screw describes Le Trapeze, 17 East 27th Street (between Fifth and Madison), as "the primary venue for old-line, couples-only swinging." Its love of the place may stem from the fact that much of the clientele look like Al Goldstein, even some of the women.

Among those at Le Trapeze are numerous examples of one of society's injustices to women -- the attractiveness mismatch. Women have to meet a minimum standard of beauty in order to enter the halls of self-respect, while the guys can pay to sneak in the side door. Nowhere is this more evident than Le Trapeze.

I'm not discussing age here. There are many women with more than enough grace and charisma in middle age to annihilate 90 percent of the teenage hardbodies hanging at MTV's beach house. But their husbands look like Mussolini on a bender.

And the attitude of many is all wrong. They view themselves as commodities when they should be looking for a sexual extension of what they have together.

"Swapping" as an outright trade is repulsive and depressing. It is, however, fair to see it as allowing your partner to get a good tingle going with someone new while you do the same. Obviously, you each should be attracted to your respective playmates and vice-versa. Unfortunately, that's seldom the case and therein lies the gender inequality.

Julia and I are on an par with each other -- 24 and 28, respectively, and more than reasonably presentable. I found us to be rare at Le Trapeze. There are plenty of attractive women there, but their men will give the female half of your couple an adventure in tolerance.

The looks differential is just the beginning. I haven't even mentioned the purely predatory nature of the majority of the people you'll meet. I present the night of our first couple, Mojo and Genie (obviously those aren't their real names), as a case study.

We were deer in the headlights.

Genie was 30-ish, attractive and looked like Barbara Eden with dark hair. Of course, Mojo was another story. Want a picture? Buy a back issue of the X-Men, find the villain of the same name and color him tan -- you got it.

What follows is my best Travis McGee-type summary that fast-forwards past our initial bout with terror after we first entered the place and tried to find a wall to disappear against.

A heavy-set, balding guy in his late 40s was taking his equally stout wife from behind on a couch, working like a champ. Next to them, a woman with long, blond hair was going down on her husband, aping the porn video on the screen over them. I wasn't sure it was for my benefit, but she chose that moment to pull her hair back to allow a more complete view of her work.

A fully clothed, younger couple sat at the bar. The guy watched the action and whispered into his partner's ear. For a moment I was puzzled at her blank stare; then I noticed his hand between her legs, working rhythmically. She gave a slow, helpless grin.