Confessions Of A Rust Belt Swinger 09

Note: This stand-alone story is part of our continuing swinging adventures. I hope you find at least some humor in these stories.

Chapter 9: In Da Club Part III – Wax on, whacks off, Daniel-san

When we moved north, we had to find a new swing club to go to.

Oh, we moved north. Didn't I tell you that?

Well, we did.

Try to keep up.

Anyway, there are sites on the web that list swing clubs in different states. It's awesome.

I love the internet!

One stop shopping for all your deviant, wacked-out fuck needs!

And everyone has at least a few fuck needs.

So, we located this club in our new town. Swinger Couple Fantasy Club. SCFC. Well, it certainly sounded good.

On the internet.

The pictures looked good. Rooms with beds in them. A main room with some chairs and a dance floor. A small bar area. Your typical place to pick up random people to fuck.

Although we looked at some other clubs that were also in the area, Anne and I decided that we would try SCFC. It was mid-October when we finally found a weekend that would work. Chilly, but not yet snowing out.

So, on a Saturday evening in the middle of October, we set off on another swinger club adventure.

And drove right to a strip mall.

Ugh. Seriously?

Now, granted, it was on the other side of town, at least 45 minutes away. We didn't know a soul.

But, it was still in a strip mall.

Why? Who the fuck knows. Maybe the rent was really cheap. Maybe they wanted to be able to go next door to the Blockbusters without walking too far. Whatever.

But it certainly met creepy factor number one. Strip mall swinger club? Creepy.

But, we parked and steeled ourselves for the adventure.

As Anne and I got out of our car, we noticed that it was quite crowded.

Huh.

Saturday night at a strip mall and its really crowded? Ok, first thought is that this is one HAPPENING swinger's club. Woooo!!! Cannot wait to party!

But then we noticed that a lot of these people were dressed in costumes. No, not slutty hooker stuff that a lot of the women wear to clubs. No, this was monsters and aliens and spidermans.

uh, men.

Um, and, uh, why do so, uh, many of these people look like. . .

Kids?

Anne and I began to frantically look around. And almost immediately spotted the haunted house. Located about 500 feet from the entrance to the swinger's club.

Wow.

Now, the swinger club didn't have a big neon sign on it blinking,

FUCK HOUSE!

But, it was on the second story of the strip mall. So, there was a nice line of men and women going up some rickety outside stairs. And, you guessed it, some of the women were dressed, um, kind of slutty. And all of the guys had something in their hands. Paper bags with bottles of booze; little coolers filled with multiple six-packs. Whatever their drink of choice, they had it in a bag.

And, not more than 500 feet away from the sex processions, a huge line of people, families, kids, all waiting in line to head into the strip mall house of terror. Ok, so some of the women in that other line were dressed kinda slutty too. But for each one of these women, there were like three little Princess Jasmines standing next to them.

Hey, guess what?

Creepy factor number two!!! Swinger club right next door to family entertainment.

Yuck!

As Anne and I stood there, debating what to do, I could almost imagine the two groups staring at each other like some fucked-up, drug induced version of the Sharks and the Jets, ready to rumble down by the strip mall.

Just as I was starting to snap my fingers and break into a stunning yet snappy rendition of "America," Anne said,

"Well, let's go in. I don't want to hang out here too long. It's kind of creepy."

No shit.

So, up the swinger steps we scampered. I swear some little girl dressed like a Care Bear pointed at me and asker her dad where we were going. I shut that image out of my brain as best as I could and we entered the magical world of fucking!

Well, we entered the foyer area.

Again.

To fill out the mountain of forms.

Again.

Ok. We won't do any drugs. We won't take any pictures of people doing it. We're not police officers looking to bust the place, blah, blah, blah.

Now, I could be wrong, but it seems to me that if the police wanted to take down the club, some stupid little form wouldn't do all that much to stop them.

"Well, we were gonna go in and arrest some people for prostitution and public indecency, but gosh darn it sarge, they had a form!!"

"No! Really?"

"Yep, Couldn't do a darn thing!"

Not that I think that all swinger clubs have prostitution or drug use or whatever going on in them. Do some of them? Sure. But so does the fucking park down the street, and we're not rushing to close all of them down.

As for closing them down because they're places where people go to have sex? Fuck you. Consenting adults making a choice to have sex with a willing partner or partners all in one fun little place? It's their choice. How's it any different than picking someone up in a bar and going somewhere to fuck. Ok, the drinks are cheaper. But the cover is a lot more expensive. Oh, and there's a ton of people having sex right there. Otherwise, no difference!

Leave people alone. A good motto for more people to try and live by.

Whew.

Sorry for the rant.

So we filled out our ream of paperwork. Paid our eighty bucks and then entered the flesh fantasy world of fucking!

Right?

Not so much.

This was not like a club that we were used to. We entered what seemed to be just one big room. Almost like a classroom. After looking around for a bit, we noticed that there was a hallway that ran around this main room. Small rooms were off of this hallway.

We learned all of this on our obligatory tour of the place. Some of the small rooms had mattresses in them. One of the rooms had some weird contraption in it that a woman sat on. Or splayed out over. I don't really fucking know what it was. I think it was a sex swing. Or maybe a kite.

Another room had a bunch of sex toys that could be purchased.

It was like a little swinger gift shop.

Awesome. "I went to the swinger's club and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!"

We noticed a few things as we walked around the club. A lot of the side rooms had doors with glass in them. Little Venetian blinds stopped people from looking in. Mostly.

And there were a lot of posters on the walls. Some were porn related.

But a lot were about karate.

And there was a trophy case. Filled with trophies.

You guessed it.

Karate.

I think that Anne and I came to the realization at about the same time.

We're in a goddamned Karate studio.

Oh.My.God.

Oh, it got worse. Because when you looked closer, it became pretty obvious that this wasn't just a karate studio by day.

It was a kid's karate studio by day.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Hmmmmm, and that would be creepy factor number three!

Million. Three FUCKING million!

So, some of these little rooms were where kids would come and practice breaking boards and shit, and now mattresses were tossed into them so that people could fuck.

Yuck.

I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Anne told me, in no uncertain terms, that we would NOT be using any of the rooms that evening. Or ever.

No shit.

At that point all I wanted to do was dunk my brain into a vat of hand cleanser and scrub. Vigorously. Playing with another couple in this place wasn't exactly high on my "to do" list for the night.

As opposed to simply crashing through the wall to escape like the giant pitcher of Kool-Aid, we decided to walk around the place for just a bit longer. After all, we did fork over eighty bucks for the fan-fucking-tastic experience in karate-town.

Well, we learned that the theme for the night at the SCLC was the Roaring Twenties. What the fuck is up with that? Why do I want to dress up like a gangster? Ever? But there they were. A bunch of dudes in suspenders, zoot suits and funky hats.

Great.

I wonder if they knew karate too?

Anne and I got some chips and decided to go sit down in the main room. All I could imagine were a bunch of kids doing warm up exercises exactly where we were.

GAAAAAA!!!!!!

We sat at a cheap fold up table. It had some stupid decorations on it. Even the porn on the tvs sucked. The whole place was giving me the major willies. So we sat. And tried not to touch anything.

To say that we were freaked out was a major understatement.

And then?

She sat down.

She?

Well, the 60-year old woman.

In her roaring twenties outfit.

The outfit?

A big string of pearls.

A garter belt thing on her thigh.

Nothing else.

She was buck naked.

Buck Fucking Naked.

And she plopped her buck fucking naked ass right down at our table.

Next to Anne.

The woman began chatting away. About what? Not a fucking clue. You see, she was naked. Did I tell you that already? And she was sixty. And Naked. Nay-kid.

Flabby Flapper could have been explaining the cure for goddamned cancer for all I knew. I could only stare. I knew that I shouldn't. I knew that I should simply look away.

But I couldn't.

Flapper had me under her naked sixty-year old spell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Anne was pushing her little plate of chips away. She looked like she was gonna hurl.

Naked sixty year woman in pearls.

There was some announcement by the cheesy DJ about a dance or contest or something.

Naked. Old. Woman.

I snapped. I broke. I flinched, blinked and folded. I couldn't deal with this situation anymore. This was it. The coup de grace of creepy. The king of creepy. The mayor of creepy fucking town.

No more.

I give.

I grabbed Anne's hand. And pulled her away from the table. As she flew through the air, I said our goodbyes to Flapper. And her nakedness. Her naked-ocity.

We left. Did we run, RUN! out of the club SLASH karate studio?

Maybe.

I think I may have been hyperventilating a bit. I seem to recall Anne asking me what took so fucking long for us to get the hell out of that house of horrors.

Whatever. We were out. I didn't look over at the haunted house line. I couldn't bear to see some little kid dressed like Simba from the Lion King giving me the evil eye for doing such evil unspeakable things inside his poor karate studio.

We jumped into the car and took off, tires squealing in the strip mall parking lot. We got home, ran inside, showered for about three hours and then spent the rest of night simply holding each other tightly. Needless to say, the SFSC club was crossed off of our list of places to go. Permanently.

I did hear that a few years after our adventure, the club was raided and shut down by the police.

I guess that the form didn't work out quite like they hoped it would.