Let Us Eat Cake

I was a bit nervous about my first swinger's party.

We joked about how I might react as we dressed.

'I might run away and leave a note on the pillow...

To call you in Canberra...or not...'

But it was easy, as all of this has been so far. When we arrived at the apartment the group was already nibbling and drinking, like any cocktail party. The hosts I had already met at lunch, his longstanding friends. From around and about, as far afield as the Blue Mountains and the Gold Coast. Me from the south coast. My first impression was that these are old men and women, hardly the stuff of sexual fantasy. Oldies like us.

We spoke to another couple going up in the lift, not previously known to myjohn. The woman clearly a bit hesitant. I wasn't but a few glasses of wine didn't hurt to ease any inhibitions. Usually I try to turn up my inhibition levels.

He had made the arrangements, a room for us in the same Sydney hotel as the 3 bedroom party apartment. Not knowing quite what to expect, eyeglasses tucked into a bag, my eyes a strong feature. I can still recognize people well enough in a small room, although that matters less in this context. I realized that after the Saints and Sinners Ball a few months before.

Some of the women were also a bit shopworn, none of us any longer in the prime of life. Not being overweight yields a definite advantage, a bit of vanity that has served me well since my teenage semi-anorexic days. A sheer silk top (another op shop bargain) showed my black bra underneath, and my linen skirt (2 euros at a market in Perugia) covered a black g string. How I have progressed from cottontails in these few months.

As at any party there were the usual introductions, chats, nibbles at the food. Gradually people drifted off into the rooms. One chat with a tall Brit became an invitation. He led me to one of the bedrooms, already occupied by a coupling pair. Off came the clothes, and the kissing and touching began. Unsurprisingly, even for this experienced swinger the presence of another couple or two disrupted him from serious fucking. It became a pleasant naked massage and I listened to the noises of the others while face down on the bed.

The next one, an accountant from the posh eastern suburbs, was equally polite and equally unable to perform. He too was put off by the commotion, a bit more circus than orgy. Older men have more challenges in this regard. Women just need to deal with a bit of atrophy (horrible word but that's what happens) In my case internal exercise of the sexual organ seems to have brought it back to functional if not Olympic standards. When I left my decades long relationship, the last 10 years of ever diminishing sex, I realized I had been in a sexual coma. Myjohn aroused me from that on our first night together.

Cake arrived in due course, for the several birthdays and anniversaries within the group. As myjohn has always said, it's a social scene. Friends and lovers, we could have sung Bruderlein und Schwesterlein from Fledermaus. Throughout history some groups have always asserted their right to free sex. Here in the 21st century I do too. Nice to find a tribe I can join that's not about environmental collapse. This tribe is about the sexual utopia that we can claim. Just adopt the Very First Principle of non violence says the Goddess and all is yours. But these guys know that already, bless their hungry cocks.

Myjohn reckons the good life consists of freedom, friends, and contemplation. His freedom is not just sexual, but fed clothed housed and educated. Freedoms from as well as to. Simple and clear. His concise and sensible way of speaking and writing makes much sense to me. In that regard we are perhaps a latter day Henry and June. We both write, and show each other, and then fuck each other as if the world is coming to an end. Which it is, at least for us. But not yet.

His three elements of pura vida were in evidence at this, my first real swinger party (since the 70s at least) A structured orgy if you will. There are protocols, condoms, lube. One of the differences between the swinger scene and the swinging 70s (I was there and I do remember some of it) is the overt attention to respect and hygiene. That, together with honesty, makes for a secure environment in which to play. For this group any pregnancy concerns faded long ago.

As the evening wore on somehow I volunteered to do what I call my party trick, face down chest on the floor legs spread. It always impresses, staying limber a habit from my dancing days.

By that time I was wearing the little silk coverup that myjohn had recommended I bring along (10 euros in Ravenna). Later a woman called for an encore and I obliged. Not many old hoofers get fat and I'm not averse to showing off. Well, no one was dancing. In the 70s we danced at our parties.

One last tap on the shoulder led me once again into a room and this bloke closed the door behind us. He was more capable and vigorous. Myjohn only peeked in to see all was ok, but there was nothing to be concerned about. These older men are mellow sweethearts, I could love them all.

Apparently it is not usual to close the door, as that has implications of exclusion. But I didn't know that. Maybe it allowed him to perform. Can't really say it was all that exciting, more obliging and curious. Probably I also require a bit more privacy for serious foreplay. Another time maybe. Myjohn says it is like a lucky dip and I like those. I know my body responds when the stimulation is slow and the caresses accompanied by appropriate words and touching. A bike I've never fallen off.

As I nibbled my slice of cake I thought about my personal cause for celebration. On the brink of turning 70 a new life opens up. My doctors tell me I am cancer free. Why wouldn't I explore this? Who is expecting something different from me? No one. I am as free an agent as can be, and my adventures pose no harm to anyone. Awakening from my long sexual coma, the fog gives way to a fresh look at what is possible.

We returned to our own room and culminated the evening together. That is the best, what I really come for, so to speak. In reflection myjohn probably missed out on one likely connection himself, perhaps because he was keeping a kind watch for me. He is my high priest of debauchery of the sweetest and safest kind.

The next morning we were in a cafe again with some of the group, all latte and eggs benedict, our decadence hidden in plain sight.

Such surprises life tosses! It is all I can do to catch these balls as they come by. The path I am on leads to a double life, as not many of my friends want to know about these adventures. One friend called me a trollop last week, he was only half joking. Another thinks it's sad that I am still chasing after men. I see it as healthy, as long as I can get my fill.

Myjohn and I talk about the depictions of wanton young people described in a novel I'm reading. Their drugs and promiscuity leave the swingers in the shade. He directs me to videos of coeds sucking off male strippers, wild indeed. Perhaps I haven't watched porn all these years for the same reason I don't watch cooking shows - stimulates the appetite to distraction. Although masturbation at least isn't fattening.

Now there is the prospect of another party in Brisbane in September. He doesn't have to ask, I'll go if he wants to. And this time only partly because it will give me access to him for perhaps as many as three nights. Bliss! Another part of me, the not quite insatiable part, thinks it might be sexier this time, I might be more laid back and receptive, as he has hinted. I'm being drawn into a way of living and fucking that seems to mesh nicely with my true nature. Know yourself? I aspire to slattern.

It would be dishonest if I said myjohn had tried to persuade me to this path. That is the damn thing about him: I am sure that never in his life has he ever coerced anyone into doing anything. And yet he has no trouble at all getting lots of women. They come back asking for more, just as I am.

He modestly notes that he gets turned down too, as do I. One woman didn't like his voice on the phone, the voice I love to hear, any time of day but especially late at night, so very the gentleman from the bush, slightly burnished by city living.

His blandishments, the words and phrasing that set him apart from the others, are calm and direct. There is an undercurrent of humorous eroticism, an irresistible blend. His wickedness consists of hinting at all this while applying a simple logic to the task of hooking up. Such openness is impossible to refute, as there is no pretense. The bush element is also in his voice, another layer which holds assumptions of presumed trust, no nonsense and straightforward desires. So Australian, a life's adventures wrapped in his looks, his sounds, his manners. He walks on the outside of the footpath with me, as his mother taught him. I reach for his hand.

Don't get me started on his hands. I could spend some time just stroking those hands, kissing them, watching them. They are perfect hands, with long talented fingers, the beautiful fingers that enter me at will. He knows I am besmitten and besmirched.

I dare not write about his dick, or 'cock' as he prefers. Big Pink, the Dishonourable Member from Armidale. He also only uses 'fuck' when referring to fucking, strangely enough. He would think 'making love' is just purple prose.

But I am as purple as can be, swollen and red, rush of blood to the head, the heart, and definitely the cunt. Used interchangeably with pussy. He should be here!

Our nomenclature develops with our entwining. He is having his way with me, but I am using him for sex. He is going to punish me, but then I rape him in the middle of the night. Consenting rape of course, because we are equally hungry for each other. Can't get enough, the definition of addiction.

It's embarrassing to read a novel about the puerile rantings of horny coeds when my own love-sick ravings are much the same. Failure to learn, second adolescence, or something more fundamental, take your pick. But I'm all in, happy to be tumbling down this rabbit hole.