The Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasy (18 page)

As a social activity centered on parties and events, swinging relies on people getting to know each other, and it's a natural outlet for the flirtatious and the chatty. Generally, you'll socialize with a couple, flirt a little, discuss each other's swing styles, and then you get to play. “Closed swinging” means that one partner chooses not to be around while their lover is having sex with others; “open swinging” means they both participate; and “soft swinging” denotes heavy petting with others but no sex. Many clubs have a rule that prohibits voyeurs from asking to join couples already engaged in sex, meaning that onlookers can participate only if expressly invited. Typically the cost to attend is around $80 per couple (with two women also considered a couple) and $20 for a single woman.

You don't have to have sex if you go to a swing party; it's perfectly okay to simply watch, or just flirt. For your first party or event, plan on going solely as an observer—many other newcomers will be doing the same. Just watching your first time out is a great way to see if swinging is for you and to see how couples and singles interact.

What if one member of a couple is more attracted than the other to someone at the party? The conversation—and flirtation—that results from that situation is fascinating. For instance, the man in couple “A” might find the woman in couple “B” attractive. He flirts with her, and they find they share a mutual sexual interest. So Mr. A indicates his interest to his partner, Ms. A, who may fancy Ms. B—she may desire her for a threesome, or she may want to watch Ms. B having sex with her man. Perhaps she thinks Ms. B's partner, Mr. B, is quite
alluring. That's when things get really interesting.

Mr. and Ms. A flirt with Ms. B, who then asks Mr. B if he fancies the A's. If everyone is enjoying the flirtation, the two couples continue chatting and flirting, and as the chemistry begins to simmer, the talk turns to the matter of a possible sexual encounter. If this sounds clinical or awkward, try it in a dimly–lit bar, over drinks with a gorgeous couple or on a crowded dance floor, or while watching others do the same. In the right context, the exchange may prove to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

Finding the club that's right for you might take a bit of research. Swing and sex clubs don't advertise, and sometimes the club you're looking for seemingly pops up out of nowhere. Joining an organization such as NASCA can get you connected to a network of clubs, events, magazines, and a variety of resources from seminars to conventions—membership in NASCA costs $50 per couple for one year. When you find a few clubs that sound intriguing, give them a call (look in the Resources chapter for ways to find clubs in your area). Find out their hours of operation, and ask how big a crowd they get. While bigger isn't necessarily better, variety is the spice of this particular lifestyle—initially, try to visit clubs with more than two dozen attendees. Or, if you enjoy male bisexuality, crave sexual diversity, like a little kink with your club, or want to see how the rest of the sexual underground plays, try out sex parties outside “the lifestyle.”

Alternative Sex Parties

Through a friend of a friend, I managed to get myself on an email list run by a loosely organized group of people who were regulars at the same dance club and had
decided to organize their own sex parties. I watched the email postings in fascination, but never attended. From that list, I was put on another list for a very different kind of sex party, where the attendees were devotees of fantasy and fetish, liked storybook themes, and dressed up in ways that make those Halloween stripper-schoolgirl outfits look like Cinderella's daytime tatters. I was way too intrigued to protest being put on this list.

Finally, I decided to go to one of these parties. After spending a few hours at San Francisco's famous S/M event, the Folsom Street Fair, my date and I wandered to an innocuous looking door on a side street, only to have it swing open and find ourselves greeted by a tipsy drag queen, bedecked in a rubber corset dress. We were asked for a password, then sent upstairs and asked for our email confirmation information. We paid the nominal $15 entry fee, checked our coats, and watched as one girl received a spanking before she even handed her coat to the attendant!

Wandering the huge Victorian, we saw that the rooms had been converted into open spaces including a dance floor, theme rooms decorated with pillows and stuffed animals, a lounge, two bars, an S/M playspace with dungeon equipment, and a theater where performances were ongoing through the evening. A table offered drinks, dishes of peanuts, and bowls of sanitary towelettes hilariously packaged with instructions on use as “facial come wipes.”

People smiled and greeted us—and the crowd wasn't your Uncle Fred's swing couples, no ma'am. These people, dressed to the nines in corsets, rubber, leather, sexy fairy outfits, priest costumes, and more, were a mostly boy–girl coupled crowd, but with butch dykes, femme lesbians, trans men and trans women, and an assortment of gay men, they defied stereotypes.
Everyone socialized, danced, sipped, and snacked. As the evening progressed, the S/M playspace filled with people, and the pillow-lined rooms heated up as couples took their flirtation to the next level. It was a subtle, gradual change. At one point my date and I went to the dance floor and passed an empty room; on our way back, we saw a beautiful blonde in a pink rubber tutu being serviced—and servicing—two men in uniforms, all of them laughing and flirting, while a same-sex couple on pillows watched the trio and took turns performing oral sex on each other. In the S/M space, couples, triples, and larger groups were kissing, tying each other up, spanking, and teasing—and having sex.

Non-swinging sex parties encompass a wider range of sexual expression than swing clubs limited to primarily heterosexual, vanilla sex. Some underground affairs, like the one described above, can take a bit of work to find, but are well worth the effort if public sex in an alternative atmosphere is what you're seeking. Look for public events that cater to bisexual, pansexual, and fetish audiences. Pay a visit to
www.sexuality.org
for a primer on throwing your own sex party, a popular option among sex-positive pansexuals. The underground route isn't the only one available—most major cities have parties and clubs open to the public that cater to kinky couples and singles; they are not difficult to find. Read all about it in
Chapter 10
, “Erotic Dominance and Submission: S/M Fantasies.”

The View from Paris

BY
A
LISON
T
YLER

The view from the balcony overlooking Paris's residential 13th
arondissement
took in romantic rooftops, a breathtaking candy-pink sunset, and a lone young man in a firecracker-red T-shirt watching the two of us with unwavering interest. Josh saw him first. “Look down, Carla,” he said, his hand under the strap of my gauzy silver nightgown. “Over there…”

I looked in the direction he was indicating, and that's exactly the moment when Josh slid the straps over my bare arms and pulled my forties-style movie-star nightgown past my naked breasts to the curve of my hips.

“Josh…” I said, crossing my arms over my full breasts. “He's watching.”

“That's what I was telling you,” my new husband said, nuzzling the back of my neck as his hands removed mine from my breasts. His fingers took over, teasing my nipples as he continued to kiss along the nape of my neck. “He's been there every evening.”

And so had we. This was our new tradition, to slip into night clothes in the late afternoon, waking just when the sun went down to catch a sunset romp out on the balcony. We'd felt exposed, yet oddly protected, being up on the fifth floor of the apartment we'd rented for our honeymoon. Now I knew that we weren't protected at all. Josh seemed thrilled by this prospect, and as his fingers relentlessly played over my breasts, I relaxed into the idea, as well. We were in Paris, after all. Nobody knew us. None of our normal, everyday activities were in play here. Our entire routine was topsy-turvy in the most pleasurable way. We no longer started our morning with a healthy meal of oatmeal and OJ. In Paris, we had croissants at 10, then lingered over filling lunches around 1, not bothering to even think about dinner until 9 in the evening. At the time of day when we'd usually be facing rush hour traffic, we made love.

Now Josh moved to my side and turned me so that I was facing him. We were still easily visible to our naughty neighbor, and I kept that in mind as Josh began to kiss my breasts. He used one hand to palm my right tit while he suckled from the left. Then he switched activities, so no part of my body felt left out. As his mouth worked me over, I thought about the scene we'd admired the night before. Josh had suggested an evening at The Crazy Horse, and we'd enjoyed the erotic art of the women dancing and exposing themselves to us. Was I crazy enough on Paris's open attitudes to let myself be a woman on display? It seemed that I was.

When I didn't protest, or try to pull Josh back into the apartment, he slowly undid the tie at the back of my nightgown that held the dainty fabric in place at my hips. With one pull of the lace, the nightgown slid in a ripple of lovely silk to my ankles.

Here I was, a woman of satiny skin and curves, bathed in the pink glow of the heavens and admired by two sets of eyes: my husband and the man in the bright red shirt. And while I've always adored being on display for my man, it was the stranger's eyes that made me tremble.

Who was he? What did he think about my body? Was he turned on by my feminine curves or by Josh's hard and lean physique?

These thoughts and a multitude of others were still running through my mind when Josh bent me over the railing and began to kiss between my thighs from behind. I felt the slight breath of cool evening air surround me and the warmth of his tongue and lips against my pussy. The sensations were intensely arousing—being outside while behaving in the most intimate of ways has always been a turn-on for me, a fantasy I don't usually get to indulge in. Josh and I live in such a small town that the disgrace of being caught playing in public is too much to live down. Too much for us to ever get more frisky then a little petting in a parking lot every once in a while.

But we weren't in our small town anymore. We were in Paris, and I gazed into the room owned by a stranger and imagined I could see the yearning in his face, the desire in his eyes, the bulge in his slacks.

Josh made me thoroughly wet with his naughty kissing games, and then he stood and slid his pajama bottoms down, parted my thighs, and entered me. I closed my eyes for one moment, basking in the dreamy feeling of being taken by my husband. But I had to open them again quickly so that I could stare at our audience. I've read that when you're on stage, you're supposed to choose one person to focus on, to do your show for that single selected audience member. I'd chosen mine, and he seemed deeply honored, leaning into his windowsill, anxious to catch every act of our very personal show.

My handsome husband fucked me from behind for as long as he could take it, and then turned me around, lifting me into his embrace and bouncing me up and down on his glorious cock. I couldn't watch from this position, but I didn't mind. I could feel the stranger's eyes on my body, and my pussy responded by tightening and releasing rapidly, connecting with Josh, contracting on him.

When I came, it was as if there were three of us right there on the balcony: me and Josh and a man whose name I didn't know, but whose willing participation took me higher than I ever had been before. I cried out, not bothering to try to stifle the sounds of my pleasure, and Josh responded by coming right away, holding me tightly to his body as he filled me up. We stayed connected, my legs around his waist, until a shiver ran through me and Josh set me down on the tiny balcony once again.

As I reached for my discarded nightgown, I thought about our choices for honeymoon locations, and our decision to come to Paris, a place renowned for its sights. It turns out the most exciting view Paris had to offer was us.

CHAPTER
9

Fetishes

When you hear the word
fetish
, I'll bet you have one of three reactions. You think of fetish fashion—shiny, skin-tight outfits made of rubber or leather, tight-laced corsets or shiny buckles, much like the suits worn by Edward Scissorhands and Catwoman. Maybe you imagine the fringes of sexuality cranked up to their highest levels—people humping balloons, crushing bugs with their high heels, riding elaborately costumed, sexualized human ponies. Or you blush excitedly, revisiting in your mind the one thing that turns you on the very most.

Apart from fetish community publications, little is written about fetishes that doesn't sensationalize them or psychoanalyze them as bizarre and deviant practices pursued by only a handful of people—despite the numerous conventions, well-attended events, magazines
and newsgroups with hundreds of thousands of subscribers, and fetish fashion boutiques all over the world. Indeed, in many minds, people with fetishes occupy the freakish end of the gene pool when it comes to sex; they politely relegate fetishes to a hidden world where far-out sexual tastes can be satisfied. The truth is, when you look at cultural stereotypes of “normal” sex, pretty much anything you do outside of heterosexual, missionary-position intercourse can be considered “deviant,” and in reality, everyone has a fetish of one kind or another—a sexual position, a particular eye or hair color, a body part. Nowhere in the world of sexual expression do humans become more playful—and their tastes more unpredictable—than in the world of fetish.