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Swing Vote: I Was Part of the DC Orgy Lifestyle (NSFW)

Swing Vote: I Was Part of the DC Orgy Lifestyle (NSFW): Photo illustration by Playboy; KG-Photography/Corbis; 123rf; Chris Fortuna; Sasha Eisenman; Josh Ryan; Arny Freytag; Stephen Wayda

Photo illustration by Playboy; KG-Photography/Corbis; 123rf; Chris Fortuna; Sasha Eisenman; Josh Ryan; Arny Freytag; Stephen Wayda

The GPS does the cabbie’s work in getting me to the orgy on time; the illuminated blue dot glides across the surface of my smartphone, in sync to the landmarks we actually pass. The address for the Lifestyles Party is tucked away in a quaint Capitol Hill neighborhood. There’s the House of Representatives, its dome still encased in scaffolding, shining in the background against the silhouettes of rowhouses.

The email said to arrive between nine and ten, which provides sufficient time for the guests to mingle, enjoy a few drinks and finally remove their clothes by 11.

Truth be told, no one calls this an orgy, and few actually say “swinging.” If people make reference to what we’re about to do, it’s called “The Lifestyle.” Kind of like how mobsters never say “The Mafia.” They apply euphemisms: “this thing of ours,” “the family,” etc. That’s one of the ways of spotting a rookie, but I’ll get to that part later.

“Go straight for two blocks, past the roundabout and turn left,” I say to the Ethiopian driver. The blue dot on my screen flows across the route to my destination.

I recall the list of rules from the email: shower, dress well – dark slacks and a nice dark shirt, dark leather shoes. More a firm suggestion than an order, but the better you look and feel, the more it attracts the ladies.

Be respectful to the women, let them determine the pace and course of the evening. Rudeness will get you tossed on your ass. And no “bogarting the pussy.” Having fun with a girl is OK, but don’t take too much time. Again, it’s rude. Bring your own condoms; dispose of them in the wastebasket.

“Right turn?” the cabbie asks.

“No sir, left. Pull over here.”

I scan the quiet block for a sign. I see it and cut through the alleyway.

I was in The Lifestyle until 2012. The love of a woman persuaded me to give it up. I was wrong about her, and after a year and a half of regret, I figured I’d try one last hurrah. One last party, to see if I still missed it.

Or was it better dating like civilians? Movie and dinner…

“So, what do you do?”

“What college did you go to?”

“Oh, that neighborhood’s transitioning; my friend closed on a condo there.”

“This kale is fantastic!”

I want be proven wrong. Maybe there’s still a bit of romance and monogamy left in me. Yet The Lifestyle always appealed to me because of its honesty: people politely giving and getting permission to fuck in a controlled environment that was chill and frank.

I find the house. The muted beats of music and disco lights filter through the second-floor windows.

I approach the exterior and interior doors. A lithe black girl with an effervescent smile cracks the second door. She’s wearing lingerie and holding a clipboard.

“Hi. Here for the party?”

“Yes.” She widens the door. “Last and first names.”

She scans the list.

I provide my name, and she directs me to the bar, where two similarly dressed ladies mix an assortment of cocktails. It’s BYOB; I bring a bottle of Bacardi, which is soon mixed with pineapple juice and ice.

I review the guests while enjoying my drink. Although kind of retired, I had attended enough Lifestyle parties to tell who the pros were and noobs were among the men. The pros wore fitted clothes, in this case: light fabric, short-sleeved, collared and buttoned shirts – dark colors. Nice slacks. They all had tans, like they had vacationed a lot.

Although most were over 50, they were still relatively trim – like they played tennis or at least jogged. The hair was always combed back, with a gray sheen – like organic marble. I’d bet a hundred bucks that they shave their pubs. The pros rocked the Brazilian bush as much as their women. One dude reminds me of Roger Sterling from Mad Men; his wife resembles Helen Mirren.

The noobs appear more paunchy, despite the invitation insisting on fit men. They wear pastel polo shirts and khakis like they were about to play golf. They have newsroom hair, parted on the side. One of them sees me studying him and comes over.

“Your first time doing this?” he asks.

“No. Done this a few times before.”

His eyebrows rise a bit.

“If you do this enough times do you get a merit badge?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like the Boy Scouts.”

“Yeah, they’ll give you a merit badge – a bullseye with a cumshot on it.”

He laughs awkwardly and leaves. Good. People wrap up conversations if you drop one relatively shocking line.

I see about five couples within the first 45 minutes of the party. Some of the women have ample breasts; others have plump asses and trim tummies. There’s a broad range in ages: late 20s to early 50s. They’re all wearing evening gowns and platform heels. Each woman has about three men talking to her: a husband or boyfriend, and two other guys.

This is a cuckold variety swinger party; men getting off on seeing their significant others flirt and fuck. Of course, it’s not like their husbands and boyfriends don’t have any fun either – most will have sex with the female partners of other male guests. But before having sex with them, it’s best to chat, melt the ice a bit and find some level of rapport.

Over there: a redheaded woman has two noobs and a pro listening to her story about trees near the 14th hole, where she and her ex-boyfriend used to fuck after golfing. She’s wearing a green dress with a plunging bust line, covered by sheer material across her cleavage.

“My ex and I are still good friends,” she says.

“Are you her ex?” I ask the guy who came with her.

“No, that’s my new friend,” she says on his behalf. “We’ve been together six months.” I love it how redheads rock the color green better than most women. She’s Christmas personified; her bracelets jingle whenever she takes a drink – like silver bells.

When I stared back in 2009, I made an effort to engage in conversation with every boyfriend or husband of every woman. If their partners were comfortable, then the women were comfortable. And if the women were comfortable then they may express interest in sex. These events were designed to be consensual and welcoming. There’s a little bit more to the methodology, of course.

The host makes an announcement from his circular stairwell of the townhouse. Every Lifestyle location has rules and administrative requests: tipping the bartenders, proper disposal of condoms, rules for the women and a reminder to get nude at 11. It’s five minutes until then, and a few more couples arrive to the fete: a guy who resembles Al Pacino in a dark suit and his brunette wife. She has a cute ass; they speak with a slight New York accent.

Among the newly arrived is a tall, slightly paunchy guy in glasses, wearing a panther tropical shirt. Zero fucks were given when he bought that shirt, or at least when he decided to wear it.

Panther Shirt’s lady friend is a tall Latina with curly, shoulder-length hair and a snug red dress that compliments her smooth crème brûlée legs. She has a great smile, like she came straight from the cover of a bossa nova album. I wonder if they’re married. With the exception of wedding rings, it’s always difficult to tell if couples are married. One could ask, but it’s best to develop that rapport first.

Another couple shows up: a woman with sandy-blonde hair in a white dress, and her male friend, who is following her upstairs. Someone mentions that she volunteered for the gangbang. There’s always one in every crowd. That’s another thing that I learned from Lifestyle parties. There exist women who appear to enjoy sex as much as men.

I know that’s an odd statement. But think about it. The American conventional wisdom is that women love romance more than men and that physical intimacy has less priority. “That’s why girls focus so much on foreplay.” That’s the myth that guys pick up in locker rooms.

Oh, of course, women love elegant orgasms, dark chocolates, pinot noir and foot massages. But just like snapping a shaky photo of Bigfoot in Northern California, one stumbles upon those rare instances when a woman enjoys being fucked by a lot of guys with almost zero foreplay needed. These women aren’t supposed to exist, but they do. And one of them just walked upstairs.

“Hey guys, everyone having a good time?” says a young African-American woman walking around the room. She’s small, perhaps less than five feet, five inches. She’s wearing a dress that laces up from behind and descends all the way to her ass, sans panties. Her body’s like a petite package: perky breasts, a micro-round bottom and a sunny smile. Even her eyes look joyful. Like she starred in a sexy Sunny Delight commercial. If the party has a co-host, she’d be the one. She’s accompanied by a guy who reminds me of Mr. Clean: pale, bald, but muscular. Maybe they’re a couple, but again, I’m not sure. However, most of the people here seem to know each other.

Party Invitation

Party Invitation

One of the aspects of swinger parties that strikes me the most is the ethnic diversity of the attendees. Swinger parties, in general, are more racially diverse than Sunday morning church services. And that says a lot about religion and sex. Though we’re in DC, absolutely no one discusses politics. I’m sure there are Red State and Blue State people here, but no one cares – again, unique for most gatherings of Washington professionals. There’s a lot to judge about Lifestyle parties, yet at least they find a way of bringing contrasts together.

The guests are heading upstairs; it’s eleven o’clock.

A flat screen television airs an assortment of music videos in a room designed for an adult slumber party: two large mattresses and clean white sheets on the floor, a leather couch positioned against the railing of the stairs, and another bed, with a frame, across from the floor mattresses. In the next room, there’s a larger bed and bedposts. The woman in white is already nude and blowing two men. Around her, other men – white and black – are already removing their clothes and fishing for their condoms.

Off in a corner of the bedroom, Panther Shirt and Bossa Nova are watching and caressing each other. She whispers in his ear, steps into an adjacent bathroom and exits wearing red lingerie. Bossa’s on her knees and starts sucking off Panther, and a circle forms around them. Her curly brown hair bobs to the motion of her neck.

“You guys wanna fluff?” She gives three in the small circle brief blowjobs – me included. Not gonna lie, she’s quite attractive.

“Okay, off you go – fuck her.”

They comply, joining the action on the bed.

Have you ever seen a wildlife documentary, where under the glow of night vision cameras, a feeding frenzy of lions devours a cape buffalo? That bed was a small segment of Serengeti and the lions pounded and were sucked by the blonde-haired woman. She had a man in each hand, sucking them in rotation, while another guy took her as she lay on her back. She had it down to a rhythm, like remembering the best way to learn CPR was to do it to the beat of Another One Bites the Dust. Apparently it works for fellatio.

I don’t join in. I’ve experienced threesomes on multiple occasions, with much passion. Threesomes are seductive, but not gangbangs. They’re clumsy and sweaty – like dick rugby. I’m not an elegant guy, but there’s something inelegant in devouring a human being. And yet, each of these people appears more alive than they probably ever do at their offices or during their commute or even perhaps in any “normal” relationship at home. I can’t begrudge people for wanting to feel alive, even during inelegant moments.

Al Pacino’s doppelgänger and his brunette wife enter the bedroom. They watch near the doorway. His lady is wearing a black silk bra and thong. His hand graces her olive-toned ass, as if he were appraising a masterpiece. They whisper and laugh a bit.

I walk over.

“May I touch your wife’s ass?”

He appears amused.

“Did you file the proper paperwork?” he asks in his New York accent.

“I could submit a proposal.”

The wife laughs and turns her cheeks toward my open palm. I squeeze her Charmin like a modern-day Mr. Whipple. I decide not to overplay their generosity. I could always tell who was up for play and who preferred flirting. These seem like the flirty types. I hear more exhaling and a moan.

The lions rotate on the sandy-haired woman: one cums in his condom, another replaces him, slapping skin against skin - the circle of lust. To her credit, she doesn’t appear exhausted just yet. She’s glistening in sweat and fluids. She’s more passionate.

I leave the bedroom to the larger “slumber party” room. The widescreen television broadcasts music videos that no one appears to watch. Instead, guests observe a World’s Fair of sex exhibitions.

Sunny Delight is getting licked – damn, she has a cute smile. Her legs are spread open; her lover, Mr. Clean, feasts on her like a kid on an ice cream cone. I bet she tastes like rainbows and unicorn tears. Oh – and she whimpers well; her back arches.

Adjacent to Sunny’s mattress is the woman who resembles Helen Mirren. Probably at most early-50s, grayish blonde hair, but with an exceptional body; tanned, with no bikini lines, which pretty much means she and her husband vacation in clothing-optional resorts. About an hour from now, after banging two muscular black guys (with condoms), she’ll let me feel her breasts.

“Completely natural,” she’ll say, like I was buying honeydews at the farmer’s market.

“Wow, nice,” I’ll respond with each slow squeeze.

Back to the present, Helen has an interesting means of being fucked. While on her back, in missionary position, her legs are extended upward at 120-degree angles, simultaneously oscillating with each thrust of the guy’s large cock. (The dude is thicker than a can of soup). If her legs had feathers, she’d probably fly.

Her husband, Roger Sterling, is watching with the other guests – nude and sipping his cocktail. To his credit, I don’t recall him being with anyone else except his wife in that house. In fact, he doesn’t have sex with her until the younger and stronger black guys are finished. Only Sterling actually cums on Helen; a pearl necklace adorns her smooth tits. Both look exhausted and happy.

Sunny Delight is still orgasming; she grips the sheets from the edges of the mattress. Her Milk Dud nipples sway up and down; Mr. Clean cums across her caramel-colored breasts.

I have no desire to have sex with the sandy-blonde woman, yet at the same time the ubiquitous sex by different couples is a major turn-on. A woman with succulent breasts watches the interactions; she sees me observing her on a soft armchair.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.”

She smiles and crosses her legs.

I’m just wearing boxers; I’m no Adonis, but I do have what one of my ex-girlfriends described as a “swimmer’s build” - strong shoulders, modest pecs, trim torso. We seem to appraise each other’s various stages of nudity.

“Can I lick your tits?”

She giggles.

“Show me your cock.”

I whip it out – erect, full. She grasps it and begins sucking me off. A man, perhaps in his mid-30s, stands nearby with a towel – so attentive. The woman’s wrist-to-shaft technique is remarkable; she takes me deep into her mouth, rotating it inward and outward. Her tongue like a moist masseuse, her lips like an apprentice to the tongue.

As with most men possessing an acceptable amount of sexual experience, I don’t have a hair-trigger. I can last quite a bit – not hyperbole, just stating facts. So after anywhere from ten to 15 minutes of this, she takes my hand and gently guides it to my penis to finish off. She facilitates the finish by gasping and opening her mouth wide. And that’s when the unexpected happens.

I’m single and have been since a really traumatic break-up at the end of 2013, so this is my first sexual encounter since then. It’s grand, it’s cathartic – her tits feel awesome and her mouth like a dream-fulfilled. I’m so eager to cum, that I jerk my cock, and cum all over her bosom and literally sprain my wrist. It’s a unique sensation to say the least: orgasming through pain – with the endorphins working overtime to pacify the sharp straining of wrist tendons.

“Aww, feel better?” she says to me, with the glee of someone’s mom burping a baby.

“Yup,” I exhale, with a grin.

Her boyfriend/husband begins cleaning the semen from her tits; he gets her a bottle of water. It’s getting late. Time for me to leave.

I clean up a bit in the bathroom and get my clothes back on. Walking down the stairs, I see a small Asian woman learning how to use the stripper pole, with much encouragement from her husband. I consider getting ice for my wrist but decide against it. Before leaving, I give a few tit squeezes to the woman who resembles Helen Mirren.

“Completely natural!”

Yeah, yeah, we’ve covered that part.

As I walk down the streets of Capitol Hill, I begin to realize the reasons why I gave up on swinger parties. I was in love, and I felt love – for the first time in a handful of years. I met a woman worth “retiring” over, and to her credit, she didn’t mind my past.

Tonight I met consultants, DC professionals, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends who had some fairly tame fetishes, but at the end of the party, they could still hold each other, cuddle with each other tonight. They could make waffles and trade funny stories about this party tomorrow. Single people who remember being in love can’t do this at swinger parties. There’s no cuddling – hell, that’s too intimate!

I think Lifestyle parties can help relationships; I’ve met people who’ve been in love for more than a decade, who’ve considered having a polyamorous encounter, after much communication about the ground rules. It does work, if you’re in the right frame of mind. I saw many couples at that party who appeared to enjoy themselves. However, if you’re someone who missed being in love, then perhaps it’s not for you. I’m not saying that I missed being in love, but I do remember it. It’s haunting.

And honestly, I would enjoy watching Law and Order re-runs with the woman I loved as she fell asleep on my chest more than watching yuppies fucking.

Online dating? Yeah, that’s as much fun as getting a colonoscopy at the DMV. I’ll pass for now.

So until the day when I feel the intimacy of a wonderful woman, I’ll ice my wrist and laugh about how it got injured. I could always lie and say it occurred during golf.


The author lives in Washington, DC. His name has been withheld at his request.


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