Someone on Twitter has pointed out that this blog is quite disturbing/triggering. Please be aware of this before you start reading.
“The guy with glasses?”
“Yep. By the pool table.”
“OK, he seems cool. The woman at the bar told me he was bi.”
And so began a failed seduction.
The guy we were talking about was tall and wiry, with thick square glasses and a head shaved to hide early baldness. He was playing pool with two other men, and every time he bent down, put his face close to the table to take a shot, I watched his mouth open and I wanted to know what it would feel like if he bit me.
The boy and I were nervous – this was our first time at this particular swingers’ club, and we didn’t know the rules beyond ‘no sex in the bar area’ – spunk really fucks up the baize on a pool table. As the youngest and most nervous couple in the room, we naturally attracted a bit of attention from gregarious and more experienced swingers, who wanted to tell us all about the club.
“Can we go upstairs?” I asked the owner – a well-kept woman in her late forties, wearing a dress I’d have given my left arm to squeeze into. She led me upstairs and tied my wrists to a metal ring in the wall, casting glances at my boy occasionally to check that he was OK. He, settling down onto one of the leopard-print (I know it’s clichéd, but I am committed to honesty) sofas, ready to watch me get beaten by the lady of the house, was more than OK.
She pulled up my skirt and tucked it into the waistband of my knickers, and with each slap the crowd in the room got bigger. The lady wasn’t a Domme – she didn’t care that much about spanking – she just wanted to signal to the group that the party had started. As guys stood watching, some absent-mindedly gripping the crotches of their trousers, she’d give them cheeky smiles and winks. I focused on the guy with glasses, watching as my boy tried to catch his eye.
Later that evening, we wandered into the next room: wall-to-wall mattresses and a futon nearby for eager voyers to relax while they wanked. A couple made very slow, languid lust on the soft floor and the boy and I settled on the sofa to watch. He pulled up my top, put his hand into one of the cups of my bra to pinch my nipple, and whispered in my ear.
“Do you like watching this? Look how many people are here. How many men are here. Do you want to fuck?”
And I moaned slightly, hid my face in his neck, and grabbed a handful of his rock-solid dick.
We moved to the mattresses. There was plenty of room for us as well as the other couple, and as I knelt down and took off my top, I tried to catch the eye of the guy with glasses. He was standing in the doorway, interested but not overly keen. The only one in the room who didn’t seem to want to immediately dive in. I took it as a challenge, and bent over to show him how my knickers were tight against my cunt. I took the boy’s dick in my mouth and hoped he’d maintain eye contact with the lovely, casual, semi-erect guy with glasses.
And then things took a turn for the awkward. Someone came up behind me and started to touch me. I assumed it was the one I wanted. As I was kneeling in front of the boy, cock in mouth and visions in my head of the glasses guy’s taut, hot lips biting gently at my nipples.
As I felt his hands running firmly over my arse, my thighs, my slick knickers, I thought it was him. I sped up, sucking the boy harder, expecting him to hand a condom to our new guest and let him fuck me while I filled my mouth with dick. But he didn’t. He pulled my head away from his crotch, and turned me around – he wanted me to see who the new person was, wanted me to have the chance to appraise him and decide whether I wanted him to join in.
I did not want him to join in.
Our new stranger, kneeling in front of me with a semi-hard dick in his hand, made me nervous. Not because he was terrifying or forceful, but because I just didn’t fancy him. I’d spotted him earlier in the bar, shooting me looks and smiling filthy smiles. There was nothing about him I could put my finger on that crossed him off my ‘fuck’ list, I just hadn’t wanted to play with him.
I froze. Not sure how to say ‘no’ without giving reasons. How to explain that I didn’t want him, I wanted the guy with glasses standing in the corner. I wanted the one who was watching nonchalantly and idly stroking his crotch. I didn’t want this bar stranger to touch me. I didn’t want him to fuck me. I wanted him to leave.
The bar stranger moved forward, putting one of his hands firmly against my crotch, and sucking greedily at my tits. My boy was kneeling behind me, rubbing my arse, pulling my hair out of the way, biting gently at my neck. I could feel him pushing his erection against me, and I understood that he wanted me to do this. He wanted me to fuck the bar stranger.
This man smelt. Not the hot, musky sex-sweat that I want to lick from boys but a rancid, three-day-old sweat that made my throat close up. In between touches, he’d break to rub frantically at his cock, giving it the attention it needed to stay upright. I didn’t want him.
But I didn’t want to have to make him stop.
In the absence of any sign from me that I was uncomfortable, my boy kept going. He gently pushed me down until my face was buried in the mattresses, stripped me of my knickers and started toying with my cunt. The bar stranger looked on, eagerly stroking his cock as the boy pushed his fingers into me, spreading wetness over and around me. Then they swapped places. The stranger grabbed my arse, squeezed me, put his fingers inside me, as the boy knelt by my head.
I wanted the boy to know that I didn’t want this. I wanted him to sense, somehow, that I wasn’t keen. I was wet at the thought of people watching us, and I liked the boy’s hands on my back, my neck, squeezing my tits. My cunt was slick and warm at the thought of the guy with glasses, at the smell and feel of my boy. But I didn’t want the stranger. I tried to catch the boy’s eye, to let him know I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want anyone to see. I tried to shield my face from the eyes of the crowd so they wouldn’t spot my reluctance. At that moment I couldn’t decide what I wanted less – to be fucked by the stranger, or to let the crowd know I didn’t want to be fucked by the stranger.
You can put it down to cowardice, or stupidity, but looking back on it I mainly remember an overwhelming urge to be polite. The ache in my stomach at the idea of saying ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t fancy you.’ The panic that my ‘no’ will resonate throughout the crowd, like throwing a stink-bomb into the middle of a fun party. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be fucked by a stranger, I just didn’t want this stranger – with his semi-flaccid cock and three-day-old stink and his dirty t-shirt pulled up to his chest. I didn’t want him, but I couldn’t say.
I heard the familiar tear of a condom wrapper, and I felt one of the stranger’s hands on my cunt.
Am I actually going to do this? Am I actually going to fuck a stranger I despise out of a misguided sense of politeness?
No. But what I did probably wasn’t fair. I gripped my boy tightly by the wrist and pulled him down so that his face was close to mine.
“Make it stop,” I said “Please.”
I passed him the baton of social awkwardness and made it his responsibility. He was there with me, he was there not just to fuck but to protect me. So I called him in. And, like the opposite of a knight storming in on a white horse to the rescue, he panicked too. His sense of politeness was as acute as mine, and he was just as reluctant to put himself in the role of mood-killer. He coughed, and ummed and watched as the stranger put on a condom. Eventually he lifted my head up, and I looked around and saw the crowd – still and silent in anticipation of what was coming.
And we were both frozen with fear.
There’s no such thing as ‘amateur’ swinging
What conclusion do we draw from this episode? Well, you could say that the boy and I were both stupid and scared – you’d be right. You could also conclude that we were not good enough at judging what the other would be happy with, or that we hadn’t properly discussed our boundaries and limits. You’d be right again.
But more importantly, the conclusion we drew – with a big fat thick line in marker pen – was that we just weren’t qualified for swingers’ clubs. We’d been to a few before, we’d had fun and we’d met some incredibly sexy people, but until that point we had never been put in a position where we needed to assert ourselves.
People often assume that swinging is a constant tangle of flesh, with people sliding over, under and into each other at random – that entering the club means you implicitly consent to fuck anyone and everyone in it. That’s not true. If it were, people would all be far too scared to go.
There are rules and boundaries and discussions. There are ‘may I?’s and ‘would you like?’s and ‘I’d rather not’s. The boy and I, while we’d mastered the art of the first two, weren’t capable of the latter. We both had pretty good ideas of what we liked, and what the other one might like, and were confident enough to get our kit off and go at each other hammer and tongs in front of a crowd of horny strangers. But, pathetically, neither of us was confident enough to say ‘no’ in the face of potential embarrassment.
I’m sure you’re dying to know what happened in the end, but it’s disappointing. In the absence of any other option, I gave the stranger a blow job. He finished with a flourish, by pulling off the condom and coming all over my tits. A lovely night was (eventually) had by all, and although the crowd dissipated with a palpable sense of anti-climax, no one could honestly say that they didn’t enjoy the show.
The boy and I went home, exhausted and depressed, where we sat in silence until three in the morning, growing sadder and less horny with every minute that ticked past. I don’t know what happened to glasses guy.