When we arrived at the club, it was clear that Sheila was in her element and Mike wasn't that into it.
He's a nice man, but neurotic and a little insecure.
The club operates in the manner of a speakeasy—it's tucked away on the second floor of what appears from the outside to be a lighting store, and there are four levels: a coat-check and registration area, where James forked over for the two of us (it would have been 0 had he shown up alone; he got a discount for bringing me and there's no charge for single ladies); a bar/lounge area, where “bartenders” pour mixers and open people's wine bottles (the club doesn't have a liquor license); an area with couches and chairs for getting to know other club-goers, and, on the top level, an area with beds and curtains, for really getting to know them.
People go there to indulge any number of fantasies: to swap partners, fuck strangers, watch other people having sex, or have sex while other people watch.
” “Did I not mention Emily's in France this week? Here's the part of the story where I could—and, according to several of my friends, should—have told James he was on his own. I'm a feminist who cares about other women, and I happen to like James' wife.
Instead I said, “Let me sleep on it.” When I woke up the next morning, I told him I was in: I was curious, I wanted to hang out with James, and I thought it would make for a good story.
Picturing the married couples I know whose relationships are some degree of open, I couldn't help wondering if there's always one partner who'd rather be curled up in front of the TV than out trolling for strange, yet does the latter anyway, to please and hold onto their partner.
In fact, when James asked me to join him at an underground sex club, my first question, posed via text message, was, “What are you going to tell your wife?
After making out for a bit, one guy got down on his knees and began blowing the other.
The guy receiving the blow job closed his eyes and leaned back, emitting little yelps of pleasure.
The entire area was infused with a latex-and-semen-scented fug, which James claimed to like and I found mildly repulsive.
We sat close together on the couch, our thighs touching.