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My First Time at a Sex Club

I knew what I wanted, and boy, did I get it.
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Recently, someone asked me about sex clubs in New York. She was an out-of-town visitor from somewhere near London. I’m not sure exactly where. 

You see, people ask me for tips on sex clubs all the time. Because I run a sex-related business, they imagine that I regularly go to these kinds of places… I don’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m scared to. 

The sex clubs aren’t scary per se, but they can be intimidating. I suppose I’m hesitant to go because there is a part of me that is terrified to be unleashed. 

For me, sex clubs don’t hold all the mystery and danger of Tom Cruise getting death threats from ultra-wealthy men in Venetian masks. Rather, I’m sorry to say that at most sex clubs you’re more likely to see a steaming buffet with crusty mini-hot dogs in aluminum catering dishes than you are a line of elegantly-clad cult members.

But sometimes, the seediness conceals a desperate beauty–something fleeting and painfully sensuous, even beguiling. 

Before I came out, I had a zillion boyfriends from far-reaching places like Uruguay and Greece. But I always watched women with an unusual curiosity.

By my first year of college, I became brave enough to admit to someone other than my brother that I wanted to kiss a woman.  I told my boyfriend… the one from Uruguay. He did not take the news well. In fact, he said that kissing a woman would be the worst kind of betrayal––morally wrong and “sick.”

So, I kept my lesbian masturbation sessions with his hidden Playboy stash a secret.

When I was about 22, shortly after graduation from college, I found myself freshly single. That’s when I met the Greek guy, a self-professed swinger. Well, that’s not entirely fair. He wasn’t a swinger when I met him. Let’s call him an aspiring swinger. 

We bonded over fantasies of swinger’s clubs. I desperately wanted to kiss a woman, and he thought that was pretty much the most incredible thing he’d ever heard.

Now, I told him that I was not good with the idea of searching for a sexual connection among my selection of friends. No, no.  At the time, I was absolutely terrified by the thought of my friends questioning my very hetero reputation. 

Furthermore, my friends are my friends because I don’t want to fuck them. 

No, friends were not an option. I decided (we decided?) that the best place to pursue this girl-girl quest was the sex club.

My memory skips ahead to a certain lunch with that ex, the Greek.  It was less of a lunch and more of a planning session centered around the vital question, “Are there any sex clubs in the greater Nashville area?”  

Lucky for me, the Greek had done his homework.

“Menagés,” he said as we waited on our food. Apparently, he’d already Googled the topic. I resolved to do my own research after we ate. 

I read the club’s reviews online, and the place sounded tolerable. I’d have to see in person if there were good-looking young people, so we decided to go the following Friday.

At the sex club, a man inside a booth in the front vestibule made photocopies of our driver’s licenses. 

My mind raced. Why do they keep these?  What if the police bust this place and release all the records?  What if my picture ends up on television as some kind of pervert?  What if my mother discovered I’d come to a place like this?

So many fears tumbled together, but I paid my $60 entry fee and walked through the swinging double doors.

I didn’t expect what awaited me on the other side. The club had a dance floor that looked like the inside of a stretch limo. A nauseous neon green glow lit the patrons.

Because of local laws, the sale of alcohol was not permitted. Fabulous.  I was very much in need of a stiff one. Strangely enough, the lawmakers had a workaround: BYOB.  Yes, a BYOB sex club.

The bar was populated exclusively by bartenders who sold expensive orange juice, and suburban couples outfitted a cooler with a 24-pack of beer. Not the picture of class I’d hoped for. 

Nonetheless, I was undeterred in my mission to lock lips with a lady. And I persevered the next, far greater hardship that Menagés threw my way: the sex club tour.

Our tour guide showed us around. 

“Downstairs, in the bar area, sex is not allowed.  Women can remove their shirts, but men must remain fully clothed.”  

The man wore a kilt and a heavy metal T-shirt from a band I’d never heard of and didn’t care to discover.

“Over here is our party area,” he continued. “If you arrive around eight p.m., there’s a hot food buffet, and dinner’s included with your admission.”

“Brad” explained that after the room housing the hot food buffet, save for a sad little glassed-in porch, the rest of the club was couples only. Once we passed another set of double doors, this pair in the shape of old-timey saloon doors, Brad let us know that we were now in the elite part of the club, where, according to him, “All the magic happened.”

To the right was the only room I found remotely appealing: a library with a fireplace and some wingchairs. 

To the left was a staircase. 

You see, the sex club had begun as a small house that, over the years, had been added on to time and again to accommodate the growing appetite for spaces in which to fuck.

Upstairs, the rooms of the sex club were oriented around a large stone fireplace. The vibe was knockoff Aspen––massive leather sectionals and faux fur rugs.

The Greek and I made our way back to the front room of the sex club to wait for the action to begin. I wondered when I would spot a girl who’d sparkle and catch my attention. 

For hours, there was nothing. Finally, we asked Brad.

“Oh, Saturday’s the night you don’t want to miss,” he said with his eyes wide, smiling enthusiastically. “Tonight, it’s mostly regulars.”

Regulars. Hmm. Like Norm at Cheers, I thought.  

Neither the Greek nor I wanted to waste the evening, so I let him have anal sex with me in the one room that had a door.

The following week, on Saturday, we went again. That time not much happened, but I did end up giving the Greek a blow job in a tiny room with a bunch of loveseats while a young couple across from us fucked energetically. 

I remember apologizing when I unzipped my boyfriend’s pants. But the guy from the couple said, “Don’t worry; that’s why we’re here.”  

I wasn’t turned on. Just morbidly fascinated.

After dipping my fingers into the cookie jar the second time, my good Christian guilt got the better of me.  How could a sweet, small-town girl be doing these things?  I’d never bought the manufactured image of my upbringing as a Southern debutant, but the societal pressure seemed to be doing its damage years later. 

A few weeks later, I got the courage to go again. 

It was summer, and I was tanned after spending a week in the Greek Islands, ironically not with my ex-boyfriend but with a college friend who was also Greek. I planned to complement that tan with a beautiful turquoise skirt that fit my hips perfectly. I slipped into a tight cotton peasant shirt and nude-colored high-heel sandals. I felt so beautiful and young. And I was.

Back then, I lived for those effortless nights when you love yourself, and you know it’s going to be a fun night—a night to remember. That’s what excites me about going out, and it doesn’t happen often. I’m a bit of a homebody.

On our third night, the club was packed. It was a “good” Saturday, and we’d come to the club at the right time, just before 11 o’clock.  

Everyone had swigged significantly from their red plastic Wal-Mart coolers. The Greek and I sipped on one of the two bottles of champagne we’d brought for the occasion.  The place was still goofy as hell, but I was starting to care less. I looked sexy, I wanted to dance, and I desired to kiss a girl.

Then, a beautiful woman with long, wavy, brown hair caught my eye. Let’s call her The Italian.

She captured my fancy the second I saw her. She was dancing on a slightly elevated platform with a friend. They were rubbing each other’s bodies without caring at all about all the people watching.   

She was tall with a reserved sexiness. I could tell she was the real deal.

The Greek caught me staring and urged me to go and dance with the girls. I can be painfully shy and awkward when I first meet people. I’m scared to death of being judged as boring. 

But my horniness beat out my social anxiety, so I sidled up to the twosome, and I asked (yes, asked) to dance with them. Thank God, they said I could.  I did––for a few minutes anyway––until the self-judgment got the best of me, and I fled. 

I grabbed the Greek and bolted to the library. I felt comfortable in there.  I perched at the edge of an armchair by the fire and took in the scene. I don’t remember what the Greek was doing. Maybe getting us water? Preparing another glass of champagne? 

After some time, he convinced me to let him fuck me in there. I knew people would come in and out of that room, and it made me anxious. I’m not an exhibitionist. However, the Greek was pretty aroused by public sex, so he caressed me out of my turquoise skirt before I was even ready. 

He leaned me over the chair and slipped off my panties.

I was wet. I couldn’t help it.

I felt the heat of the fire on my naked skin. He slipped his fingers inside my glistening pussy and got me wetter.

Some moments later, when he was biting my neck, The Italian appeared. She looked at him first and then at me and asked if she could touch me. 

I was so nervous that I couldn’t even speak. I barely managed to nod. The Italian sat in the chair before me and unbuttoned my blouse.

She touched my breasts over my satin balconette bra. She stared at my chest, taking in the shape of me. Then, she lowered my bra and put my nipple in her mouth.

I’d never expected to skip to third base right away. I moaned, and my boyfriend thrust his cock inside me.

Another woman came near. She sat on the arm of the wingchair and took my other breast into her mouth.

The Greek slammed his hips into my ass, fucking me deeply while this brunette and this blonde sucked my nipples. I came so hard that the girls could feel the pulsing inside my nipples. 

The Italian smiled and bit my nipple hard. And then the blonde grabbed me by the hair, brought me down to her face, and shoved her tongue into my hungry mouth.

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