Excerpted from The Reluctant Metrosexual
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“From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.”—Karl Marx

My first and only foray into the world of group sex had all the erotic panache of a Three Stooges episode, thanks to a host of contributing factors, not the least of which was my inability to master the gymnastics required to meet certain fondling expectations while simultaneously avoiding any unwanted contact with the other naked man, hovering inches above my head. That, of course, and the fact that I had met the two people I was now engaged in sexual congress with less than an hour before. As with communism and the launch of new Coke, swinging turns out to be better in theory than it does in practice.

It was an autumn not too long ago, and I was unemployed. That is, I had endless daylight hours to kill and an underinflated ego in dangerous need of fulfillment. Moreover, I was in the throes of the demise of a relationship with a woman I had thought I might someday marry. Jobless, heartbroken, and in control of far too much free time, I began cruising Craigslist, an addictive Internet community bulletin board that urbanites in a variety of cities use to search for apartments, jobs, and (as I was soon to learn) “casual encounters” of every stripe and color. That there were no barriers to entry (the site is free) and no means by which to authenticate that ad placers were who and what they said they were seemed unimportant to me on the warm October day when I answered a posting that, in the abbreviated slang of the swing culture, read, “WM4WMs: VGL Yng Cpl ISO Grp Play.”

The ad went on to detail that this “very good-looking” couple was looking for single participants in a small orgy they were planning in the near future. With no girlfriend or pesky job, my calendar was open, and my interest was piqued. I sent the couple a note through the website's anonymous e-mail system, detailing my credentials and the reasons I deserved selection (these included my ability to run the 40-yard dash in less than 4.5 seconds and my advanced knowledge of the plot structures of eighties sitcoms involving taverns), and waited nervously for their reply.

Yet despite this momentary spontaneity, the truth is that I am fantastically ill equipped for an endeavor of this nature. I tend to be socially judgmental and possess neither the freedom of spirit nor the ability to live in the Zen moment that “the lifestyle” seems to require of those who wish to enjoy it to its fullest, fleshiest extent. I am neurotic, inwardly focused, and tidy to such a degree that I have a hard time holding the metal poles in the subway without the use of a proper antiseptic. Did I really believe that I could handle a grab bag of free love with a group of complete strangers? It seems so. In my defense, it is worth noting that the bruising loss of love and the heat of an Indian summer can do funny things to a young man's psyche, pushing him toward situations that he would not, under calmer circumstances, be as inclined to pursue.

Holding true to cliché, my fascination with group sex is tied largely to boyhood fantasies rooted in—surprise!—an early exposure to pornography. My three older brothers seemed hell-bent on corrupting my tender mind, which meant that, among other things, they made it easy for me to swipe the copies of Playboy that littered the floors of their teenage bedrooms. I can still recall with detailed clarity a photo spread on Plato's Retreat, the legendary Manhattan “on premises” swing club whose heyday coincided with the Carter administration and the Polaroid period. Plato's Retreat represented my idealized adolescent view of New York City—a steamy palace of liberation where naked women frolicked in hot tubs while hairy-chested men with gold chains looked on knowingly. And it all came with a free buffet of Swedish meatballs and linguine. What better springboard to set free the imagination of a twelve-year-old held hostage by the rolling hills and silver-plated homogeny of a Detroit suburb?

Swinging, like the ascension of Milton Berle, is essentially a postwar phenomenon. While Caligula and his fellow Romans knew a thing or two about throwing an orgy, swinging as a modern American undertaking began in earnest in the early 1950s. Fueled by the wartime economy and the emergence of a suburban middle class that found itself with a spare rumpus room in every split-level ranch, sexual experimentation began to find a foothold among the mainstream. But group sex fiends in the Eisenhower era were closeted, dabbling in key parties and wife swapping. The free love ethics of the middle 1960s would change all of this, adding a political charge to swinging and shepherding it out of the basement and into the clubs. But it was the pre-AIDS seventies, with their self-absorbed hedonism and disco-driven largesse, that brought swinging to a wider audience, giving birth to the club scene and forever emblazing a new, polyester-clad stereotype onto the American consciousness.

Today swinging and its various business offshoots represent a billion-dollar industry with its very own professional organization—the North American Swing Club Association (NASCA). Thanks to more than three hundred swing clubs worldwide, millions of couples swing freely in most parts of the Americas, Europe, and Asia. Many clubs also offer exotic travel in addition to sex-fueled swinging parties (Hedonism III, in Jamaica, is one of many clothing-optional resorts that cater to the needs of this thong-loving, well-tanned subculture). The Internet, with its myriad subscription-based swinger publications and personals sites, has expanded the growth of the population exponentially, making it possible for horny hubbies and naughty housewives everywhere to meet and greet with greater ease than was ever before possible. For the truly dedicated there is even the annual Lifestyles Convention, coming soon to a generic mid-range hotel near you (assuming you live in Florida or Nevada, which seem to have disproportionately high populations of swingers).

And so it was that I fell headlong into the lifestyle. The late-twenties couple that was setting things up seemed pleasant over e-mail, and our correspondence had a crisp, utilitarian tone, as though they were selling me a Victorian rolltop desk or a summer share in the Catskills. Mark, a real estate broker, and Tina, a public relations executive for an electronics conglomerate, had been “play partners” for over a year. Mark lived in Manhattan; Tina lived and worked in “suburban Delaware” (is there a nonsuburban part?). They had known each other since college and had gotten reacquainted at an alumni football event, discovering a mutual interest in meaningless sex (and, apparently, tailgate parties). Mark had done the “group thing” before, and the threesome had been his idea, though Tina seemed eager as well. And it was Tina who took charge of the initial getting-to-know-one-another phase.

As a first step we traded pictures and began a rolling dialogue. While certain sexual preferences were discussed, most of the exchanges had to do with establishing a sense of common ideology. Were we getting together to have sex, I wondered, or to debate the merits of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act of 1930? (I would have stood opposed, for the record.) After an extended series of e-mails, a phone call, and a face-to-face meeting with Mark in an East Village bar (awkward? nah.), it was determined that I had passed muster. The next step was to plan an evening.

We arranged to meet at a generic Mexican restaurant near Mark's apartment on the Upper West Side (if it was not called “Panchos” then it should of been), turning straight to the machine-generated margaritas and tequila shots but avoiding any food (when you're about to have sex with a group of complete strangers, a beverage capable of inspiring hallucinations is preferred; Montezuma's revenge, on the other hand, is not). While we had seen each other's photos, this was the first time Tina and I were meeting in person. As with any blind date, the hope of physical attraction is unavoidable, and successful chemistry is generally established within the first few moments. Add to this normal nervousness the fact that you've signed on to roll around naked within the hour, and you're talking about some serious pre-date pressure.

But Tina was encouragingly cute and cheerful, the sort of woman you'd expect to have been on the pep squad in high school and not at all what I imagined a polyamorous group-sex vixen to be like. A tallish brunette with sparkling eyes, she bore a mild resemblance to Jan Smithers, who played Bailey Quarters, the shy, bookish production assistant on WKRP in Cincinnati. Mark was good looking as well, in a conventional way, though his style borrowed a tad heavily from what appeared to be a recent Kenneth Cole catalogue (right down to the black leather attaché and chunky loafers). And while his looks would not have been a concern under ordinary circumstances, I would soon be naked with this man, jointly fondling a woman whose last boyfriend was serving time for embezzlement, and it's just nice to establish some commonality before engaging in a tandem, socially questionable event of this sort. Several rounds later we were all suitably relaxed, making polite small talk (their college's football team was doing well, I learned). We settled the bill and headed for Mark's walk-up studio apartment, three blocks away.

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