While I will admit to wearing a toga at a few parties, around the house on a Saturday, and occasionally while shopping for jellies and chutneys, I acknowledge that I am no Grecian beauty. This was made abundantly clear to me one day while I was standing with a friend on a street and a woman walked up to him, placed her back to me, and handed him a business card. She then said that he should be a model and to call her about a photo shoot. I have to believe this was one of those ‘come in and pay us $1,000 for a portfolio’ scams, but I didn’t even qualify for that. I would have paid extra.
But I’m also not a troll. Perhaps most explicitly because I don’t live under a bridge, except for short periods during bachelor party trips to Las Vegas, but also because I managed to date a few “ladies” during my day. You have to put ladies in quotations there both because the visual is humorous and also because I should qualify the term in this context. Regardless, I’m not too short (the photo record has me documented at 5’10’ – the secret is to always stand on your toes) and don’t have a hairy tongue. I even managed to land a wife who still has most of her teeth.
Given that, I’m struggling to understand why, in every town I’ve ever lived in as a married man, I am constantly informed that there is an active Swingers community, and yet I’ve never once received an invitation. Not once. It’s like it’s being rubbed in my face. And not in the good way you’re thinking.
It’s not like I don’t put myself out there as eager and willing to have a good time. Just ask anybody. Seriously, anybody. They’ll tell you all about the good times I’ve had in the past, probably in graphic detail and with accompanying police records. If Swingers are free spirits looking to experiment with fun in life, I’m their guy.
But I’m also not a loose cannon. I can sip scotch in an ascot with the best of them. I do the Holiday party routine in a blazer and will happily engage in small talk about almost all of the Kardashian sisters. If Swingers are interested in good, social company followed by a fumbling, drunken go at my wife in a back bedroom belonging to their teenage son who is staying over at his friend Anthony’s house for the evening and probably playing Halo:Reach as we speak, well, I don’t know how better to say it than I’m their guy.
Still nothing. Every town we’ve lived in, the whispered stories, raised eyebrows and nods. ‘Oh yes, there is a BIG Swingers community right here in this neighborhood. Maybe even in a house nearby.’ Sure there is.
There isn’t. At least not as described, not so structured, and not so unavailable to a guy who is just dying to get invited…..for christ’s sake what does he have to do to show up with a bottle of Pinot Gris and some leopard-print…never mind.
So what’s the attraction to this rumor, and how is it that everyone else is so confident it’s true? Is it simply because the act of saying it – the taboo – is titillating enough to overcome the tedium of suburban America? Are we so bored in the day-to-day trappings of paying mortgages, raising children and sitting besides our spouse in the mesmerizing glow of another Modern Family episode that simply insinuating that the Johnson’s have an open marriage (they do by the way) and the Kirkpatricks are into some of the hardcore stuff qualifies as excitement?
I guess my preference is to find real excitement in life rather than live in the theoretical. Vicarious living is no living at all. Bring your wife some flowers, write her the occasional and unexpected love note, and do some situps and pushups. Make your own Swingers Club at home.
Of course once you’ve got the Club up and running, if you’re willing to push, I’m willing to swing. I’ll even pump my legs. Call me.