2.04.2009

Deenie's Hideaway



There was a time when I enjoyed going to swinger's clubs, but that's not the weird part. As I've matured—others might call it "decayed"—I came to enjoy these seedy playgrounds more than the actual sex. I've been to nearly a dozen of them since college. From the Sunshine State to the Golden State, every club I've visited features the same damp, dark patina and '70s decor you'd find in a David Lynch movie, or a Moose Lodge mixer.


The loveless men and women who haunt these places are creeps. Usually quiet and voyeuristic, sometimes chatty and gregarious, but always creeps. My personal path in The Lifestyle as fans of public fornication with any number or gender of anonymous partners like to call it entered like a lamb, but today roars like a lion. At my first swing party I sheepishly (and unsuccessfully) tried to get laid. By my twentieth, I began taking more pleasure in helping others reach that milestone. In short, I'm the creep who asks the ladies "Why?" rather than "Why not?"



My first swing club was Deenie's Hideway in Pompano Beach, Florida, America's oldest sex Shangri-La. My ship mate on that maiden voyage was a #1 pro BMXer. To protect his innocence, I'll call him MCS. We were 19 years old.



As sex clubs go, Deenie's is anything but hidden—for five years MCS and I had unknowingly driven past it every second and fourth Sunday to race at the Pompano Beach YMCA. Only after reading about The Lifestyle in Playboy did we learn of the club's proximity to our favorite track—you could almost see Deenie's windowless facade from the starting gate. Deenie's had no neon sign above the door in my day, so it looked like a 1/8-scale casino in the faux Italian renaissance style made popular by greasy Las Vegas billionaires. 



To dodge a prostitution rap, swing venues operate under the auspices of a private club. No alcohol or companionship may be bought or sold , so it's strictly BYOBB—Bring Your Own Booze & Bitches. Because we were BMXers by choice and nerds by proxy, MCS and I brought neither. We were convinced our lean racer's physiques and giant perms were all it would take to start a feeding frenzy among the cougars. We were only half right.



As it turned out, Coke—The Real Thing, not the sugary stuff in the curvy bottle—was the preferred lubricant for indiscriminate sex in the early '80s. Without it, flyers in the mile long club behind any girl willing to hump a stranger were left to throttle their joy sticks solo. As one twitchy hag told us, "No blow, no go." After swallowing that bitter pill, MCS and I threw off our club-issued terry cloth wraps and jumped into to the jacuzzi.

Just as we were about to climb out and dry off, a 65-year-old bat and her early 40-something boy toy strolled buck naked into Deenie's pool and sunbathing area. While the tubby lover pulled up a chaise lounge by the edge of the jacuzzi, his geriatric paramour made herself comfortable in the eight foot of empty hot tub between MCS and me. After sharing small talk with the three of us for a few minutes, tubby lover picked up his drink and leaned back quietly in his lounge chair. Apparently, that was bat woman's cue to start the show. Slowly she inched closer to MCS's place in the hot tub, his eyes growing larger with every seductive slither of her wrinkled frame. When bat woman was shoulder to shoulder with MCS, the panic in his eyes gave way to childlike glee. A twitch of his head was MCS's signal for me to slide in his direction, and I picked it up immediately. Tubby lover gazed at his old lady in a silent, boozy haze with none of the protective indignation so common among drunken couples in far less naked situations. If he wasn't going to protest, I said to myself, neither was I.

And that's when I felt bat woman's bony hand on my naked thigh.

As we figured out seconds after making our bat sandwich, tubby lover liked to watch while his old lady ski poled men young enough to be her grandsons. For the next 10 minutes, MCS and I sat in the bubbles with cougar paws in our laps and shit-eating grins on our faces. After playing her game, bat woman kissed MCS on the cheek, wrapped her withered and shivering torso in tubby lover's arms and skipped away.




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4 comments:

ryanfudger said...

Haha, McGoo, this is a whole other level. I can't decide what I like more, that your post is sandwiched in between a Steven Hamilton and a Ride site post in my RSS feed or that you think your average reader doesn't know what skiing is.

Anonymous said...

Mcgoo... may I just say WOW. That is about all the words I am able to muster after digesting your written goo goo muck.
I cannot wait to see you in all of your glory next week.
LOVES...
Wendy

Anonymous said...

Sounds like a night I experienced with a roommate of mine, my chick, me and a bottle of Frangelico. Was a few years back and had just returned from a long stay at a hospital in FT. Bliss Tx, from injuries received in Iraq. The funniest part about the whole scenario was my lack of being able to perform like a marathon runner, and more less like a fifty meter dash athlete. What was offered that night after the random shameless act ( shameless, I am known for ) was four hundred large and a glass of water for the lady. The four hundred was returned faster then It was produced. And In the words of my classless generation “ I don’t need yo money kid, im jus keep’n it real”
RED 3, OUT!

Fashion Serial Killer with Glasses said...

oh dear.. Swingers Clubs? HA HA...