The Sex Club: Part 1
“Do not regard as valuable anything that can be taken away.”
– Seneca (circa 4 B.C.E.-65)
If there has been anything that I’ve ever sought, it has been experience. Moreover, my desire has always been for my own, personal experience. One that I create. One that cannot be taken away from me…
During my twenties, I was with a girl for eight years. As with any matter of the heart, everything ebbed and flowed. Emotions oscillated. Tempers came and went.
Through it all, illustrious times and dark times alike, I kept a list of things in my mental pocket that I wanted to do, if and when that relationship ended. In times of extreme discontent – when we fought with red faces and reached for the other’s throat with invisible hands – I always felt for that mental list. This litany of adventures kept me company in times of solitude’s fantasy. It gave me solace in amplified times where the idea that we are all alone crept to the fore of conscious; when the idea that everything is fleeting ballooned in my psyche.
At the top of this list of future adventures was always: going to a sex club.
And so, when my relationship did conclude – embalmed in terrible sadness and regret – I quickly lept at distraction. At first I reached for anything. And while I was in the process of creating a new life and identity for myself – I reached mostly for the bottle.
Then, in a moment of sobriety, I remembered my list. I pulled it out of my pocket.
Number 1 on that list? Go to a sex club.
I had a rough idea where the sex clubs were in my city – in my times of deviance I researched my fantasy. I didn’t know, however, what was entailed at these clubs. I did not know what they looked like. Felt like. Smelled like. I did not know the etiquettes. The customs.
But I was dying to know.
In my research I found one tremendous obstacle: None of these clubs allowed single men.
In my relationship, when it was stale and without fantastic exploration and when all of this was coupled with the fact that I desperately wanted to see these sex clubs – I always knew one thing: that I would never, ever swing with a girl I loved.
I further researched the clubs – and my fascination drove me there, literally, one day when I was reeling from my love pains and longings. I drove to the one that had interested me the most and I sat in the parking lot. Half-hiding, I looked over my hand, trying to observe as much as I could with the only fantasy persisting that maybe, just maybe, somebody would approach my car and ask me into their room…
This sex club was more of a motel. One where you park your car in front of your door. The building was L-shaped – with the office and an indoor pool at the head of the L. And next to the office, where the cars entered, was a gate that was locked at night when all the action was taking place.
Here I learned, again: you cannot enter if you are a single man.
The door to the pool area, the social area where everybody congregated, was locked. You needed a code. I watched half-naked people with white towels come and go from the door every couple of minutes.
The possibilities of what lay beyond that door intoxicated me to a height that enraptured and teased at all my sensibilities; all my fantasies.
I looked around at the fences that surrounded the perimeter of the motel. They were 10 feet tall.
All I could think of was my agility.
And so the idea was born: I would hop the fence and gain access. Some night. Some night.
A couple weeks later, after some drinks, I decided that it was time.
I drove out to the club, a half an hour away and I parked right up against one of the perimeter fences. From my first time there, I learned that the club backed-up to an apartment building. And there was a parking lot. With empty spaces.
Shaking with adrenalized energy, I exited the car, rolling a white towel under my arm.
Then I walked that backside, along the fence, looking for a place that was hidden from the apartment building. In my walk, I conversed with myself – telling myself again and again that this was crazy. I don’t know if I’ll even make it up and over the tall fence. And if I do, what then?
That’s exactly where my energy condensed.
In mid-conversation with myself and I spotted a place in the fence with a foothold. Knowing that I didn’t have much time to stand and deliberate, I gave one look over my shoulder then threw the towel on top of the fence as padding and leapt upward. With one mighty tug, I threw myself up and over that fence.
Before I knew it, I was in.
I paused, listening for footsteps. I knew that I could just as easily leap back up and over that fence if I needed to. My childhood experience told me that adrenaline gave me even more energy and I could clear twenty feet, if needed. It had been done before.
I ducked down into the shadows, listening, listening.
It was quiet. I could only hear the hum and cacophony of the traffic that surrounded the place.
Then, after several minutes, I stood erect and simply walked from behind the short side of the L building, out and into the parking lot. Quickly I found the sidewalk that paralleled the building. I stepped toward it and then casually, confidently sat on a step and pulled out a cigarette.
At this early point, I felt normalized. As though I belonged. As if, if somebody asked, I could create a story. I could act like I belonged.
Still I had no idea how I was going to get into the common area, the pool area – that place where all the action that I so desperately wanted, waited for me. Begged me. Teased me. Even from here, I could smell the sex.
The parking lot was full with cars. But the property was quiet. In my time with the cigarette, I didn’t see one person. Yet I knew they were in the rooms around me and in that grail of a pool area.
My imagination swirled with possibilities. Combinations. Ideas. My future.
I could see that some of the rooms had the blinds opened. There were two rooms with doors that were ajar. I walked the down the walk, with my towel under my arm – right up to one of the open windows. I could see inside: a bed, a hot tub, some strange sex chair in a back room; some chords with hand-holds hanging down over the bed.
I walked past that window, to the next where I found my next surge of adrenaline. Because inside on the bed was four people, tangled-up – touching each other, sucking, licking, holding, twisting bodies. One pair was engaged in intercourse. The other pair was squeezing each other’s heads in this, my first visual experience of watching another couple in 69.
The blood coursed through me at an impossible speed. I could not feel my limbs or my conscience. I could only feel my cock, throbbing in my pants.
Neither of the four people looked up at me. And the longer I stood there, I felt as though I shouldn’t be. As though I was at an orthodox hotel, where I shouldn’t be seeing what I was. But then I was reminded of where I was – not how I got there – but where I was: at a sex club.
Straight down the row from this room was that door – the frosted-over door to the pool area. With my adrenaline and my sexuality swarming and craving and wanting and desiring everything all at once – I walked toward it.
My towel under my arm, I approached. A man walked out of the door. He nodded at me. I said hello, confidently.
I walked to the side of the door, and lit a cigarette. I decided that I would, at least, pretend as though I belonged. If there is anything I’ve learned socially, it is: No matter what room you walk into, act as though you belong. Act as though you know what you’re doing. This will extend your walk thousands of miles.
And so I stood there, smoking. Acting as though I were simply smoking and waiting to finish before I entered.
My plan was that, as somebody exited, I would slip in – acting as though we came upon the door at the same time.
Then, without a further thought or moment of deliberation – I saw a shadow on the door. Then I heard a click. And a couple walked from the door.
Confidently, I surged toward it. As though I belonged.
They held the door open for me. Instead of stating gratitude, I said, hello. As though I belonged.