The wet blanket in the fuckpile...
It seems reasonable to assume that, in every large
swinger’s club, there’s always one guy (and it’s always
a guy, I’m sure) who somehow managed to slip past
the admissions committee. Maybe his ex-wife knows
someone high up in the organization, maybe he lied
on his application. Whatever. He’s in and no one likes
it. Sure, everyone’s entitled to make lewd comments
while standing around the deli table, but he takes it too
far. The men all knit their brows and the women shud-
der. The grope room empties out when he wanders in,
all oily and bright-eyed, his leather pants snug against
his obvious excitement. Partner-swapping negotiations
are always entered into well out of his earshot, because
they know–they just know–that he’ll horn in with his
Simpsons character buttplugs and his endless requests
for odd positions named after tropical animals. The swing-
ers in good standing have a much better time whenever
he’s down with the flu. They can go about their business
with abandon then, they can break out the swings and har-
nesses and trampolines without the worry that he’ll break
them in a fit of ecstacy. They’ll make nasty jokes about
the weird way his ass looks and his slobbery oral sex tech-
nique. They’ll ask why he hasn’t been drummed out yet.
At the end of the night, when all the members are sweaty
and things are being toweled off, they’ll share memories
of how the club was back in the good old days. It’s clear
to all just when those good old days were. There will be
moments of silence in dozens of conversations and then
people will sigh and go back to the rest of their lives. Some
won’t give him another thought. Others will hate him with
a burning fury. A few might consider asking him to leave.
One or two might entertain fantasies of killing him. All the
while he’s laid up at home, a cold pack on his forehead, anti-
cipating the next time he’ll get to go to some frontage-road
hotel’s conference room and be with his real friends again.
The ones who understand his needs. His kind. He starts to
touch himself to their memory, oblivious to the fact that he
ruins everything, that he’ll always ruin everything, that he
makes the only people he wants to be with nauseous and
spiteful.
It must suck to be that guy.
swinger’s club, there’s always one guy (and it’s always
a guy, I’m sure) who somehow managed to slip past
the admissions committee. Maybe his ex-wife knows
someone high up in the organization, maybe he lied
on his application. Whatever. He’s in and no one likes
it. Sure, everyone’s entitled to make lewd comments
while standing around the deli table, but he takes it too
far. The men all knit their brows and the women shud-
der. The grope room empties out when he wanders in,
all oily and bright-eyed, his leather pants snug against
his obvious excitement. Partner-swapping negotiations
are always entered into well out of his earshot, because
they know–they just know–that he’ll horn in with his
Simpsons character buttplugs and his endless requests
for odd positions named after tropical animals. The swing-
ers in good standing have a much better time whenever
he’s down with the flu. They can go about their business
with abandon then, they can break out the swings and har-
nesses and trampolines without the worry that he’ll break
them in a fit of ecstacy. They’ll make nasty jokes about
the weird way his ass looks and his slobbery oral sex tech-
nique. They’ll ask why he hasn’t been drummed out yet.
At the end of the night, when all the members are sweaty
and things are being toweled off, they’ll share memories
of how the club was back in the good old days. It’s clear
to all just when those good old days were. There will be
moments of silence in dozens of conversations and then
people will sigh and go back to the rest of their lives. Some
won’t give him another thought. Others will hate him with
a burning fury. A few might consider asking him to leave.
One or two might entertain fantasies of killing him. All the
while he’s laid up at home, a cold pack on his forehead, anti-
cipating the next time he’ll get to go to some frontage-road
hotel’s conference room and be with his real friends again.
The ones who understand his needs. His kind. He starts to
touch himself to their memory, oblivious to the fact that he
ruins everything, that he’ll always ruin everything, that he
makes the only people he wants to be with nauseous and
spiteful.
It must suck to be that guy.
