'I thought swingers were 'sex freaks'. Then my husband and I tried it.'

When I told my closest friend of 10 years that my husband and I had started swinging she reacted in three steps:

Step one I’ve decided to call: "What did you just say?"

Because that’s what Amy* said when I told her that myself and the hubster had started f**king other couples.

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She said: "What did you just say? I think I missed that."

Amy hadn’t missed it. What Amy had missed was that deep underneath my Catholic, Latin American flesh was the heart of a total Mary Magdalene. A veritable whore’s whore, if you will. 

Then came the second step: Hysterical Support. You know the kind; the whole uplifting, ear-shattering, piercing scream that only the most excited of friends can do? That’s what screeched into my ear at almost deafening levels; 

"Oh my Gawd, Matilda! That’s f**king amazing."

And it was. The f**king other people thing, that is. Although I didn’t say that – I sort of just laughed nervously because this was the first time I’d admitted my little after work activity to anyone in my social, non-f**king circle out loud.  

Then came the final step, which I’m calling: Surprise. Because I’m lazy and I can’t be bothered to think of a cool title. Besides its true, Amy was extremely surprised.

"I wouldn’t have guessed it. You two are literally the last people I would have thought who would be into that sort of thing."

She’s not wrong. I’m a twenty-something-year-old woman from a religious and culturally conservative background. Prior to the last six months of swinging (which I’ve dubbed "The Great Whore-Wakening") I’ve only ever had sex with one man: my husband, who we’ll call Mr Matilda.

A few months ago, I wouldn’t have expected it from me either. Honestly, it’s taken both me and Mr Matilda by surprise. 

But here we are: six months, 10 sex club events, 40 different sexual partners. 

The Great Whore-Wakening.

Why did we decide to start swinging? 

That’s the big question, isn’t it? As soon as you hear a couple has made the choice to bone other couples, you can’t help but ask that question. I know I did a few years ago when we first watched a show about swingers one summer’s evening.

As Mr Matilda and I watched the episode, I interrupted loudly, with what I had thought at the time were hilarious, insightful, and looking back at it, extremely judgemental snide asides. 

I asked: "What’s wrong with people like that?", "What’s wrong with their relationships?", "Are they sex freaks?", "Are they exclusively poorly dressed boomers desperate to feel young again?"

Those couldn’t have been the worst questions to ask, the most incorrect questions to ask, actually. In my six months in the scene I know now that swinging is about none of those things. If anything, you have to be the most secure, committed, trusting and communicative couple to enter this particular lifestyle.  

I didn’t know that at the time, I was too caught up in my own judgements. 

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Nevertheless, judgements and all, the idea of swinging stayed with me. It became something I secretly fantasised about while masturbating: how fun would it be to f**k another guy in front of my husband? How hot would it be to watch my husband f**k another chick? Wouldn’t it be exciting to have group sex? 

Fantasy eventually gave way to conversation.  

If you need to know about one thing, it’s this: Mr Matilda has always been my number one fan. He’s always cherished and encouraged me to explore my sexuality and sense of self. He, more than anyone else, knows who I am at heart, and he has always tried to foster it no matter how much the people around me try to stomp it down.  

Mr Matilda knows me better than I know myself. So it was only natural that in the beginning I was able to talk and share about my fantasies with him. 

We talked about it at the time, made plans to try to go up to a sex club in Melbourne, but somehow the times just never worked out. They were only ever open once a month, and we seemed to always miss it. It didn’t seem to matter; the fantasy was pushed to the back of my mind and the years flew by.  

Fast forward to us moving to Sydney in 2019. We were having a single friend staying over – while he was down visiting us in a city, he’d decided he wanted to try to hook up with some girl on Tinder. Because we’re a married couple who’d gotten together way before the app, and also because we’re both massive dicks, we grabbed his phone and started swiping on different women for him.

That’s when we spotted a couple on Tinder and suddenly when the conversation reignited. The next morning I started researching. I researched (which here means 'googled') everything to do with swinging under the sun. 

That’s when I came across an upmarket swinger’s club targeted towards younger couples.

Two days later after a talk with Mr Matilda, we had it booked. 

At the time we were sh*tting ourselves about what we had just done. Over and over again we asked each other, "Should we be doing this?", "What happens if we hate it?", "Will this ruin our amazing marriage?"

So I did what any neurotic nut job with an anxious disposition and a heart filled with Catholic guilt would do: I continued to research about this community known as "the lifestyle" while intermittently shoving cookies in my mouth. 

The things I discovered about 'the lifestyle'.

You wouldn’t think that something which sounds so uninhibited and promiscuous as sexing it up extra-maritally with other hot couples in a massive dog-pile would have rules, but as it turns out, it does. 

Rule One 

'The Lifestyle' is filled with a number of rules and as a good Catholic I’ve remembered all of them. The most cardinal of them being: Thou shalt ask permission.  

Permission is a huge thing within the swinging community. Before you stick anything in anywhere with anyone, it’s polite to ask first. Which is nice and means that in a 20-person orgy you feel safe.  

Consent is sexy, and it’s important to always ask lest you offend a couple or do something that they don’t want. 

And trust me, in the darkened room of the clubs, it’s really easy to accidentally touch someone in a way they may not want or to mistake eye-contact for permission, so asking first is best and avoids awkwardness or upsetting someone.  

Rule Two

Boundaries are key. 

Boundaries between yourselves as a couple and also between other couples are essential. 

Before Mr Matilda and I went to the club for the first time, we discussed at length about what we were and weren’t comfortable with, how we might feel afterwards and what we would do if something felt off, or we didn’t want to be there anymore. 

We came up with a secret word and hand signal which either of us could use if we wanted to leave. 

Rule Three

Be flexible – not just physically either. I mean, don’t get me wrong, being flexible comes in handy when you’re on your back on a massage table and you’re being spit-roasted by four extremely hot guys (I know, I know. How did that work Matilda? Honestly, I’d have to draw a picture to explain). But I digress – that’s not the sort of flexibility we’re talking about here. 

What I’m talking about is: being flexible with your boundaries.

What the f**k are you talking about Matilda? Are you contradicting yourself not even two pages into this thing?! 

Not really, what I mean is even if you and your partner come up with a bunch of rules, it’s important to be flexible because the rules between you might change depending on how you feel while swinging.

For example, Mr Matilda and I had said to each other the first time: "We aren’t even going to kiss another couple at the club. But if we change our minds, we should communicate."

And guess what? We changed our minds, and we communicated. 

Which brings me to the next rule:

Rule Four

Talk to your partner like you’ve never talked before. Get into the itty, bitty details. Talk about exactly what you’re intending on participating in.  

E.g. "Mr Matilda, I’d like to be gang-banged by four other guys vaginally and orally. I want them in every hole except my ass. Although I’d like to also use an anal plug. What do you think?"

Not just that, let your partner know if something bothers you. E.g. if you’re Mr Matilda, and you’ve consented to the above and then start feeling uncomfortable you say, "Matilda, let’s take a break." 

Poof, just like that, you can make your exit. No harm done. 

When you stop talking, you’re going to get yourself in trouble. And that’s how you end up being one of those awkward couples having a half-whispered, half-screaming match fight in the locker rooms of a sex club while naked people try and walk around you to the orgy bed.

And trust me, you so don’t want to be one of those people. 

Rule five

Be clean. 

Don’t go out swinging with another couple or at a club without having had at least a shower and brushed your teeth. 

I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this, but don’t go out swinging if you’ve got a plethora of untreated STIs. Take every precaution when swinging and use protection. 

Essentially: Don’t be a dirty dickhead. 

So with some of the rules in mind, our boundaries and safe words set in place, Mr Matilda and I prepared for our very first swinging session, ever.

Like a virgin, touched for the very first time (by a group of hot strangers).

My heart is in my mouth. 

Mr Matilda and I stand outside the club nervously holding hands. I look at him, he looks at me, then we both look at the black, nondescript door. 

Mr Matilda reaches forward and presses the buzzer with one out-stretched finger. Whether we both realise it at the time or not, we’re holding our breath.  

There’s a pause, followed by the crackling of a female voice over the system, "Door’s open, come on in." There’s another buzz and click – the tell-tale sign that the door has just been unlocked for us. 

This is it. This is the moment. I am about to have my ho-dreams fulfilled. 

Mr Matilda looks at me, and I look at him. He grasps the door handle and we step inside. 

You wouldn’t know from the outside of the place, but the inside is bustling with music and warmth. 

An attractive young woman greets us. She’s kind, friendly and not at all who you’d expect to be manning the front desk of a sex club. I’d half expected a beefed up bloke with a leather apron on. I don’t know why, but that’s the image I’d had in my neurotic brain a week leading up to this event. 

Everything so far... feels normal? The staff even offer us a tour of the place since it’s our first time. We go past the front desk, through a black curtain and the salacious world of swinging is revealed to us!

Okay, not so much. 

We’re met with a tasteful club scene comprising lounges. The only indication that this could be a sexy club is the stripper pole on the dance floor. But honestly, it just looks like a super normal club. 

Upstairs is where the place reveals itself for what it is. There’s an open room with a large bed which could easily fit ten people. Other large beds are scattered near it. Amazingly there’s also a giant open shower area.  

There are also other private small rooms, where you can close the door if you want privacy, leave it open if you want company, or pull across a handy chain if you don’t want extra people, but do want to be watched.

Although my favourite is the voyeur’s room, which is fitted with a huge two-way mirror, where you can see in but not out. On the inside is a leather swing. I’ve seen these in porn, but it’s my first time seeing one in real life.  

We put away our coats in the lockers provided and head downstairs for a drink. Tragically for Mr Matilda and I, we were so nervous we got there too early, and for the moment it’s just us.  

We excitedly chatter between ourselves. 

But as people start coming in, we’re surprised with how social and friendly everyone is. Soon anxiety is gone, and we’re talking to three other couples, all of whom are also fairly new to the club scene. All of whom we play with that night. 

Let’s go back a step. Remember what I said about the rules and boundaries? Well, on our first night we had the rule that we probably weren’t even going to kiss another couple. 

Yes? You remember? Okay. Now fast forward to 12am that very night and I’m being fingered by some guy, while I orally stimulate another woman, and her husband f**ks her face while he chokes me. 

On the same bed is Mr Matilda, who is participating in the oral end of a spit-roast with a blonde girl and her boyfriend. Mr Matilda reaches his hand out to hold mine, which I manage to grasp.

'I can’t believe this is happening,' I think to myself. It is, though, it really is.  

Mystery Guy.

I broke another one of our rules that night: No singles. 

It’s not a hard rule (like we must always be in the same room), more just a precaution because this is our first time partner swapping and we’re not sure how we feel about single people.  

But there he is, standing next to the bed, then sitting down next to me, while I’m licking another woman’s clit. He places a hand on my back and whispers in my ear, "Can I join you?"

I look up and see him sitting next to me. I look to Mr Matilda, and tap him on the shoulder (remember, he’s currently spit-roasting with another couple). 

"Is it okay if he joins us?" I ask, nodding towards our new friend sitting naked on the bed with us. 

Mr Matilda looks at us and smiles, "Sure. If you’re okay with it."

I turn to the guy and nod, "Yeah."

I can’t remember much about Mystery Guy. In my anxiety I drank one too many Pinot Noirs and so this interaction has largely been compiled from vague memories from myself, Mr Matilda and one of the other couples we kept in contact with. 

All I know is that it’s the first hardcore fingering experience that caused me to orgasm in almost 10 years of being sexually active. This may not seem like much to your average girl, but I guess it’s time for me to remind you that I had a conservative upbringing, which left me with some odd sexual hang-ups.  

Like, I typically find digital penetration of my vagina uncomfortable and I tense up. Penis is fine, mouth is fine. But fingers? They can f**k right off – for some reason it stresses me out. 

I attribute this weirdness to my fear that if I’d ever penetrated myself while masturbating as a teenager I’d somehow made this huge sin because I’d compromise my virginity. 

Mr Matilda had fingered me before, but I’d never really allowed him to dwell in that location long, instead pushing us towards sex. So yes, in 10 years of us being together, I’d pretty much avoided digital penetration of my vagina out of some weird hangup.  

But my first time at a sex club with some mysterious single guy, half drunk and super relaxed I let it happen. I let this guy finger f**k me and it was incredible. I came multiple times, so much so I was a shaky and sweaty mess by the end of it. 

My biggest regret is being too drunk. If I can give any advice to a first timer it’s this: Do not go into a play session having drunk too much. 

Being too out of it meant that, one: I didn’t thank him, two: I didn’t get his number, three: I can barely remember what he looked like making any chance of finding him again pretty slim. 

We’re both surprised with how natural and lovely everything was. We’re both amazed at how our relationship is stronger than ever thanks to our increased communication. 

The next morning, we quickly get ourselves an account on RedHotPie (an app for horny swinging couples like us) and start to look at couples we might be interested in swapping with on a more intimate basis. 

We’ve had our first swinging experience and are now open to trying further new things. And that’s exactly what we do. 

What follows is a full-throttle six months of f**king, freaking out, STI-tests, Catholic guilt, more f**king, navigating dating other couples inconspicuously while trying to have a normal life, awkward sexual encounters (because sex wouldn’t be sex without them) and self-exploration.

Feature Image: Getty. The feature image used is a stock image.

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