Accidental Swinger

Here’s an image. About a hundred people, young and attractive, inside an East Village bar. Some are chatting, some are dancing, some are kissing. The women are naked from the waist up. Their nipples, as required by law, are covered by pasties. A guy by the bar has opened his fly. Two girls are on their knees, taking turns blowing him.

Near them is another guy. He is not getting a blowjob. He is standing by himself, wondering if he shouldn’t have stayed home and watched a rerun of Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman. That guy is me.

It’s around 2 a.m. and I’m at an invitation-only sex party. The event is part of a scene New York magazine has called "swinging lite": a party that screens patrons for appearance, ensures that there are as many women as men, and encourages people to go home together rather than hump each other on the dance floor.

I’d been anticipating the party for weeks. The invitation had come courtesy of my friend Jamye, the associate producer of a cable show called Naked New York. The show focuses on sex. Because she books the guests, she meets everyone and is invited everywhere. Last month I was a guest on the show, and afterwards Jamye introduced me to a party promoter.

"He’s cute," she said to Jamye. "Bring him to the next one."

Finally, I thought, I’m in the scene. Velvet ropes. Guys with clipboards. My name on the list. Free sex.

I felt like the Iraqi quoted in the Sunday Times. When the reporter asked him what he was looking forward to now that Saddam was gone, he said: "Democracy! Whiskey! And sexy!"

I arrived just after 11 p.m. and approached the guy with a clipboard, finally feeling confident about my chances for entry.

"What’s your email?" I gave it.

"What’s the password?" I said it.

"Pay inside."

He unhooked the velvet rope, and I walked through the corridor. A girl in a tight dress took my $25. She sipped her drink and smiled at me. Whiskey. And sexy.

What struck me first were the breasts. Figuratively, I mean. At least fifty women had their shirts off. Despite my having seen a naked woman or two in my life, there was something primordially arousing about so much skin.

But here’s the odd thing. After an hour it all seemed ordinary. After all, these weren’t strippers. These were normal women just chatting and laughing with their boobs hanging out. In sixty minutes, my reaction went from the excitement of a 12-year-old watching Porky’s, to the indifference of a European on a topless beach.

"Talk to that one," Jamye told me. She was pointing to an Asian girl who was sitting alone. "She looks like your type."

I sat next to her and said, "Hi." She looked at me. I tried to think of something to say.

And then I remembered why I don’t hit on women in bars: I’m bad at it. Where some guys have suave opening lines, I tend to say things like, "I eat cheeseburgers."

We spoke for a few minutes, but I wasn’t being myself. I was forcing the charm. It was the same awkwardness strangers at bars always go through, and there’s a reason most people avoid it. However sexy and exclusive an event like this may be, a singles night is still a singles night. Despite the nudity, despite the screening, despite the velvet rope: This was a group of people just trying to meet one another in a circumstance that was essentially no different than the bar next door.

Just before 2 a.m., Jamye went home while I stayed and ordered another drink. To my right was the dance floor–a mass of seminude bodies. To my left, a certain fortunate gentleman enjoying the services of two women. It was time to go.

A few days later, I spoke to the promoter and joked that I was probably the only guy in New York who couldn’t get any action at a swinger’s party. I also told her it would probably be my last.

"Just come to the next one," she urged. "You’ll love it."

"Okay," I said, "but I’m keeping my shirt on."