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“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
“So the usual then?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh,” I said, half-heartedly.
“It’s up to you, you know—how far to take things.”
“Yes.”
He motioned toward the door. “Come on. We can discuss it on the way.”
I started in his direction, understanding the point he was trying to make. It’s all consensual. I suppose you could call what we’re into a real life Fight Club for married people, with a dash of fetish thrown in. The gist is, no one is required to fuck anyone. It’s like that. We’re into a little leather play, a little bondage, a little domination, heavy on the domination, and then we go home together, alone. Once or twice—okay, three times max, in the early days—James and I fucked at a meet up. But usually we don’t.
Sometimes I play the dominant party, other times the submissive.
James is never the latter, only ever the former.
He sort of introduced me to the scene, you could say. It wasn’t that I was wholly uneducated; I’d just never much cared for an audience where my intimate life was concerned. Although, I have to admit—it was fascinating at first. With James, that was how it was. Everything was new and shiny. My husband never has revealed himself in small ways. He drops bombs. In the beginning, there was a part of me, a big part, that loved this about him. Nothing was ever dull. Hasn’t been since.
Over time, however, the allure of the club has waned for me. I wish I could say the same for my husband. He likes to remind me that’s a part of it. That’s what the game is all about: testing our limits, together and apart.
He’s not all wrong. There is something freeing I find about it all. Or at least there used to be. In a way, I go along with it out of hope, the same way James hopes his cat will come back. For me, I’m hoping that the initial draw—the pull, that initial allure—might return. It’s like chasing a high you can never quite catch. It’s elusive, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. That’s why I tag along. That’s why I don’t say no. Marriage is a series of compromises, and this is one of them. My hands might shake, but so long as we follow the rules, so long as we’re safe, sane, and consensual, I don’t see the problem. Or at least I didn’t, until she came along.
We meet in various locations, usually at an online rental. Airbnb, HomeAway, FlipKey, etc. It’s rare that parties occur in the same one twice. Members take turns securing the location. Like I said, it’s more simple than you might think, like one of those multi-level marketing pyramids, minus the sales. Like a cult, without the religion. If you’re in, you’re a believer. It’s about mindset. Belief is non-negotiable. Muscles are strengthened through resistance. Intense heat and pressure creates diamonds. Complete freedom is paralyzing. You need constraints. You need something to rebel against. Known monsters are less scary than unknown monsters. And so forth.
No one is allowed to wander off in private—and limits have to be agreed upon before the evening convenes. Sex between members isn’t off limits, but it’s not encouraged either.
In our club, it’s seen as a bit distasteful, a bit disrespectful. There are swingers clubs for that. We have tastes of a different kind.
They view what we do there as an art form. Even so, it’s not like you would think. Most people don’t dress up in leather—or what my husband likes to call slutwear. It’s not like you see in the movies. In some ways, I’ve seen far worse in the sales industry than I’ve probably ever seen at a club event.
From the outside, before things get started at least, if you were to wander in, you might assume we were having a dinner party, mingling among friends or colleagues. Not that any of us really associate outside of the club; it’s not like that either. To be friends, as James says, would be to ruin the fantasy. Boundaries are important in any endeavor.
Boundaries allow us to be whomever we want. This way, we’re free to change it up. Nothing is a lie because, other than our fetishes, everything is a lie.
Sometimes even those.
As with most things in our marriage, James is in charge of letting me know when a meeting has been set. He refers to them as appointments. My husband often speaks in code. He likes to test me.
Parties are sporadic. We don’t meet on the second Tuesday or fourth Saturday or anything like that. Meetings, so as to keep anonymity, are scheduled less than twenty-four hours in advance. The address is dished out two hours ahead of time. I don’t know that there is any rhyme or reason for this, only that it is likely a part of the show. Part of the fantasy. It keeps people coming back. It makes them feel like they’re a part of something special, something exclusive.
James says that to be comfortable, you have to keep things uncomfortable. And vice versa. It’s one of the rules. I suppose it makes sense. It’s no secret that one of the basic human needs is for novelty, and for my husband and I, the club has certainly fulfilled that.
For me, parties have always been a bit of a release. For my husband, they’re a rebellion against middle age, a war-cry against the mediocrity of suburban life. The club bands us together. It makes us feel alive. It makes us feel something.
James has always said that it’s hard to have a bad relationship if you have a good sex life, and up until recently, I would have agreed with that.
We met tonight at a two-story condo the Millers rented. Or at least that’s the name they go by. Who knows who they really are? And, really, who cares?
Sarah Miller is the dominant in their relationship. She gets off on seeing her husband degraded by other women. I happen to be one of them. It’s simple enough. It helps that his face annoys me. Everything about him annoys me. I tell him what I really think, and it’s easy, because it’s the truth. He’s a weak man and not because of what gets him off.
Usually, I throw a few punches, pull some hair, rough him up a bit, and then they leave. It’s strange to think that the two of them couldn’t live out such a simple fantasy at home. But then, who am I to judge?
I was tired after my performance. James found me in the kitchen, leaning over the sink, my knuckles raw and bloody.
