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The Moth Attracted to the Flame 4 years, 4 months ago.
From personal experience (albeit “dated” personal experience), these clubs can be a pretty f~~~ed up, psychologically dis-associative place to be. And, if you can’t stand the attitude of women and guys who beg for pussy in general, you might be in for a real treat.
OP: I’ll caution you to be careful with this, as the thought and fantastical eroticism of swinging and the like can be very satisfying. Some of the actual experiences themselves can be very clumsy, uncomfortable and downright disconnected. But who knows, maybe you will experience something much much better. No two experiences are the same. And hey, there are all manner of ways to swing. Some do it from the comfort of their home, some do the club thing. But just be careful, and above all. Be safe. Very safe. There are some pretty f~~~ing strange people in the universe, and not all is as it appears on the surface.
It’s good for me, that I finally feel comfortable enough to have a place where I can discuss my f~~~ed up life. I thank MGTOW.com for this. And I thank my brothers here for this. OP: I hope one of my experiences can help you with a pros and cons column.
I went to a particular club once. Free of charge. So I’ll share an experience in a long post. If you hate long posts, don’t read this. It’s more of a short story than a post. And it’s no hold’s barred. It’s more of a “get comfortable”, grab your ashtray and a beer story.
As you’ve stated, OP, single men (select single men, keep that in mind) pay a fee to join the club.
The place I’ve been to was one where women were truly right where they want to be: the absolute, ultimate center of attention. You’ll see them sitting there, (and trust me, there will be more land whales there than anything else) with a huge leering grin, knowing that their true purpose in life of being a keyholder to a vagina has become the paramount focus of attention, and they have to do absolutely nothing but point their finger, and pick who they choose like a Roman emperor in the Colosseum.
Once the drinks and pills get passed around, it gets truly disgusting. Fat, 2/10 women suddenly believe that they are the hottest thing on earth, and the attention is just f~~~ing lavished on them, because well……………every guy there is there to f~~~ and since there are less women than men, these bitches are just in their perfect element. Most things that irritate MGTOW regarding women are f~~~ing magnified tenfold in these environments.
I was the lead guitarist / one of the singers in a semi-pro rock band in the 90’s, and we used to play every dive that would tolerate us. Sometimes we got paid, other times it was paid in beer on tap, on house. We had some great times musically speaking, and the amount of pussy was absolutely endless. We were metal, and blues based rock. AC/DC, Thorogood, Priest, Iron Maiden, Rush, Zeppelin, Hendrix, Seger, CCR, Doobie Brothers, Triumph, Great White, FIST, Steve Miller….you get it. The amount of coke, hash, brown sugar, and free everything was pretty limitless. For a guy in his 20’s, with no real aim in life other than to see just how loud you could play Thunderstruck with one hand through a Marshall Stack, it was pretty much a dream. For a while. And I was surprised just how many guys would try to pick you up to f~~~ their wife or swing with them.
Even if you were butt ugly, and had the requisite long hair, after about 3 hours of playing in front of a bunch of hammered stage-rats, just about any chick in the type of venues we played would bang you. Dirty bang you. Any ole’ which way you chose. You could sweat on stage for five hours and mouth bang a broad without showering.
And it’s remarkable. When I look back, there was eight of us living in a rented s~~~hole over top of a grocery store in the east end of the city. And we were NOT well-kept. We always had whisky, gin for the broads, vodka, beer, cigarettes, and pot. But god forbid we buy food, shampoo, soap, toothpaste or a new pair of jeans, or pay the f~~~ing electricity bill. Goddamn, we were f~~~ing high as a kite and hammered and thought we were all that, but personal hygiene? We were a bunch of greasy f~~~s with long hair, and about two pairs of underwear to our names.
When I step back and recall it, the first word that comes to mind is: Dirty.
Just a plain f~~~ing filthy, dirty, grungy, sweaty, greasy lot of s~~~heads. Guns’n’Roses would have been proud.
And the women? They didn’t give the slightest s~~~. I can’t imagine playing it “Big Time”. Read Nikki Sixx’s book “The Heroin Diaries” sometime: Motley Crue used to have competitions to see how long they could go without showering for weeks, and still have some chick go down on them and do everything under the sun. After wearing the same pair of leather pants for three weeks: imagine the unapologetic reek.
One night, after playing the Horseshoe (picture Bob’s Country Bunker from the Blues Brothers, except all bikers), we ended the show and proceeded to have beer #995 of the night. We were sitting around a table, with a bunch of ditchpigs and gutter-sluts starting the after-party. Some creepy motherf~~~er, with pure yellow teeth, a face that fell off the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, and just plain bathroom floor filthy denim bends down and shouts in my ear over the noise of the jukebox “Kid my wife wants to f~~~ you”.
I said “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?” (this was my first experience with this, and wasn’t even sure of what to do with it)
“My wife wants to f~~~ the s~~~ out of you!!!”
“Whatever man” (I was hammered and more than a little confused, although I wouldn’t call myself innocent).
“No, man, look over there, there she is. C’mon, you wanna f~~~ her?”
So I look a couple of tables over, and she’s sitting there. Requisite stretch black jeans, spike heel boots with legs crossed, long fake cheap blonde hair with all the black roots, an AC/DC shirt, blood-red lipstick. I didn’t see most of that because there were two absolutely huge cantaloupes trying to escape from underneath her 3/4 sleeve shirt. She was just leering at me, and I’ll never forget those eyes. Just not even really staring at me, but almost into me. She licked her tongue all the way around her lips and that was about it for me. I got a hard-on and all I could think of was her deep-throating me.
At that point in my life, I’d probably have f~~~ed a keyhole in a door, brothers. I was as pussy-addicted as they came.
I had f~~~ed fat chicks, skinny chicks, supposed lesbian chicks, bi chicks, ugly chicks, gorgeous chicks, chicks missing teeth, chicks with fake teeth, chicks with no teeth (that sucked when I saw her teeth in a glass in the morning), a mostly deaf chick, I f~~~ed a feminist with unshaven legs, I accidentally almost f~~~ed a chick who had a dick (you’d be f~~~ing surprised just how well some tranny’s can hide s~~~, thank god for my ability to sprint like a motherf~~~er when drunk), a chick with one prosthetic tit, chicks from the bar, chicks with scars, mothers, sisters. I had a lot of cub scout badges when I was a boy, but if there had been badges for f~~~ing, there wouldn’t have been a sash big enough to sew them on to. I don’t say any of this in the manner of conquest or bragging, because there was and is nothing to brag about. I was drunk all the time, and I had absolutely no self-respect. I drank, smoked, f~~~ed and played my guitar. I was a shell of a human being. I was a dirtbag. I can honestly tell you that I really don’t look back on those nights with any sort of rosy glow. I didn’t have a clue who I was, and I was really carrying out a slow form of suicide. But I digress…..
This guy and his wife “pick me up”. I had had a threesome with two gross chicks before, but I’d never knowingly f~~~ed another guy’s wife (even in my state of complete dirtbaggery, that was one personal rule I adhered to). This was going to be a completely new experience, especially since buddy was going to be watching. I figured we were going to go back to their place, but that wasn’t the case. They took me about ten clicks away over to a club. A relatively underground swinger’s club. The doorman waved us in when he saw the company I was with.
I very distinctly remember walking in there , and being exposed to a world which I’d never experienced before. The lights were way down, there was a bar in the center of the room. That goddamned Macarena song was playing on 11. There was a pall of nail-coffin smoke rivaling industrial Birmingham replacing any semblance of air. Carpet that used to be red, was a filthy, faded rose, cigarette burns everywhere. There was a cheap brass pole off to the side of the bar, with some stupid, short haired, pierced broad swinging around it, and she looked ridiculous as f~~~. Gravity was doing it’s job and her rolls were flailing about, trying to flee in desperation from the pathetic Michelin woman they were unwillingly attached to. Five or six guys were seated around her drooling, and she was just in heaven. Total center of attention and her face was the advertisement for a can of f~~~ing Dr. Ballard’s. There was cheap ass leather furniture everywhere, and seated in it were some of the most weird looking, hollow-stared, bunch of guys I’ve ever seen. Guys who were in their 40’s and 50’s, dressed in a manner where they were obviously trying to reach back and hang on to a part of their youth they’d either lost, or never had. They were bathed in the sickly glow of cheap pedestal lamps trying to penetrate the aftermath of a carton of Pall Malls. I almost felt I’d entered some dimension from “A Clockwork Orange”, minus the bowler’s hats. That, and……
The smell. You could smell the Lysol they’d sprayed in the air. You could smell three dollar perfume and f~~~ing Aqua Velva, but it did absolutely nothing to mask the smell. The smell of Ass…….the smell of used pussy………the smell of stale, spilled alcohol, but primarily? The f~~~ing smell of ass. I don’t think a five alarm fire could have hidden the smell. That, and…..
Fat chicks. About a dozen chicks in one state of chubbery or another. Outnumbered by the outboards by at least three to one. Some were the slightly overweight, camel-toe, “I believe that I can hide those last nineteen orders of large fries and a diet coke with black stretch pants” type. Others were unabashedly f~~~ing enormous. I can’t even describe the manner of dress. Anywhere from thigh-highs to a weird, long, Victorian dress, like a nightie. There were a couple of thin ones, but not the kind of thin that comes from looking after one’s self. The kind of tattoed, bony thin that says “eating disorder” and “Im going to change my hair colour tommorow to escape who I am” with ten cheap silver rings on each rat claw of a finger. A few of these chunks could be classified as about a 4. The rest had no business having a vagina. For all I know, they’d somehow stolen a fish taco and sewed it on, because these were NOT pretty women.
We sat down on a s~~~ty, pea green couch, and my ass had barely touched the springs before this guy’s wife grabbed onto my crotch. It wasn’t even an erotic handling of my equipment. It was more like a kid who had climbed over the wire from a “Fat Camp”, and found a Snickers bar. Buddy started introducing me to some of the regulars and someone shoved a drink into my hand. Roughly nine parts rye, no parts Coke. He was going on about the gig I’d played and how awesome our band was. His cronies were nodding their melons like bobbleheads and saying all manner of s~~~. I could barely hear, due to the abortion of a track that is the Macarena. This bitch just starts rubbing my johnson like she’s trying to sand 60 year old paint off a chair restoration. I was bobbing almost uncomfortably, and shifting around; it was almost like she was going to rip the thing off and put it in her pocket.
There were about ten rooms, going off the main agora of the place, with a curtain rod and s~~~ty looking plastic curtains hanging off of them. Some were open, unoccupied. Some were open, with people f~~~ing like rabbits for all to see. Some were closed with god knows what going on behind them. There was a big sign on the bar that said “Respect Always. “Please Pass The Pussy”. We all chatted it up some more. I really started to feel a little unnerved. Even though I’d been to all manner of dives in my life at that point, this place was REALLY out of my element. Then it really started to get weird. Dude points at the sign and says “SAY IT”. I wasn’t sure what he was referring to. “Eh???” “C’mon man, SAY it”. I looked back at the sign, and I slammed back my drink, retched on it a little.
“What. Please pass the pussy?”
He says “YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” like the Toronto Maple Leafs had finally scored a cup winning goal.
She grabs me by the hand and drags me to one of these rooms. She peels her boots and jeans off, in all of about three seconds and lays back on this cheap single mattress, and spreads her legs wide open for all the world to see. Shaven. Been used more than the rubber dispenser at a gay bar. Buddy sits down on this orange plastic chair that’s sitting off to the side. This guy had a look on his face of anticipation that I can only describe as a kid who has opened his first Penthouse magazine right to the centerfold. He’s barely sat down, and he’s already unzipped and has his c~~~ in his hand, and starts jerking it. At this point, I’d gone past the zone of being comfortable and just entered into an un-calculated Zombie like state. There was a bowl of rubbers on a little night stand, so I reached in and just grabbed what I could grab. I took off my jeans, and jerked it a bit, as I had some whisky dick going on. I put the safe on and climbed on top of her……
I had barely got my knees on the bed and this skank grabs my wick, just jams it in her snatch and starts jackhammering. I mean, I had barely even gotten my balance, and wasn’t moving at all and this chick is just slamming me. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I s~~~ you not, this woman was actually HURTING me. She had her arms latched around my neck and was just f~~~ing going to town. And I can tell you this. It was 100% mechanical. To the point of being surreal and creepy.
She wasn’t even remotely looking at me. She had this wide-eyed expectant stare, with this completely fabricated, weird, Joker-like grin on her face and she stared directly into the eyes of her husband. The sound coming out of her mouth might as well have been on a loop. She was spouting out a fake “OH OH OH OH OH OH I’m about to come” sound, timed almost perfectly to the second. There was zero eroticism there, there was zero enjoyment in her voice. Just “OH OH OH OH OH OH OH OH”. It might as well have been a siren.
Buddy is jerking off, half-limp, like he’s trying to REMOVE the goddamned thing for eternity. He’s staring right back at her, glancing back and forth from my ass, to her face. “F~~~ HER MAN YEAH F~~~ HER”.
At this point, I’ve slid into this feeling of being completely disassociated with my body. I’m just holding myself up, push-up style, and this lizard of a woman is jussssssssst f~~~ing hammering me.
Then it happened. All of a sudden I feel a hand on my ass, going for the crack. I look over, and Johnny Limp-Be-Dick has his goddamned hand on my ass. I recoiled in horror, and just yelled “WHAT THE F~~~”. I ripped my wick out of this broad fast enough for the rubber to come off and stay inside of her, and whipped back on my knees.
Both of them were in a bit of shock, and she snapped her legs closed together like a mouse-trap firing.
He says: “What the f~~~ man, I just wanna PLAY a little”.
I had snapped back into reality, and suddenly felt sober as a judge. “WHAT THE F~~~, YOU F~~~ING F~~~~~, WHAT THE F~~~”. I grabbed my jeans and put those bastards on faster than I ever had before, and ever have since.
Things from that point forward went very quickly. I knew I was in a bad spot, and since the c~~~warmer had now started to cry a little bit, I knew things were probably about to get one hell of a lot worse. I was a stranger in a strange land, and had zero allies. There was a doorman the size of a f~~~ing refrigerator, this man had several friends in the place, and everyone was under the influence of something.
I didn’t even put my shoes on. Before anyone could react any further, and before things could turn ugly, I grabbed my jacket, I went straight out that door, straight through the main room, straight past the bouncer, and straight out the entrance bare-footed. I had left the “breeding room” at a brisk walk, but by the time I was in the middle of the main room, I broke into a f~~~ing sprint.
I went out that main door, and tripped down the last four or five steps of the concrete stairs, and landed square on the side of my face. There’s nothing like a good bit of concrete smashing into your face to “get you up in the morning”. I got back up, rammed my nikes on as fast as I could, and started a really brisk walk west. I heard the steel door to the place swing open and smash into the railing, and someone yelled “HEY!!!!”.
I didn’t even look back. I f~~~ed off down an alley at approximately “Here Comes A Velociraptor” miles per hour.
After I had made it about five blocks, I sat down on a curb in a semi-residential area to catch my breath. The alcohol began to creep back into me, and my face was hurting like a motherf~~~er. I lit a cigarette, and sucked it into my already panting lungs. I used to carry a flask back then, full of Southern Comfort. I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever drank something and smoked a cigarette. I finished that smoke in about four hauls, and sucked on that flask like I’d just been pulled out of my mother’s womb and placed at her tit.
So, at 4 a.m., on a raining Saturday night, sitting on a curb, in the wrong end of town, 15 klicks or so from home, I decided that “Swinging” at a club just wasn’t for me.
I walked home in the rain, climbed up the huge set of stairs to the bandhouse, and walked in. Unsurprisingly, the boys were partying, a few people were passed out on the floor. The requisite drunken idiot who never knows how to play the drums but has always wanted to was beating the s~~~ out of our house Ludwig drum set. My bassist looked up at me; “What the f~~~ happened to your face dude?”
“I got into a little scrape downtown”. I went into the kitchen (latin for liquor repository, I swear to god the only thing in that fridge was mustard and a brewery), saw a half-done bottle of gin, and drained that f~~~er like I’d walked the Sahara without water.
The story didn’t have a happy ending either. Despite the condom, I got checked out a couple of days later and had Chlamydia. After a couple of doses of that stomach-scorching Doxycycline, I was free of it, but that was a super good reminder.
So, if you’ve read this diatribe to completion, I thank you.
If you’re considering swinging, this was a nice little worse-case scenario of how things can possibly go.
But who knows? In this day and age, you might hook up with a total fox, disease free and have a great, life-changing experience.
I do urge that you be very careful, very selective, and really do your homework on the matter though. Meet the people who you’re going to do it with beforehand, over coffee or the like. Not under the influence of anything. It might take away from the spontaneity of the event for you, but it might also save you from one of the weirdest goddamn things that can happen to you.
Cheers, brother.
Anonymous
Anonymous
AnonymousFrom personal experience (albeit “dated” personal experience), these clubs can be a pretty f~~~ed up, psychologically dis-associative place to be. And, if you can’t stand the attitude of women and guys who beg for pussy in general, you might be in for a real treat.
So. I’ve had a few beers. Read this point. And I think I broke something in my cheek from grinning so wide. Well done, sir. Bravo Zulu. I’m encouraged to write about a foray I had at NYC’s Hellfire Club in the late 1990s some day when these tiny little words aren’t swirling around as I type.
Anonymous
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