She & He: The Initation

Still without a glance at the mirror, she slipped into her shoes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The look on his face was priceless.

"Meaning," she thought..."I'm not quite sure how to value this."

"What? You don't like? You do like? Too much? Not enough? What??"

"Ummmm...no, honey...you look awesome! Wow! I love that top! And, ummmm...that skirt is great...love it short like that...and uh...yeah! The shoes! Love them, too!"

"Well, then...what is it? Something's got to be off. I know you. Your eyebrows don't reach those heights unless you've REALLY seen something. What is it? Is my skirt too short?" she worried aloud.

"No! No! Your skirt is fine...it is really fine...not too short! Ummmm...well..."

He stood and taking her hand, guided her to the full-sized mirror on the closet door.

"Oh my God!" she spit, laughing, "It looks like something crawled onto my face and died...and it must have been a gruesome death." Her left fake lash now lay plastered on top of her eyebrow. Half of it retained its original fan shape; the other half had wadded itself into a twisted, black blob.

Realizing she actually did have to start all over, she stomped her wedgies back into the bathroom. "Now I know why these things come in sets of twenty!" she grumbled. Standing in the doorway behind her, he stared as she leaned over the vanity. "The outfit really is cute, though, honey."

"CUTE?! Just CUTE? I wanted sexy! I wanted enticing! I wanted it to say 'I'm desirable! FUCK ME!" she just about whined.

"Oh...it says that, my love..." he muttered thickly as he eyed her pantiless crotch, which winked at him as she bent over her work.

Seeing the direction of his gaze in the mirror, she smiled and purred..."Oh...you like?!" Their eyes locked and she felt a familiar and welcome rush of wet dampen her thighs. "Oh...I like, indeed...indeed!" he murmured, moving to stand behind her.

Sensing his intentions, she reached back and pulled her skirt down tight against her thighs. Protesting, he tried to lift it while pressing himself against her backside.

"No...not yet," she admonished, "I want to save it up. Anyway," she teased, "you'd only get messy." Walking back toward the bedroom, she stopped just short of the doorway and bending over once again, this time slowly, gave him full view of her damp excitement.

"Now, where's that drink?" she invited him from her upside down perspective.

She had splurged on a bottle of Grey Goose. Sipping their drinks (Goose, lime and soda) they reviewed the "Swingers Etiquette" pamphlet they had received in the mail with their party tickets.

NO MEANS NO

No single men. Single women only allowed when accompanied by a couple.

No "tickets." (definition of "ticket": a ticket is the one who goes just to get you in and not to take part.)

Arrive as a couple. Leave as a couple.

Be courteous.

No touching without permission

Do not over drink.

No drugs or prostitution. Let's keep this legal.

Cleanliness is a MUST.

You must label

No lifeguard on duty, swim at your own risk.

No audio or video recording or cameras allowed.

No baseball hats allowed.

A host gift is required.

What happens at the party, stays at the party.

NO MEANS NO.

"No baseball hats? That's a rule?"

"Yeah, what's with that?" she queried. "And, really? They think people are going to want to swim...in that pool?"

"Did you bring a host gift?"

"I've got one, but I think that the rule is ridiculous. I mean, it's not like they aren't making a good profit with these parties. Feels kind of greedy to me. And, what's with the no recording or pictures? They don't even follow their own rule. There are pictures all over the website of their previous events."

"I don't see a rule about condom usage or any other safe sex hygiene stuff." He handed the brochure back to her. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, honey?"

Emptying her second drink, she glanced at the bedside clock (its digital numbers only half illuminated. "Was NOTHING around here up to par?" she thought.) Pouring herself a straight shot she steadied the glass in her raised hand and with an emphatic "Yes! Yes! Yes!" slammed it back in one gulp.

He steadied her with a firm hand to her elbow as they walked into the lobby. She had downed two more security shots after her first and had to admit she was grateful for his steadfast strength supporting her. "So much for the not overdrinking rule," she belched softly as they approached the registration table.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Never been more-so," she replied, attempting to sound saucy, the results marred by yet another burp. "Let's do this!" and grabbing his hand, she strode quickly over the remaining distance to their destination.

"NAMES?" The vaguely familiar looking woman boomed her words. Coming from such a miniscule form, the deep voice was unnerving. Straining her eyes in the dimness, she read the cheap "Hello, I am _____" tag plastered directly onto the upper curve of the woman's enormous right breast, which, along with its left mate, seemed to be itching to over-flow their too-tiny demi-cups.

"Oh! Hello, _________! We are the ________s. We've been corresponding with you by email...it's so nice to meet you!"

The woman's eyes brightened (or did they harden?) and she gifted them with a toothy smile of welcome (or was it a smirk?) (Oh God! Will you stop it with all the judgment?!)

"Greetings! GREETINGS!" the lady thundered. ("WHERE does she get that voice?" she was still trying to grasp the incongruency.)

As the hostess went on with her "WELCOME TO THE FAMILY" message, she tried to extricate her hand from the lascivious Lilliputian's sweaty grasp. ("Family?" she thought, "Ummmm...no!?!)

Finally succeeding, she placed her arm around her husband's waist and surreptitiously wiped her hand on the back of his jacket. Itty Bitty Big Boob's jaw was still spilling words at an alarming rate, and her mind strived to register all she heard:

"Here's your name tags and here's your glows, aren't they fun?! Keep your name tags on at all times and your panties off!" (THERE! THAT was a smirk!) "There's dancing and drinks until 10:00. After that, report to room 112 for the "pre-after" party where we'll have more information about who is up to what in which private room. Tonight we have quite the smorgasbord! OK! A little housekeeping now. We have four security guards on duty tonight (she motioned to the two examples standing sentinel on either side of the ballroom doors.) If you have any trouble, you can ask any one of them for assistance. (What kind of trouble required these muscle men's presence?) No full nudity during the before-party and make sure to fully cover yourself when you go between buildings." Not pausing in her speech, she reached up under her skirt to pick at something. "This is your first time with us, correct? " Withdrawing her hand, she examined it closely. "You will love it! Oh, don't forget your goodie bag!" she shoved a limp, nondescript bag into his hand and waved them toward the entrance.

Hooking the bag with his forefinger, he grasped her hand once again and when his "Ready?" was answered with a nervous smile and definite head nod, they made their entrance.

Standing just inside the doors, she pulled his ear close and spoke loudly enough for him to hear her over the pounding music, "What a trip! I thought maybe we would hang around her and her husband, but, ummm...ick?"

"Definitely ick," he replied as he peered into the plastic bag. Throwing it into a nearby trash receptacle it was now his turn to wipe his hand.

"What was in the bag?" she asked.

"Condoms," he said. "We'll use the ones we brought. I don't know if I trust theirs."

With this little reminder of what was possible this very night, he grabbed her hand and led her into the milling crowd.

The room was large and mostly dark. A spot-lit stage housed the DJ (an anorexic looking young male dressed to the nines in latex and steel) whose attention seemed to be much more focused on the two nubile beauties dancing bared breast-to-breast on the platform beside him than his musical duties. A large disco-ball rotated above head with an occasional jerky pause, illuminating in flashes the pulsing mass of bodies below. Only a few couples occupied the chairs set at long tables on either side of the dance floor. Refreshments were set up in the far right corner of the room and what looked to be a large display of something had been set up along the left wall.

They had agreed the first order of business would be to find a place to stash their coats and booze (labeled, of course) and simply sit and observe. Her old social inadequacies rearing up, she briefly considered one of the empty tables but reminded herself that they were there to GET social...really, really social and a good way to start would be to actually interact with some of the other party goers.

Glancing surreptitiously at the nearest occupied tables, she up-nodded to direct her husband past them to the second row where a couple that looked to be about their age sat side by side. Already she could see that there were some types here that she really didn't care to get any kind of social with. This couple looked fairly normal, at least. They smiled in greeting as they approached and nodded twin yes's when he asked if they could join them.

Introductions were made and for the next bit of time the four of them mostly sat, watching the dancers moves and antics, some of which were very bold, she thought. Reminding herself of exactly where she was and what she was here for, she laughed internally at her sudden hypocritical prudishness. Who was she to judge? She was the one sitting here, her itch beginning to puddle her skirt.

From time to time one of the four leaned in to start a conversation but the blood pounding volume of the music made it difficult to hear. She gleaned bits and pieces of sentences and put together that their companions were regular attendees of this group's events, as well as several others, and knew the organizers well. Motioning toward the display area on the far side of the room, she pointed out Mr. Clean and his wife Mrs. Pass-Out. Shouting over the noise, the woman "just between you and me'd" her with the exact same "confidential" information about Mrs. Pass-Out's proclivity for, well...passing out.

She guessed that Rule # 15 wasn't enforced any more than #13. No one seemed to be concerned about the Susan Sarandon look-alike sporting a baseball cap, jersey, sneakers and nothing more and certainly no one thought anything of sharing tidbits of trivia from previous parties. She wondered which other rules were not hard and fast.

Taking this "introduction" as an opportunity to go check out this infamous couple in person, she excused them from the table and together they headed over to view the displayed items. A bit quieter this far away from the speakers, she was able to say hello to Mrs. Pass-Out and exchanged a few pleasantries as her husband chatted up the Mr. who yes, indeed, could have been Mr. Clean's older brother. "Older, meaner brother," she thought, then instantly berated herself for being so shallow. The man definitely exuded a powerful sexuality, but something in that energy just didn't feel right. Again, mentally shaking herself off, she told herself she was being overly suspicious and if she didn't relax and stop ignorantly summing every one up, she might as well go home right now. "He's probably a very nice man," she firmly told herself as she put her attention back onto the Mrs., who was now nervously rambling through a marketing spiel for the array of merchandise laid out between them.

As the two men continued their conversation, Mrs. P-O continued trying to make her sale. Clumsily, she tossed out terms such as "marital aid", "affiliate", "networking", "commissions", and more, each word seeming to taste unfamiliar in her mouth and ended with an embarrassed question mark. "We ummmm have this home business? It's a home-party marital aid business? It pays great commissions?" and on and on, although she could tell the poor woman would rather crawl into a dark hole rather than have to continue on with her pitch.

"No wonder she wants to drink herself silly," she thought, although upon closer observation, Mrs. P-O appeared to be drinking straight soda from a can. She did her best to couch a gentle "Thank you, but no thank you," and turning to find her husband still involved in his tete-a-tete with the Mr., caught his eye and indicated with a swish of her hips that she was ready to dance.

Immediately extracting himself from the powwow with his new buddy, he guided her towards the dance-floor with a proprietary touch. When they reached the edge of the crowd, he mouthed into her ear, "Knock 'em dead, Dearling," and gently nudged her into the mêlée' of swirling, bobbing bodies.

Here, she was on her own. He didn't dance. Never had and said "Never will!" And, she totally understood because she didn't dance, either, at least, not in public. Every once in a while at home she would break into a spontaneous shimmy or hip shake if a particularly rousing beat came on the radio, but she had never had the self-confidence to let it all hang out in front of anyone else...not even her husband. It was yet another freedom she longed for, "and here's the perfect opportunity to go for it," she reminded herself as she inched her way through the moving mash.

Finding herself almost to the stage, she stopped and planting her feet, began to sway her hips and bob her knees in what she could only think of as her standing version of chair dancing. Finding she was fairly comfortable doing this, she looked around for ideas of what to do with her arms, which currently hung embarrassingly limp by her sides. Observing her dance-floor mates, she quickly ruled out what she titled the fist pump and the lasso swing as too obvious, since the parties she saw using them didn't appear to know what they were doing, either. One woman looked like she was trying to start up a lawn-mower..."Awkward!" Another seemed to be attempting to roll a pair of dice..."Spastic." Several individuals and couples occupied their hands with their own and their partner's bodies which might have appealed if he had accompanied her to the floor, but she didn't have the moxie to pull it off herself.

Executing a neat little shuffle and step, "Hey! That was pretty good!" she did a half-turn to facilitate her view of the rest of the dancers. There, a few bodies away and partially obscured, she saw two glorious, golden arms raised in a sinuous duet of disembodied belly dancing. At least, that's what came to her mind..."Those arms are belly dancing!" she marveled. Watching, she saw the arms gracefully sway in their balletic twists and turns, the jangle of bracelets on each one taking turns reflecting the strobing light.

"I can do that!" she reasoned, but not after questioning if her slight upper arm flab would mar her intended effect. Closing her eyes, she gave it a tentative try. "Ohhh...this isn't too bad," she thought as she wove her hands together in front of her chest. Getting a bit more comfortable, she snaked first one arm and then the other down her sides, then behind and once again before her. "Yes! I'm doing it! This is good!" she privately exulted. Lifting up to tip toes, she craned her neck for more "instruction" and, closing her eyes, followed suit as the glowing arms lifted towards the sky.

For more than a few breaths, she was lost in the moment. Her head thrown back, hair loose on her shoulders, he would later tell her that he had never seen her this way. "So...loose? So...un-self-conscious?" he struggled to find the appropriate words. It didn't matter...she had felt what he had seen.

Then, awareness beginning to return she opened her eyes and BAM! Her stomach leapt into her throat and her face began to burn. SHE, the golden armed girl, was no longer at six degrees of separation, but immediate, front and center not two feet away from her dancing and smiling directly into her eyes. Immediately she jerked her arms down in the embarrassment of being caught imitating but the girl just kept smiling and with butterfly hands, motioned for her to re-join their en face. Sheepishly, she complied for a couple of gawky minutes during which she tried to regain that delicious feeling of letting go, but the go had gone and she couldn't seem to get it back.

As soon as it felt appropriate, (which was actually the amount of time she could stand feeling this uncomfortable) she mouthed and bowed ("Oh my god, did I just actually BOW?) her thanks and made a hasty retreat. Pushing through the crowd, she looked for his familiar face, but he was no-where to be seen. "Maybe he went out for a smoke," she thought and headed for their table, where they had agreed to meet if they got separated.

The "Twins" (as she had come to think of them...it must be really true that sometimes couples end up looking alike after being together for a number of years...these even dressed alike with their matching outfits of beige trench coats and what appeared to be nothing else) were still holding down the fort and they had both obviously accelerated their alcohol consumption. Their fifth now looked to be not even an eighth and both their tongues and clothing now wagged in the wind. During the next five minutes while she waited for him to reappear, she heard more than she cared to hear and saw more than she cared to see.

"Hi all...sorry, honey...I went outside for a cigarette," he excused himself loudly to the table over the music. Before he could pull out his chair to sit, she stood, pushing her own with the back of her knees, "Oh! A smoke! I could certainly use one, myself...will you go with me?" and made a bee-line for the door, pulling him behind her. Stopping short after a few yards, she muttered "Dammit!" turned on her heel and returned to the table to snatch up their own bottle of spirits. "I'm going to need this," she muttered as they made their exit.

In the refuge of their room she plopped herself down at the cheap plastic table and took a long swig straight from the bottle of Goose. Waving, she invited him to join in.

"Are you OK, honey?" he worried. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" He had never seen her drink this way. He had actually never seen her any kind of this way...at all.

"I'm FINE! And, stop asking me that!" she snapped, adding more softly and a bit chagrined, "Yes, I do want to go through with this. It's not that...it just isn't quite how I pictured it, that's all."

"What DID you picture," he asked, sincerely curious.

"Oh...I don't know...sexy people having sexy sex?" she ventured. "I certainly didn't picture THAT crowd of bottom-sucking baby boomers. They could be us! They ARE us, in fact! Except for the "Twins," who, here's an additional fact, are literally brother and sister."

"No! Really?"

"Yes! Really! They made sure to tell me all about it. How they have loved each other forever and ever and took each other's virginity when they were but young things and are now both involved in sham marriages to cover up their ongoing "true" marriage to each other. I could go on and on like they did but I think I'd have to throw up."

"Yeah...wow...incest. That's kind of..." he trailed off, looking to her for guidance.

"You know...it's not so much that...the incest...although that is certainly considered a taboo, as it is the secrecy and deception, I think," she mused. "If we weren't in this together...if I didn't know you had my back...I wouldn't be here. For me, it has to be a shared experience, total transparency and togetherness." Her eyes met his, "And, I can't tell you enough how much this means to me. Not the actual experience as much as your willingness to support me. Thank you for that...and so much more."