Looking for Mr. and Mrs. Goodbar (and Their Friends): Love, Lust & Exploring Desires Vol. 1
Note: We may or may not decide to publish this, so we’ve changed our names—and those of every couple involved. Think of it as our story, told through a set of playful aliases.
The First Years – How it all started and that first moment of curiosity.
We married young—just 20—and while most couples our age were figuring out how to pay rent or who left the dishes in the sink, we were far more focused on each other’s bodies. Our honeymoon phase wasn’t just a season, it was an Olympic-level endurance sport. One to two hours of sex on weeknights, marathons sex on weekends that left us tangled in sheets, sweat, and laughter. We’d collapse in a heap, looking like we’d just survived a Category 5 hurricane, and somehow still wanted more.
About a year in, my father—unknowingly playing the role as our sexual fairy godmother/father?—handed me a stack of Penthouse magazines. Inside was the infamous “Forum” section, where fantasies of swinging couples and sexual escapades unfolded like secret diaries. We devoured those stories together, our hands and bodies always busy as we read. The Forum stories described nine-inch plus stallions and women with breasts that defied gravity. That wasn’t us. But it didn’t matter. I was a solid 7.5 inches and thick enough to keep my wife grinning like she’d just stolen the cookie jar. And Jeri—though petite, 100 or less pounds, with A-cup breasts at the time—had an ass so firm you could bounce a quarter off it and expect change. That ass was legendary, and still is today.
Jeri’s hair was another weapon of mass seduction: long, black, wavy, and wild. It made half the guys in the room want her and the other half too tongue-tied to admit it. When she permed her hair, the curls exploded like an ’80s rock video—big, untamed, and sexy as hell. Over time, strands of white slipped in, a stripe here and there. During the punk era, people assumed she was edgy, dyeing it for effect. Nope. This was just natures way of showing off. Today, her mane is pure white, not gray, but shimmering, eye-catching, and endlessly complimented by men and women half her age. For me, it’s still a head-turner every time she walks into a room.
Me? I was the so-called “average guy,” the counterweight to her full-blown goddess energy. Dirty blonde hair gave me a laid-back surfer vibe—even though the closest I ever got to surfing was hauling a beer cooler across the sand. My build? Standard issue: 5’8”, floating between 180 and 190 pounds. Nothing cover-model worthy. But then I’d smile—and apparently average wasn’t so average anymore.
Jeri never quite bought into the attention she drew, just like she never fully believed her own sexual magnetism. She used to think her smaller breasts made her less desirable, which is adorable when you consider the reality. Because even now, strangers trip over themselves to flirt with her—men, women, occasionally both at the same time—that’s the real magic trick, isn’t it? Jeri walks into a room and suddenly it’s not a room anymore—it’s a Caribbean beach at high noon. You can practically hear steel drums and smell sunscreen. And the meanest, cruelest cosmic joke? She has no idea she’s doing it. None. Zero. She thinks she’s just ordering a drink, and meanwhile guys are over here almost drooling like a dude at a fully nude strip show. And that’s what makes her even hotter! It’s like giving a flamethrower to someone who thinks it’s a hair dryer. One flip of the switch and—WHOOMPH—ever one around her is on fire.
Back then, just like now, we flirted non-stop. But at that time, we didn’t even know it was flirting. It was just…us. Banter flying like ping-pong balls, touching people innocently but we flirted somehow with that touch, inside jokes with more sexual tension than a yoga class full of carpenters. We were basically foreplay with shoes on. At one point, her own brother warned us we were way too flirty, swore up and down our marriage would never last. Turns out the joke’s on him. And the punchline? We’re still flirting our asses off. Fast forward forty-plus years, and we’re still together, still teasing, still turning heads. Well, at least we hope we turn a few.
All that energy between us eventually built into a hunger for something more. Hours of pillow talk turned into whispered confessions: What if we shared this? What if we found others like us? The idea of swinging didn’t scare us; it electrified us. But back then, finding playmates wasn’t easy. There was no internet, no apps, no quick search for “hotwife near me.” If you wanted to explore, you had to go hunting in adult bookstores.
I remember slipping into one for the first time, nervous but buzzing with excitement. Swinger magazines were hidden in brown paper sleeves, like dirty contraband only the brave could buy. You couldn’t even flip through them before purchasing—you had to commit blind. Video booths where men could get off in private? Not at the store I went to. It was all hush-hush, taboo, the kind of place you left with your collar up and your heart racing.
Jeri couldn’t even risk coming along. If anyone recognized her, the fallout at her job might have been catastrophic. So it was me, sneaking into those shops, grabbing magazines like I was smuggling treasure home to her. And every time I walked back into our house, brown paper bag in hand, she’d look at me with that sly grin, the one that said, What filthy little story are we going to act out tonight?
And that, right there, was our fuel. The chase. The secrecy. The thought of other couples like us, out there somewhere, waiting to be found.
Blind Lust: Our First Swing Into the Unknown
Fast forward a few years—still no success. Back then, “meeting people” wasn’t swiping right or scrolling through profiles. It meant mailing letters to swinger magazines and waiting weeks for a reply that usually came in the form of grainy Polaroids. If you were lucky, you got a blurry boob shot. Most of the time? Just hairy penises captured in fluorescent lighting. Not exactly Penthouse material.
The in-person attempts weren’t much better. A handful of “connections” fizzled out before they began—guys showing up solo without their wives, others ghosting us completely. Swinging in those days felt less like a sexy adventure and more like amateur detective work with a side of disappointment.
And then—salvation. One Sunday morning, Jeri spotted an ad in the personals section of the newspaper. Yes, the newspaper. Still no internet, no Craigslist, no dating apps, you had to find your filth the old-fashioned way. The ad mentioned a “California-Style Couples Club.” We did read between the lines, but for us it sure sounded sun-kissed and hopefully sex-adjacent. We smiled at each other, exchanged a raised eyebrow, and decided to call.
Problem was, the paper panicked and yanked the ad after one day, so the poor guy behind it barely got any bites. Luckily for us, when we called, we talked with a gentleman named Jim, who had the kind of low smooth voice that help calm our nerves. In our bedroom reality, it was almost as good as a phone-sex line—he told us he did run parties in Columbia, SC but didn’t have enough couples nearby us to get anything started. However, he had permission to share another young couple’s number closer to our area: Jon and Penni.
We were 23, broke, and calling long-distance was considered a huge financial decision back then (for perspective, calling twenty miles away was “long-distance”. Columbia was two hours. It was practically international!), but raging libidos trumped budgets, so we called. Jon and Penni answered and seemed nice. Before long we had arranged a date — our first real swinging adventure.
The drive over—about 25 minutes—was pure nerves. I finally broke the silence with, “You know we’re going to have to do it, right?” Jeri turned to me, wide-eyed, “Do what?” “Have sex!” I said, like Captain Obvious. She shot back, “What if I don’t like him?” A fair question. This was a true blind date—no photos, no bios, no “hotwife-ready” selfies. Just vibes, hope, and crossed fingers.
Penni answered the door, and… jackpot. Nice-looking, warm smile, and breasts so spectacular they deserved their own zip code. Jon, on the other hand, had a military buzz cut. Back in those just-after-hippy days, long hair was still the style, and Jeri wasn’t exactly turned on by the clean-cut look. I figured we were sunk.
After some small talk, Jon brought out his old photo albums—him with long hair, playing guitar, looking very much the rockstar. Suddenly Jeri perked up. “Oh, he’s cute!” she whispered. Shallow? Maybe. But when you’re about to pop your swinger cherry, you take whatever sparks you can find.
Their house, their rules. And their rules? Separate sexual play. We didn’t know any better, so we went along. Jeri disappeared into the bedroom with Jon, while I got cozy on a mattress with Penni. Forty-five minutes later, Jeri and Jon were already dressed and chatting in the living room while I was… still “busy.” She waited another hour. Then another thirty minutes. Finally—two full hours later—I stumbled out, red-faced.
With our goodbyes lingering on soft kisses and whispered thank-yous, we finally pulled ourselves away, bodies still buzzing as we headed home. Once in our semi sports car, Jeri gave me that look. You know the one and said “What the hell happened? I thought marathon sex was our thing.”
After several moments of silence, I groaned. “It didn’t work.”
“What didn’t work?”
“My dick. It wouldn’t stand at attention.”
She blinked, then laughed like I’d told her I’d been abducted by aliens. “I’ve never heard of that happening.”
To my credit, I told Jeri I’d still managed to make Penni come three times with my fingers and mouth before my cock finally decided to cooperate. But when it did—oh, the betrayal. I barely lasted two minutes before spilling my seed into her kitty.
Jeri’s eyes widened, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Only two minutes? You never last just two minutes.”
I gave her a helpless shrug, equal parts shame and frustration. “Yeah… well, tonight I did.”
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken truths—my pride bruised, her curiosity piqued, the air between us humming with that strange mix of disappointment and raw, lingering arousal.
So there it was: our first real taste of the lifestyle, and our first real run-in with performance anxiety. Unsurprisingly, Jon and Penni didn’t call us back. But back home in our own bed? That night Jeri and I made up for it with one of our legendary marathon sessions. Apparently, my cock just needed familiar territory.
Moral of the story? Long-distance calls might cost you money, but limp dicks will definitely cost you playmates.
Now you’ve got to remember—this was before AIDS. Nobody used condoms. Hell, we barely knew what they were! If you wanted one, you had to march up to the pharmacy counter and ask the guy in the white coat—who, by the way, looked exactly like your grandfather. Nothing like trying to buy rubbers while Grandpa Moses stares you down like, “Really, son? With that face?”
Gas stations had them too, but only in the men’s bathroom. And those machines? Oh God. You’d plunk in a quarter, and it made the loudest cranking noise you ever heard in your life. Grrrrr-CLANK! It wasn’t discreet. It was like an air raid siren announcing: “Attention everyone—this guy thinks he is about to have sex!”
And what came out? A sad little foil packet that looked like it had been sitting in that machine since Eisenhower was in office. Honestly, most of the time, by the time you got it open, the mood was dead and the girl was gone.
We were 23, fueled by Hamburger Helper and hormones. Also absolutely convinced Charleston was a swinger desert. If there was action out there, we hadn’t found it. Then, one glorious day, the ad in the paper Jeri saw actually paid off. A phone call came from Jim and his wife Gayle, inviting us to something called the “Forensic Society.”
Now, that name sounded classy—like maybe we’d be sipping merlot at a charity gala while someone in pearls rattled off auction numbers. Spoiler: the fancy title was just camouflage for hotel management. What really went on inside those banquet hall doors was a whole lot less Rotary Club and a whole lot more Naughty in Las Vegas.
Picture it: a hotel ballroom, dressed up as innocent as could be, complete with a DJ style music but for us only. The dance floor? About the size of a doormat. But the whispered promise? Stick around after 11 p.m., and things get interesting. Interesting, my friends, was exactly what we were there for.
What Jim didn’t bother to mention? There were couches in the banquet hall that were going to magically transformed into beds after 11pm. Not figuratively. Literally. Sleeper sofas. Where the room would become Charleston’s finest “planned orgy.”
Now, hotel rooms were not included for the event, and since we were still in the “ramen noodles and mortgage check” stage of life, splurging for a hotel room was out of the question. Our dollars were already going into the party fee. Priorities, right? But that didn’t dampen our excitement. We were here. We were dressed. And we were ready for… well, whatever the hell happened at these things.
The crowd? Mostly older—at least a decade or more beyond us. But older swingers often had something we didn’t: experience. They weren’t shy. And we were learning fast.
The first couple that caught our eye was Tim and Genie. Tim looked exactly like Kenny Rogers—white beard, twinkle in the eye, and just enough swagger to make Jeri swoon. She kissed him, and afterward whispered that she’d never kissed a man with a full beard before. I couldn’t tell if she liked it or was worried about rug burn on her lips, but I wasn’t complaining.
Meanwhile, Genie was glued to me—flirty, touchy, and sending my imagination places I’d only read about in Penthouse. We were just about ready to find a corner when—poof—they had to leave. Talk about a blue-ball exit.
Just as I thought the night was a bust, in walked Joel and Lynn. Mid twenties, hot as sin, and with that spark of adventure in their eyes. We clicked instantly—dancing, kissing, hands roaming without hesitation.
Bonus: They had a hotel room. Jackpot.
Down we went their room. Lynn was a nurse, and she definitely knew how to take care of her “patients.” Within minutes, my pants were off, her lips were on me and my member, and my poor 23-year-old Jackson was saluting so hard I could’ve pledged allegiance. Jeri was on the bed beside me, moaning under Joel’s skilled hands, tongue and according to her, his impressive equipment. If our first couple experience was a nervous shuffle, this was an all-out tango.
After round two with Lynn, this time I was still hard, Jeri gave me a wink, Lynn gave me a wicked grin and whispered, “Want to see the real party?” She meant the ballroom where she knew something wicked was happening and she wanted to be part of that “happening”. Jeri, already fully occupied by Joel, waved me off like a queen dispatching her knight. I knew she was having the ride of her swinging life and she wasn’t chancing anything else. So Lynn and I quickly dressed.
And holy hell at the party—beds were now everywhere. Naked bodies sprawled in every direction. Moans, giggles, the slap of skin on skin. It was like stumbling onto a porn set, but this was real life.
Lynn—ever the unapologetic exhibitionist—pulled me straight into the chaos, messy hair and half-buttoned clothes be damned. Within seconds, she had stripped me bare, her own dress vanishing like it had a trapdoor release. Her mouth was on me, coaxing me to full strength with the kind of hunger that made my knees wobble.
Then, before my brain even caught up, she was guiding me into another woman’s kitty—like I’d just been served up as the night’s dessert course. My body jolted with the shock of it, my mind spinning, but Lynn wasn’t done. Between kisses—deep, greedy, and tasting of sin—she whispered, “Watch me.”
And I did.
She drifted around the beds, locking eyes with two men who looked more than willing to become part of her stage act. Lynn put on a performance that was equal parts porn reel and erotic theater—arching, moaning, and taking her pleasure with an audience and me in mind. From where I stood, it was like having front-row seats at the most indecent show on earth.
Once we were back downstairs, Jeri was happily still wringing Joel dry. When we finally regrouped, it was 3 a.m. and it was time to go! At least, for now it was the best event of our swinging lives. We got home, as we collapsed in bed, and I begged her not to clean up. I wanted to taste her, smell her, feel every last bit of Joel still inside. Yeah, we were kinky out of the gate.
Who did you say?
A few months later, the phone rang, and Jim’s voice came through with all the weight of a funeral director. He sounded concerned—like maybe Jeri and I had broken some sacred swinger commandment. My first thought: Great, we’ve been blacklisted before we even earned our Sex Patrol stripes.
But no. Jim cleared his throat and explained that another Charleston couple wanted to attend the next Forensic Society party. The catch? They thought they knew us. Jim didn’t want drama and certainly didn’t want a scene.
Jeri and I were on extensions, holding our breath like guilty teenagers waiting for the verdict. “Okay,” I asked, “what are their names?”
“Larry and Sylvia,” Jim replied.
There was a beat of silence on the line. Jeri froze. I blurted, “Think Mom and Dad.”
Yes. Jeri’s parents.
I can’t remember if we actually told Jim it was fine for them to attend, but I do know we hung up and immediately called her parents. And let me tell you, that was a Hall of Fame–level awkward conversation. Turns out they’d been in the swinging scene for years—well known, even. Jeri finally pieced together her childhood memories: all those mysterious “house parties,” the babysitting gigs at neighbors’ homes, her parents’ endless roster of “friends.” It wasn’t bridge club after all—it was Bed Club.
Fast forward to the party. Same hotel. Same “meet and greet.” But this time Jeri and I had one rule: under no circumstances were we sticking around after 11 p.m. We could handle strangers turning couches into mattresses. What we couldn’t handle was watching my in-laws give a live demo.
We stayed for the social part, and here’s the kicker—her father was glowing, beaming like he’d just won Dad of the Year. Proud as could be that his daughter hadn’t fallen far from the family tree.
And in a way, it was oddly freeing. From then on, when Jeri and I traveled out of town for swinger parties of any kind, we didn’t have to make excuses anymore. We could tell her parents straight up: “We’ll be in Charlotte this weekend at a sex party and wanted you to know how to get a hold of us.” And instead of judgment, we got a knowing smile. Sometimes even travel tips.
Moral to the story: They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Ours fell straight into other people's bedrooms.
Adventures with the Forensic Society Couples
Jim’s parties were like the gateway drug—we thought we were dipping our toes in, but in no time we were swimming in the deep end of a large pool. Through him we met more Charleston swingers than we ever imagined existed, and suddenly our sleepy southern town felt like it had a secret sexual heartbeat after dark, especially on the weekends.
That’s how we finally got back around to Tim and Genie. You remember Tim—Kenny Rogers’ doppelgänger with the soft beard that made Jeri blush. They invited us out one Friday to the POETS Club. And no, it wasn’t full of sensitive men snapping their fingers to free verse. POETS stood for Piss On Everything, Tomorrow’s Saturday. That alone told us we’d found our people.
For a couple barely surviving on Hamburger Helper, the Ramada Inn POETS club felt like a five-star escape. Friday nights were a dream: free appetizers we shamelessly treated as dinner, happy-hour drinks cheap enough that we didn’t feel guilty about ordering seconds, and a dance floor pulsing with live music that gave us the perfect excuse to rub against each other—and against other couples, who hopefully we would end up chasing them naked, in bed somewhere.
By the time we’d filled our bellies with cheese cubes, chicken wings, and a few watered-down cocktails, we were already scanning the room for something sweeter. Because when you’re twenty-three, dessert isn’t always on the menu—it’s in a bedroom somewhere. And we were always hungry for seconds.
Tim and Genie were often there, introducing us to half the room like it was their personal sex mission. Before long, the names blurred—sorry, Charleston—but the smiles, kisses, and orgasms stayed sharp. Some nights we joked we needed a notebook just to keep score. But in the end, names didn’t matter. What mattered was how Jeri and I carried that energy home. We’d relive every kiss, every grope, every moan in our own bed, laughing and gasping all over again. That was the real payoff: the way all those adventures fueled our sex life.
The Ramada Romp
One night stands out like a neon sign. Someone had booked a room at the Ramada, and after POETS club, four couples piled in. Two beds—simple math. Clothes flew, laughter echoed, and soon the room was filled with the music of skin on skin.
Jeri paired up with Tim first, enjoying his soft bearded kisses and his magic wand. I had Genie, who was a full-on circus act in bed—riding me like a rodeo queen, then bouncing off to invite another man to take his turn. She had no shame, no hesitation, just pure, infectious lust.
Meanwhile, Jeri had her eye on Dave, an older gentleman with a nine-inch monster worthy of a Hustler layout. She had to know if the legend lived up to the hype. His wife Ann, a sultry redhead with a wicked smile, slid on top of me, naked, and whispered, “Watch Jeri.”
So I did.
Jeri worked Dave’s nine inches like it was a Rubik's cube she intended to solve—slow, teasing slides down his shaft, pulling back with a wicked grin, then sinking a little deeper each time. Stroke by stroke she took more of him, until finally she bottomed out, his cock buried to the hilt. She looked over at me then, eyes sparkling, wearing the kind of grin that said yes, I can take it all.
Ann used the moment to grind harder on me, adjusting her hips so she could ride my cock just right. She leaned down, breath hot on my ear, and said with a smirk, “See? She can take it.” Jeri moaned in agreement but still managed to gasp out, “Make Hal happy.” And believe me—Ann did.
The crazy part was how fast the night escalated. Jeri had just finished with Dave, who’d disappeared to the restroom to clean up—or maybe to catch his breath. When he came back, though, his “one-eyed monster” was already standing proud again, ready for round two. He stood there watching his wife ride me cowboy style, her ass bouncing in front of him, and without a word he stepped forward, rubbed her cheeks, and in one bold thrust buried that thick cock straight into her backdoor.
Ann gasped, half-scream, half-moan. “He loves to do that,” she panted, tightening around me as Dave drove deeper. Suddenly, I was in my first double-penetration experience—Dave’s balls slapping against mine with every thrust, my joy stick pulsing inside her while his stretched her brown eye wide. It was intense, raw, and awkward for a bit… and then nothing short of electrifying.
Jeri sat there spellbound, wide-eyed, watching her first live anal scene unfold, captivated like she was seeing something forbidden yet fascinating. For me, it was a bucket-list fantasy I didn’t even know I had, and for Jeri, it planted the seed for new adventures she hadn’t yet imagined. That night, we both discovered just how far this lifestyle could take us—and how much fun there was in saying yes to the unexpected.
We left that room wrung out, dripping, and utterly satisfied.
Lynn and Joel’s Wild Streak
Of course, while Ramada romps were fun, Joel and Lynn were still in our orbit. And Lynn, you got to love her, wasn’t content with a bed and four walls. She craved the risk. Sex wasn’t hot for her unless there was a chance of getting caught.
Now, Jeri and I had a perfectly good house. Four walls, soft beds, zero chance of nosy neighbors peeking in. No kids, no interruptions. We even offered it up to Joel and Lynn—air conditioning, clean sheets, all the privacy in the world. But Lynn? Oh no. She wasn’t after comfort; she was after adrenaline. For her, sex without the risk of getting caught was like champagne without bubbles—flat and pointless.
So we became Joel and Lynn’s partners in crime.
We did it on beaches, where moonlight glittered on the waves and sand crept into every crevice like an uninvited third party. We learned fast—sand might look romantic, but once it starts grinding against sensitive skin, it’s less “Baywatch fantasy” and more “belt sander foreplay.” Jeri squealed when Joel pulled out, brushing grit off her thighs, half-laughing, half-cursing, while Lynn just moaned louder, and made me plung harder, and her arching her while the waves of the ocean applauded her performance. She was in sexual heaven!
Cars were another favorite—parked outside restaurants, windows fogging up as we clawed at each other’s clothes. I remember one time, a waiter came out for a smoke, leaning against the hood just two cars down. Jeri was riding me Joel the backseat, her breasts bouncing in the dim glow of the streetlight, while Lynn knelt in the front seat with me, her muffled moans shaking the windshield. Every time Jeri gasped, Joel would clamp a hand over her mouth, both of us shaking with laughter and lust, the danger making every thrust sharper.
And then there were the parking lots—shadowy corners where the only light was the flicker of a busted streetlamp. Joel pressed Jeri against the warm metal of a car hood, her skirt bunched at her waist, panties dangling off one ankle. She bit into Joel's shoulder to stifle her moans, while me with Lynn, the insatiable exhibitionist, spread her legs wide across another car, daring anyone to walk by. She loved to narrate her own filth—“Do you see me, baby? Watch me take it. Watch me get caught.” And someone help us, we couldn’t look away.
It was madness. It was thrilling. It was the kind of sex that dripped with sweat and laughter, where climax came with the taste of danger. Jeri’s eyes would flash wild in the dark as she whispered, “If we get caught, my teaching career is toast.” Which only made me thrust harder, because nothing turns a man on like the threat of scandal.
Somehow, by luck or fate or sheer divine kinkiness, we always got away with it. Maybe the universe liked watching us as much as we did.
Sexual Adventures of the Third Kind
Looking back, our weekends blurred into something more than just parties, more than just hookups. They were erotic adventures, each one hotter and wilder than the last. Twice a month, at least, we’d find ourselves in some hotel room, a stranger’s bed, or bent over in a place we had no business being—chasing lust, laughter, and that dizzy thrill of doing something we shouldn’t.
Were we crazy? Absolutely. But man, we were alive.
We’d stumble in around 3 a.m., Jeri’s lipstick smeared from kissing or sucking two men in a row, her panties stuffed in my back pocket because they hadn’t survived round one. My manhood would be sore from being used, shared, and devoured by women who weren’t shy about demanding more. Jeri’s thighs would be sticky, her hair tangled, her body humming from orgasms we'd both lost count of. We’d collapse into our own bed still smelling like other lovers, and instead of cleaning up, we’d dive back into each other—me tasting the salt, the sweat, the traces of someone else inside her, while she gripped me tight, moaning that she wanted it all over again and like normal, we'd finish the night with each other.
That was the point. Swinging wasn’t about collecting names or notches—it was about us. About making our marriage a live wire, sparking hotter and brighter with every kiss stolen in a hallway, every love stick Jeri slid onto while locking eyes with me, every woman who sucked me off while Jeri urged me to finish in her instead.
Swinging turned our sex life into a rocket ship, blasting us higher than we ever thought we could go. And each outrageous night—every risk, every laugh, every climax stolen at the edge of discovery—left us stumbling home, spent, sticky, and smiling.
For us, it was never about anyone else. It was about how far we could go together. How much deeper, hotter, and more alive we could make our marriage by daring to share it with each other.
The real moral? Swinging wasn’t all about escape—it was about us: expanding our trust, our love, and yes, of course how many times we climaxed.
Jim from the Forensic Club hooked us up with an invitation to a “younger crowd” party in Columbia—supposedly everyone under 35. The place didn’t even have a name; it was just Skip and Janet’s monthly gathering at their ranch-style house tucked in a cul-de-sac. Perfect for discretion, no nosy neighbors. The only problem? Two hours from our home, and with our hamburger-helper budget, no hotel for us. We’d be driving back, but we were young so this would be no problem.
When we walked in, it was obvious that the “under 35” rule had been more of a suggestion. Most of the couples looked over that, but damn, they did look good—about 15 couples in all. Skip greeted us warmly, introduced us around, and we gravitated to the bar to size things up. The guys stayed in casual clothes, but the women… oh, the women. Slut wear, club wear—whatever you want to call it. Cleavage spilling, skirts barely covering, asses on display. At this club everything was a parade of temptation.
It didn’t take long. After a couple of drinks, a curvy blonde named Denise leaned in and asked me if I wanted to play. Since the Jon and Penni days, Jeri and I usually stick together, but since we were in the same house, we gave each other the "nod". Game on.
Denise led me into one of the back rooms—most had mattresses on the floor, and we found one free. She peeled off her outfit with the kind of confidence that makes your cock twitch. No panties, no bra, just tits spilling free and a body that begged to be touched. She dropped to her knees before I could say a word and swallowed me whole—deep, wet, her throat massaging every inch. I nearly buckled. She pulled back just enough to smirk up at me, spit glistening on her lips, and whispered, “Nice and hard. Your turn.”
I laid her down, buried my face between her thighs, and licked until she moaned and clawed at my head. Whether I tipped her into orgasm or not, she was ready. She climbed on top, gripped my cock, and slid down with a gasp, bouncing on me until my balls tightened. When I came, she grinned wickedly, collapsed beside me, then noticed I was already hard again. “You think you can go again?” she teased.
Of course I could. Youth had its privileges.
I flipped her doggy-style and pounded her like I was digging for gold and had found a nugget. Her wetness ran down my thighs as she came twice, her body shaking, before I exploded again deep inside her. She was spent, but I wasn’t. She laughed, shook her head, and dragged me by my manhood like a pull toy she wasn’t ready to put down. By the time her friend Sue was a slippery puddle of sweat and cum, she passed me off to Beth like I was tonight party’s favorite toy. Honestly, I lost count somewhere after the fifth woman. All I know is that every single one of them came, and I wasn’t about to stop until they did.
Yeah, it sounds like bragging—and it totally is—but that was just who we were back then. Both Jeri and I were young, reckless, and fueled by a sex drive that could have powered a small city. I could go all night at the club, then turn around and do the exact same marathon with Jeri at home. And trust me, I often did.
Meanwhile, Jeri was having her own adventure. Every time I caught a glimpse, her hair was wild, her skin streaked with dried cum, her grin wider than I’d ever seen it. She blew me a kiss once while riding another man like he was her favorite amusement park ride. We’ll never know her number that night—but let’s just say she earned every drop on her body.
By the time we left, it was after 1 a.m. Skip walked us to the door, shaking his head with a grin. We asked if we were invited back as we didn’t know if we had truly been vetted. Skip said “If I don’t invite you back, this crowd’s going to kill me,” That was our ticket punched. We were in.
The drive home? Supposed to be two hours. But my love stick had other plans. Twenty minutes into the drive, I was hard again, and Jeri tried to give me head in our cramped sports car. Not enough room—so we pulled off into the dark on a dirt back road, and I slammed her kitty, on the hood of our car, like it was our wedding night all over again. Forty-five minutes later, another boner, another roadside detour. By the time we rolled in at 6:30 a.m.—after a two-hour drive stretched to five with three full rounds of roadside sex—we were wrung out, covered in sweat, cum, and the kind of grins you can’t fake.
After a quick shower, we collapsed into bed, slept until 2 p.m., and then—naturally, I drilled her again.
Moral of the story? Never underestimate the stamina of being twenty-four, broke, and horny.
Sue & Dave = “Something Special”
At one of Skip and Janet’s parties, we met Sue and Dave. They were about ten years older than us, but you’d never guess it—both of them carried that kind of hot, youthful energy that made birthdays irrelevant. Dave especially—he wasn’t a salesman, but damn, he could’ve sold sand at the beach. He charmed Jeri’s panties off—literally, and I discovered Sue and I got along just fine between the sheets. We clicked instantly, and before long they were regular playmates at Skip and Janet’s.
Eventually, we got close enough that Sue and Dave invited us to their home. No small feat with four kids in the house—it was like staging a CIA-level extraction just to get privacy—but somehow they pulled it off. Sue cooked dinner, we made some drinks, and before long we were cozy and buzzing with anticipation. Spending the night wasn’t our usual thing back then, so it felt like crossing a whole new line of naughty.
After dinner, Dave got that twinkle in his eye—the kind that said trouble was coming—and announced he had “something special” for us. Out came his treasure: an old-school Super 8 projector. For those who never had the pleasure, think of it like this: your phone holds one dirty video, but to watch it you’ve got to kill the lights, hang a sheet on the wall, and fire up a machine that wheezes like R2-D2 after a bender. That was porn night back in the day—no streaming, no remote, just praying the film didn’t snap mid-blowjob.
So he cranks it up. On screen, a gorgeous brunette struts in, huge tits out, some guy kissing her like he’s auditioning for extra credit. Across the room, Jeri’s giggling under Dave’s hands, while I’m busy peeling Sue’s top off and licking her nipples, trying to sync up with the action. On screen, shoes off, stockings rolled, skirt tugged down—things are heating up nicely.
And then—BAM! Plot twist of the century. From the lady on the screen, out pops a solid ten-inch boner, standing tall like it had its own starring credit. My jaw hit the floor. First trans woman we’d ever seen on film, or anywhere else for that matter, and she was in all of her full glory.
Dave absolutely lost it. He was doubled over, wheezing, tears streaming, nearly choking to death watching my reaction. Sue was giggling too, clearly in on the joke. Meanwhile, on screen, the guy froze for about half a second before shrugging and going to town—mouth first, ass second. Next thing we know, she’s bending him over and plowing him like she just got promoted.
By then, even I couldn’t hold it together. Half turned on, half stunned, I was laughing so hard I almost forgot Sue grinding against me. The absurdity, the surprise, the sheer WTF of it all—it broke the ice in the most unforgettable way.
That laughter carried us straight into the bedroom, where the four of us chased each other around like horny teenagers in a Benny Hill sketch. Spoiler: Sue and Dave were not fast runners, and Jeri and I caught them every time.
The night ended in a heap of sweat, tangled sheets, and more laughter than should be legal. It was wild, it was hilarious, it was sexy as hell—and it sealed Sue and Dave in our memory as one of the best scandalous adventures we’d ever stumbled into.
We stayed in touch with Dave and Sue for years. Eventually, we even got to know their kids and would hang out when the whole family was around. (Relax—nothing kinky. Just barbecues, beers, and regular-life fun.) They were the first couple who blurred that line for us—not just playmates, but real friends.
Moral maybe: The real surprise wasn’t what popped out on that Super 8 film—it’s that we found our first true lifestyle friends.
Carolina Friends — Hotel Takeover Naughtiness
Skip and Janet’s parties were cozy and comfortable — same faces, same fun — but after five years and the lack of variety…well it was time to move on. Then we discovered Carolina Friends in Charlotte: a Ramada Inn takeover with a ballroom full of people, DJs spinning all night, and enough bodies to make your head spin. They booked out the whole hotel; rooms were for playing, not sleeping. It cost more and we had to spring for a room, but staying over meant no late-night drive home and since there were no kids no reason to get back to Charleston early. Score.
The ballroom held hundreds of couples — every age, every size — and around 11 p.m. the crowd split off to their rooms. There were no formal playrooms, but even in the beginning, our room was rarely empty. We’d often bring two or three couples back with us and turn our suite into a private sexual circus. We loved it.
Then there was Brent. Older, single, and slick as they come, Brent always showed up with a beautiful younger woman tucked under his arm, but hardly any of them more than once. At first we joked they were escorts — until we realized he wasn’t buying them, he’d actually collected them. He seemed to have an endless stable of hot twenty something ladies at his beck and call. They all seemed to love sex and Brent. For that matter so did my wife. Jeri adored him (and I guess his impressive “tool”), and for me at thirty, getting a twenty-one-year-old in the bed felt like plugging into a vibrator that never ran out of batteries. They jumped, tumbled, kissed, and left the sheets pleasantly damp — everybody left smiling, and nobody left disappointed.
We have a hundreds of Carolina Friends stories from those fifteen years, but my birthday weekend tops them all. Since we were now making more money, we’d upgraded our budget — a big suite, nicer linens — no Hamburger Helper now; this was a proper celebration. And it was my 30th.
The suite was exactly the kind of room that invites trouble: king bed with a mountain of pillows, a leather loveseat, a soft carpet that swallowed footsteps, and a balcony that let the music from the ballroom drift through like a distant heartbeat. We’d planned a mellow night with friends. Nobody was expecting the present that arrived in the most deliciously literal way.
Jen, Trish, Robin, and Deb were the sort of women who could make a grown man rethink his life choices — each with her own flavor and a talent for mischief. Jen was compact and quick, a pocket rocket; Trish moved like a jungle cat, long-limbed and hungry; Robin’s implants gave her an outrageous silhouette that she used like a weapon; Deb was plush, loud, and ferociously eager. They’d been flirting with me all night; So when they asked me what I wanted for my birthday I joked “all of you at once,” apparently they took it as a challenge. They had a quick talk with their hubbies and Jeri. With all of them approaching and kissing me they said we are all going to be your present!
They moved with a choreography that was practiced but loose — like a jazz quartet improvising around a theme. Clothes came off in a happy cascade: zippers, snaps, the soft whisper of silk against skin. First in my mouth, then on my shaft, then each of them working me in quick, greedy bursts — hot mouths, wet tongues, soft hands kneading. They alternated and overlapped, each woman’s rhythm different but complementary. Two or three minutes here, a swap, a climb on top there. I was an instrument they tuned and played.
For a while they didn’t want to let me finish — at least not yet and in the beginning, I had “whisky dick” and my rod wasn’t going anywhere. The teasing was deliberate: quick rides that left me on the edge, breathless, laughing, and frustrated in the best possible way. They kissed each other between turns, tangled limbs, and passed me from mouth to their honey pots like a prize. At one point, Robin straddled my face and pinched my nipples, while Trish rode me slow and deep; Jen was working my shaft with an expert hand, and Deb was whispering filthy encouragement that had everyone in stitches. Our suite felt like a private theater of indulgence.
The plan, when it came, was delicious in its cruelty. They’d engineered a finale: coordinated rides designed to push me over the cliff. Each woman would jack me up to the brink and then try to ride me until I came—exactly the kind of torment that makes orgasm explosive. They would ride me like rodeo pros: grind, tease, squeeze, mount—then another woman took up the torch. I was close so many times I stopped counting my breaths.
When their combined effort failed, they smiled conspiratorially and looked over at Jeri.
Jeri had been in the middle of the room the whole time, orchestrating her own naughty circus — not left out, not sidelined, but running a parallel show. She’d been taking care of the husbands who’d joined our merry band, trading mouths and bodies like a champion multi-tasker. Her hair was a glorious mess, her breathing slightly ragged, eyes bright in that way that says she’s enjoying herself more than she thought possible.
When she climbed onto me, it felt like the final act of a long, delicious movement. She slid down slowly, found my rhythm, and let me ride the wave I’d been building toward for an hour and a half. Her body was warm, familiar, and completely filled with the night. Two minutes, that’s all it took. Then my release—hot, deep, a long, shuddering exhale that left both of us trembling.
The cheer that erupted was ridiculous and perfect: laughter, whoops, kisses, and a flurry of congratulations as hands patted backs and damp foreheads. Someone cracked a joke; another toasted a drink. We all collapsed into a messy, satisfied pile of limbs, out of breath and the sticky evidence of a night well spent.
Aftercare for ten people is a funny thing: there was cleaning, towel-swapping, whispered “thank yous,” and soft kisses with honest gratitude. We talked, we traded compliments, and we traded sweat-dampened towels like trophies. People drifted off to other rooms, to their partners, to more mischief. We didn’t drive home — we had the suite and the bed and the city lights winking through the curtains. There was no rush to go anywhere.
Sometime before dawn, Jeri and I lay together on our backs, palms on each other’s chests, bodies still humming. We compared notes about who was the fiercest, who had the loudest laugh, and how Deb’s little sighs sounded like a bell in the night. There was teasing—because of course there was—about who had the best moves and who ate like a champ. We fell asleep with our arms draped around each other, the playlist of the ballroom still thumping a long way off like a memory.
We woke late. Breakfast lingered into brunch. Strangers became friends as couples were checking out and to trade morning-after grins. We left the hotel later that day lighter, hungrier for the next adventure, and smug about having pulled off the perfect present.
Moral of the story? Never joke about what you want for your birthday and always upgrade to a suite with lots of extra towels.
There was a stretch of time when Jeri and I were more than just swingers—we were rock stars, at least in our little corner of town. Both of us played in the same band, and for a local act, we were hot. Bookings every weekend, crowds who knew our songs, groupies who followed us bar to bar. The cash was great too—close to six figures one year—and while it cut into our sexual playtime, it opened doors we hadn’t even considered: sex with the fans.
Turns out, even small-time bands have groupies who don’t just want autographs—they want sweat, skin, and a backstage pass to your body. A couple of our bandmates already took advantage—one guy always had a girl hanging off his guitar strap, and when we had a female guitarist, she collected boys and girls like souvenirs. Jeri and I looked at each other one night and thought, why the hell not us too?
One Friday after a set, it all unfolded. Jeri got swept off in Eddy’s Corvette, his hand already high on her thigh, and I was cornered by Jane—a cute, raven-haired Navy girl with lips that could make a saint forget his prayers. She pulled me out the back door, down the dark alley, and before I could even ask her name, she was on her knees, her warm mouth making me forget the encore we had just played.
The band tried to keep things hush-hush, acting like we were sneaking behind each other’s backs, not realizing Jeri and I always told each other everything—every kiss, every sexual encounter, and every dirty detail. Before our last set that night, we grinned at each other like thieves, already plotting our separate adventures.
On the ride to Jane’s, she looked at me, a wicked little grin playing on her lips. “So your wife really knows about this?” she teased. I told her to glance at the car next to us. There was Jeri, rolling in Eddy’s Corvette, giving us a playful wave like it was the world’s filthiest parade. Jane laughed. “Well then,” she said, “I’m going to bang your brains out. No boyfriend, no strings—just raw, wet fun.”
She wasn’t lying. By the time we got inside, clothes were flying like confetti. The place was a mess—empty bottles, laundry on the floor—but we didn’t care. We were too busy tearing into each other. I pounded her missionary until her nails raked my back, flipped her into doggie as her ass smacked against me, then spread her wide in positions we invented on the spot. The sheets were drenched, her body trembling, my cock buried so deep I came twice inside her, filling her fantasy for the night. She had told me at the club before we left, “Don’t worry—I’m Navy. On the pill. Can’t risk a baby, or I’d be dishonorably discharged.” That was military discipline at the time and it came in handy in the dirtiest way for me.
When I finally made it home—showered, grinning, still humming with the night’s energy—Jeri wasn’t there. Pre-cell phone days meant I had no clue where she was, and I paced for a minute before she swept in, dress wrinkled, hair deliciously wild, eyes glittering like she’d stolen fire. She’d been with Eddy before, so I wasn’t worried about her safety, but this time… let’s just say he wasn’t exactly the rock-god lover he thought he was. Although, she did drive his Corvette to our house.
Later, curled in bed together, she told me the story with that laugh that always makes me harder: how Eddy had torn at her clothes on the couch and banged her with all the enthusiasm in the world, but none of the follow-through. How he scooped her up and laid her out in his bedroom, making up for it with his tongue—licking, circling, sucking until she cried out and shuddered against his mouth. She grinned as she told me how good it felt, how she nearly forgot his earlier fumble.
But when he tried to slide back inside her, his body betrayed him again. Too drunk to finish, he groaned, struggled, and then simply collapsed on top of her, out cold before his song ever reached its ending. She had to roll him off, swipe his keys, and drive herself home in his precious Corvette—no purse, no ID, just her messy hair and a dress marked with all the evidence of the night.
Eddy called furious the next day when we returned his car, but Jeri only smirked. She never saw him again.
That morning, after we returned the car, we tangled back together in our own bed, banging until we passed out, waking only when hunger clawed at us before the next gig that night. After that, Jeri and I insisted all her fun happened at our place, no exceptions. It worked. No more Corvettes, no more passed-out lovers. And once the band caught wind that our house doubled as an after-party sex playhouse, well… let’s just say the amps weren’t the only things getting plugged in.
But that’s another scandalous story.
The moral? Never trust a drunken guitarist to finish the song—but always trust your wife to come home, even if she has to steal a car. The nice part, she will still be ready to bang you silly afterwards.
Normal? Maybe Not!
By now, we’re sure the readers have us pegged as either sex addicts or unapologetic perverts—and honestly, either label fits just fine. By day, though, we wore the perfect disguise. Jeri was the picture of respectability in education—respected, admired, hardworking, and never once doing anything that could jeopardize her career. But in the lifestyle world? She risked it all with every naughty adventure, and that danger was part of the thrill.
I, Hal, came up in construction—long days, hard work, inconsistent paychecks, but steady enough. Later, I launched my own business to make more money, with Jeri’s benefits and pension as our safety net. We lived the classic “normal couple” routine during the week: happy hours with her work friends, movie nights out for us (this was before streaming and just at the verg of DVDs), maybe a concert. But when Friday rolled around, we came alive. From the POETS Club, wild house parties or swingers clubs, our weekends were a carousel of drinks, dancing, and new bodies. We hiked, rafted, cruised—and we always kept our vow: never to be a boring couple. We think we still keep that vow alive and are sure it’s what kept our marriage and love for each other alive.
From nearly the beginning of our marriage, we had told our parents that kids weren’t for us—until the urge hit, getting closer to 30, and suddenly, we were trying. Jeri ditched the pill, we experimented with the sponge for birth control and it seemed to work. Because I couldn't seem to get Jeri pregnant, we found ourselves at the doctor. After testing, my sperm were strong, just not plentiful. When the doc asked how often we had sex, I casually said, “Two or three times.” He blinked. “A week?” I grinned. “No, a day.” His jaw nearly hit the floor.
Our treatment? Ten days without sex. For a couple who rarely went ten hours without it, this was brutal—ten long, torturous days of pacing the house with a permanent hard-on, forbidden to touch my wife or even myself. A nightmare. The only time in my adult life I’ve ever been that celibate. Even during her period, Jeri usually kept me occupied with a blowjob or three.
A week later, as our ten-year second honeymoon at the so-called happiest place on earth began, we were already smoldering, one spark away from combustion. Well, I was, for sure. At the hotel with the monorail running right through the lobby, we barely made it to check-in before tearing into each other. By the next morning, strolling through the kingdom of castles and mouse ears, I’d have bet anything Jeri was dripping with cum under her sundress, smiling like the happiest woman alive.
But you know us—we couldn’t just stop with castles and fireworks. We had to add a lifestyle twist. Which meant one thing: Plato’s Retreat.
The original Plato’s in New York City was legend—splashed on Playboy TV, whispered about in Penthouse, hyped as the Vatican of swinging. When they opened a sister club near Fort Lauderdale, it instantly shot to the top of our bucket list. This was our pilgrimage, our sexual Mecca—with a lot more lube.
We went on a weeknight (less expensive, of course). Jeri wore her best slutwear—lace, and slut pumps. The energy was radiating off her in waves and she was loaded for cock, with a spermicidal sponge up her kitty. I was stuck in the required slacks and collared shirt, sweating like a car salesman in August, which it was. Still, we got in, checked our bottle, and ordered drinks from a half-naked female bartender. Prince, Madonna, and some new hot tunes pumped through the speakers. The place felt like we heard Studio 54 was—but less cocaine and much more lube.
We met a few couples, but enter Rick and Mary. Nice couple and we all hit it off. They invite us to the playrooms. Here’s how it worked: strip in the locker room, grab a towel, and march into the playroom like you’re checking into the world’s kinkiest XXX-MCA. Inside? Beds everywhere. Mattresses lined up like a pervert’s summer camp, with sheer curtains for “privacy” (read: peekaboo porn).
Rick picked out two beds shoved together—“in case someone wants to join,” he said, like we were reserving a booth at diner. Jeri and Mary were already heating up—two petite brunettes with perfect asses, starter-pack porn starlets. Rick charmed Jeri, I worked on Mary, and everything was going great.
Mary is writhing beneath me, nails digging into my back as I thrust deeper, every nerve on fire. Beside us, Rick finishes with Jeri, then drops down to Mary, his tongue finding her clit while I’m still inside. The heat, the moans, the smell of sex—it’s a perfect, filthy symphony. I’m lost in it. Drenched in it. Until—without warning—Rick grabs me, pulls me out of Mary, and suddenly Mr. Happy is in his mouth.
Cue the alarm bells. Sirens. The full DEFCON-1 experience. Ladies and gentlemen: my first bi encounter. And let me tell you—Mr. Happy instantly turned into Mr. Marshmallow. Jeri’s eyes went wide. Mary looked at me like, “I thought you knew that was in the brochure.” And me? I stood there with my dick in shock, wondering whether to thank him, hit him, or hand out comment cards.
Rick acted casual, like he’d just borrowed my lawn mower. Meanwhile, my libido packed its bags and left me holding the towel.
Later, Mary apologized. “We should’ve told you—we’re a bi couple. That’s common down here.” Common?! Where I came from, the only “bi” anything was bipolar—though after this, I probably need a psychiatrist.
Educational? Maybe. But it was definitely a pop quiz I hadn’t studied for. Jeri thought it was hilarious, watching me stand there deflated, towel wrapped around my existential crisis.
We left Plato’s with a brand-new perspective—and still chasing that baby dream. A few weeks later, Jeri was doubled over in pain. A trip to the doctor, some bloodwork, and then the big news: she was pregnant. Back then, no pee-on-a-stick test. Hell, I thought they still had to kill a rabbit. But halfway through her school day, she got a note that simply read: Confirmed.
Moral of the Story:
Through all the surprises—the good, the bad, and the bi—we learned that laughter, love, and staying open-minded kept our marriage stronger than anything else ever could.
So here’s the truth—having a baby didn’t slow us down one damn bit. Not with the band, and definitely not with the play. If anything, pregnancy cranked Jeri’s libido into overdrive. She was wet, hungry, and insatiable 24/7, and we both discovered something we hadn’t expected: plenty of men had a fetish for a glowing, pregnant woman. They weren’t shy about it either.
For me, oral tasted different, so I skipped it most nights. But for other guys? She was a prime steak, and they devoured her like starving wolves. Jeri basked in the attention, her body humming with desire. Another surprise? Suddenly she craved nipple play. Before pregnancy, the slightest touch made her flinch. Now? Twist, pinch, tug—she wanted it all. If I’d had a pair of vice grips, I think she would’ve begged me to clamp them on.
So, there we were at lifestyle parties, Jeri’s baby bump practically acting as a VIP pass. Couples lined up, eager to play, and I wasn’t complaining either. For every guy thrilled by her bump, there was usually a hot woman sliding my way. Jeri loved the marathon oral sessions—men burying themselves between her thighs until she came once, twice, sometimes more. I loved the women those nights brought me. Everybody won.
One night at Carolina Friends, we hooked up with Evan and Wendy—a knockout pair. They invited us to their room absurdly early, like 9 p.m., before the party had even hit its stride. But when a redhead whispers fantasies in your ear, you don’t wait for the clock.
Wendy was petite, all fiery red hair and pale skin, with a delicate landing strip that proved she was every inch the real deal. Her breasts were small but perfect, large nipples sensitive enough that a flick of my tongue had her moaning like I’d lit a fuse. Meanwhile, Jeri and Wendy teamed up on Evan, kissing, touching, and swallowing him until he finally rose to the occasion.
Now, Evan was bigger than me—longer, thicker. I knew Jeri was about to ride a wild stallion, and she didn’t waste a second. She climbed aboard, bouncing and grinding while Evan twisted her nipples hard enough to make her scream with pleasure. She was glowing, flushed, lost in the raw sensation.
He flipped her, went down on her, punishing her with tongue and fingers until she shook apart in orgasm after orgasm. By then, Wendy and I had no doubts things were going to be delicious. I kissed my way down her body, licked her peach, then slid lower. She shocked me by returning the favor, teasing my ass with her tongue until I nearly lost it. When I told her I was close, she grinned wickedly, mounted me reverse cowgirl, and demanded I finger her ass while she slammed down on me.
Her small frame belied her ferocity. She pinched her nipples mercilessly, rode me with a fire only a redhead could ignite, and milked me until I could feel every inch of myself sliding inside her. She came hard, grinding through it, then collapsed into a wet, furious 69 that had me exploding in her mouth within seconds.
By the time we were all done, it was barely 11 p.m. We cleaned up, laughed, and strolled back down to the party like nothing had happened. And because one round is never enough, we still ended up at one of Brett’s room parties later, finishing the night with another delicious round of debauchery.
Moral of the story: Turns out, pregnancy cravings weren’t just for pickles and ice cream—sometimes they were for sex and titty twisting!
By the time we were waist-deep in the Carolina Friends scene, we stumbled onto another gem in Augusta, Georgia: Southern Socials. Run by two smooth-talking radio DJs, Tom and Jen, the parties weren’t huge, but they were curated to perfection. No filler. No duds. Just wall-to-wall eye candy couples. To this day, I don’t think we’ve ever walked into a room with a better-looking swinger crowd.
The setup was nothing glamorous—a mid-range hotel with a breakfast room that smelled faintly of waffles and a dance floor barely big enough for thirty couples they had more than thirty couples. But upstairs, one of the suites had been converted into a playroom, and that’s where the real magic happened. The space was tight, the air thick with perfume and arousal, and everywhere you turned you brushed against someone gorgeous and eager.
I remember thinking it felt like sexual electricity buzzing through every inch of that room. Jeri remembers it differently. For her, stepping into that suite was like walking into a living, breathing porno. Women rode men like they’d been waiting all week, lips locked with whoever was nearest, hands everywhere. She was wide-eyed and grinning, turned on by the sheer audacity of it all. The wildest part? Every time she glanced my way, I was already staring at her. That connection—the two of us in the middle of the sexual chaos—was hotter than anything happening around us.
One night stands out crystal clear.
Liz was there. A blonde knockout with a body that could stop traffic and a hunger that never quit. Her husband Doug was tall, friendly, and—if we’re being honest—not particularly memorable below the belt. Jeri isn’t even sure she ever played with him. But Liz? She was unforgettable. She was the first squirter either of us had ever met, and she embraced it like a superpower. She always staked her claim in a corner of the room, stacking towels like she was supplying the hotel.
The first time she came, it startled me. Liz was messy, gloriously messy, and worth every shower afterward.
That night, the room was winding down. Bodies sprawled across chairs, skin slick, smiles lazy. Liz, partially asleep, was slouched naked in a chair, legs open, her kitty glistening in the low light, eyelids shut. Doug said “Watch this” leaned over with a grin, brushed her clit a couple of times, and suddenly she gushed—hard—sending a stream of cum arcing across the room like a fire hose.
The whole playroom erupted in laughter. Jeri nearly fell off the bed giggling, breathless and still flushed from her own fun. Liz blinked awake, smirked, and purred, “I don’t remember anyone ever complaining.” She was right. Nobody ever did. If anything, half the room looked jealous of the splash zone.
Later Jeri laughed, “She was like Old Faithful! One second calm, the next—boom—splash zone. It was hilarious and hot at the same time. And you know what? Nobody was grossed out. Half the room looked jealous. Hell, even I did—though not because I want to squirt, but because I’d kill to know what it feels like to just completely lose control in a climax like that.”
We’d been going to Southern Socials for a while, and that night it was buzzing—wall-to-wall eye candy, with younger couples mixed in that reminded Hal and me of ourselves when we first dove headfirst into this world.
By the time midnight rolled around, we’d worked up an appetite for more than sex, so there we were, plates in hand at the food buffet line. Jeri was torn between cheesecake or another pile of meatballs when the young woman behind us decided the whole room needed to hear about her husband’s “love stick.” She said it with such conviction I nearly dropped my plate; at that hour the only sticks I expected were in the kebabs.
Jeri's eyes sparkled, daring, as she went on about his size and stamina, clearly proud of her man. I raised an eyebrow, Jeri smirked, and before I knew it, words slipped out of her mouth dripping with sass: “Size is nothing without performance. Maybe he should prove it.”
So Jeri saw it like this, that one line flipped the switch. She grinned like she’d been waiting for me to say it all along. Introductions happened fast, flirtation even faster, and suddenly we weren’t thinking about cheesecake anymore—we were being whisked back to their hotel room, where dessert came in the form of sweat, moans, and one very eager cock that was about to try living up to its legend.
The sex started with that electric mix of nerves and hunger—clothes tossed like confetti, mouths colliding, hands everywhere. Patty was deliciously eager, kissing Jeri while tugging my belt loose, while Mark pressed Jeri back against the wall, lips at her neck, fingers sliding lower. According to Jeri, his cock wasn’t the monster Patty had bragged about, but what he lacked in size he made up for with skill and youth. The man moved like he’d been training for this Olympic event his whole life—slow strokes, fast thrusts, teasing swirls of his tongue that made Jeri shiver.
At one point Patty was riding me like she was auditioning for the rodeo, while Mark had Jeri on my knees, his fingers tangled in my hair as he fed me that “love stick” that proud wife bragged about. The sounds in that room—her moans, my growls, Jeri's muffled gasps—could have been the soundtrack to every porn movie. When Mark pulled Jeri up, flipped her onto the bed, and fucked Jeri hard while Patty’s nails raked down my chest, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to scream or laugh. I think I did a little of both.
By the time we collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap, we were all smiling like fools. And that’s when the small talk started—because nothing says post-orgasm bonding like casual chit-chat. That’s when the bomb dropped: not only were we all from Charleston, but Mark had gone to school in the district Jeri had taught in for decades. A few more questions, and suddenly he's grinning like the cat that caught the canary.
Patty blurts out, "I’m pretty sure you were his fifth-grade teacher.”
Jeri almost fell off the bed. “No way,” she stammered. But the more he talked, the more it hit her. That quiet little boy from row two… the shy smile, the studious look—oh, my goodness! And here he was now: taller, broader, and pounding Jeri into the mattress like a man determined to ace the final exam.
The three-hour drive home was torture. Her mind replayed it over and over: Did I just have sex with a former student? Jeri tried to deny it, but when she got home, she pulled out her old yearbooks. And there he was. Mark, age ten, smiling up at me from the page, completely unaware that one day he’d grow into the kind of man who’d make Jeri blush in ways his spelling tests never did.
We still see Mark and Patty now and then. And here’s the kicker: Mark tells the story with pride every chance he gets. “I slept with my fifth-grade teacher,” he’ll say with a grin. And honestly? With the way he performed that night, Jeri says she can’t mind being his favorite brag.
By the early 90s, AIDS was no longer something whispered about in distant circles—it was suddenly in the swinger conversation. Clubs everywhere started encouraging condoms.
Neither of us had really given much thought to rubbers before then. The first time we tried, it was like watching a circus act go wrong. My cock—normally eager and proud—went on strike. I hated the way it dulled the sensation. And being uncircumcised, I loved the way things felt naturally. Latex took all that away.
Practicing at home didn’t help. Jeri would roll one on with a smile, trying to keep things sexy, but we’d end up laughing when Mr. Happy sulked and refused to play. Nothing kills the mood like laughing at your own limp dick. To this day, I can’t remember ever finishing in a condom.
Still, we adapted. We tested regularly, staggered our schedules so there was always a safety window, and after forty years, the worst we’ve ever dealt with was a UTI. We encouraged condom use at the parties we eventually ran, but we never turned it into a police state. For us, swinging was about responsibility—but also about freedom.
After a couple years of helping Tom and Jen, the inevitable happened. Their radio careers made them too visible, too vulnerable. One rumor, one photo in the wrong hands, and they’d be finished. They asked us to take over Southern Socials.
We hesitated. Jeri’s job had a morals clause, and we had our daughter to think about. One scandal could cost everything. But the thought of letting the club die didn’t sit right either and the club was not in our backyard. After a couple of late-night talks, we finally told them “yes”.
We were stepping into uncharted territory—hosting, not just playing. AOL was exploding, and we used it to our advantage. We fished in swinger chat rooms, trading photos and extending invites. Within a year, we’d doubled the size of the group. The hotel was bursting, and the owner made us an offer: move to his new property. This hotel was bigger space, top floor, and the run of the place. For us it was a no brainer.
Our first event there was New Year’s Eve. We arrived a day early, only to find the hotel technically wasn’t open yet. Cue panic. But the owner smiled and waved it off. The paperwork was done, the certificate of occupancy was final, but the rooms weren’t furnished to brand standards, so he was not allowed to open. His solution? We could have the whole place to ourselves—and no one would be charged for a room.
That night, the hotel transformed into a private playground. Couples danced half-dressed, women lost tops, men had their pants around their ankles, and nobody blinked when a blowjob started on a chair in the corner. The hot tub foamed with naked bodies, moans echoing off the tile. Jeri and I were by the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal several couples inside, tangled together in every imaginable position. One man grinned through the haze of breasts and thighs and called out, “Come on in!”
We laughed and waved them on, but the sight stuck with us. That night, as midnight hit, the building didn’t just echo with champagne toasts. It rang with orgasms, laughter, and the kind of joy you can’t fake.
And somewhere out there, a grainy security tape still exists of that wild night—the manager admitted he kept a copy for himself. Honestly? We hope he enjoyed it as much as we did.
Southern Socials taught us that swinging wasn’t about the venue, the rules, or even the sex—it was about the people, the thrill, and the way it made us stronger together.
Moral of the story? Some hotels leave mints on pillows. Ours had naked couples in the elevator begging us to climb aboard.
As we close this first volume and look back, one thing’s clear: we had sexual appetites that could have fed a small village. Maybe we were sex addicts… but if we were, we were high-functioning ones. We paid our bills, held down jobs, raised eyebrows but not arrests, and never once had to sneak out of work because we “just had to have sex with someone.” Does that make us less of addicts, or just better at scheduling? We’ll let you decide.
What we do know is that all of it—the risks, the laughter, the marathons, even the occasional misfires—shaped our marriage into something rare. Not just longevity (though forty-plus years is no small feat), but a spark that still crackles between us. Our friends in the lifestyle often say, “You two still flirt like teenagers.” They’re right. We do. Because somewhere in all the chaos, we found a rhythm that’s more than just sex—it’s us.
We don’t chase the risks the way we did in those early days. Mostly, we don’t have to. Now there are swinger resorts, clubs, conventions, and cruises just waiting for us to pack a bag. No more scanning sketchy newspaper ads or sneaking into adult bookstores (unless, of course, that’s your kink). These days, the world practically rolls out the red carpet for people like us.
Were we always happy and carefree? Of course not. We had our share of money worries, a few “what ifs,” and the occasional, “Are we crazy for doing this?” Divorce? Never a serious thought. Judy had career worries, especially with those pesky morals clauses, but even then, we danced on the edge with a grin. And somehow, we always landed on our feet.
The next chapter of our story moves into the Internet era—when finding playmates got easier, our bank accounts got healthier, and the lifestyle got bigger and glossier. But no matter how the world changed, our compass stayed the same: live fully, love fiercely, laugh often, and never let regret into the bedroom.
We hope you enjoyed this first part of our journey. We sure enjoyed living it. And trust us—the best stories are still to come.
With love, lust, and laughter,
Hal & Jeri
When we get the next section done the link will be here.
Mobirise