An open letter
Dear “that guy” at the sex club last night,
Let’s get right to it. First of all, if you see my boyfriend and I getting our things out of our locker and getting dressed, you make yourself look stupid by coming up and saying, “So, you gettin’ ready to leave?” Thanks, Captain Obvious! However, I could’ve toned down my internal snark and forgiven that awkward attempt at small talk (lord knows I’m no master of it myself) if it weren’t for where you went next.
“I been seein’ her all night. Just wanted to touch her once.”
HELLO. If there ever was the remote possibility that I might have a smidgen of interest in your dumb ass? You just shattered it by speaking to Rusty, about me, AS IF I’M NOT THERE!! If you want to “touch [me] just once” so badly, it would behoove you address me directly, since I am, amazingly, a fully-functioning adult capable of speaking for myself.
Further, I mentally kicked myself the second after the response (see, I can talk!) left my mouth: “Sorry, no.”
Ah, there’s that lovely social conditioning as a woman again. Sorry? I most certainly was NOT sorry. If only I’d had the presence of mind to say, while you were still standing there, the biting things I said a few seconds after you’d skulked away. I would’ve said, “No. And let me give you a word of advice, hon” – and thence recited the third paragraph above.
This is not the first time this has happened, either. What is it with creepy guys at sex clubs, speaking about rather than to a woman who is right in front of them?? Surely you weren’t suggesting that, basically, Rusty is my owner, and thereby grants or retracts consent on my behalf. Surely not.
It was couples-only night, so you must’ve come with a lady friend. I hope for her sake that she’s the Patron Saint of Perpetual Patience.
Wishing you a clue,
Amber
Sundries
Today Rusty and I went to Frolicon… for about an hour.
Last year I was really annoyed that Frolicon was the same weekend as PodCamp NYC, which meant we’d miss it because we already had plans to go to New York. I interviewed Beth, one of the organizers, and she was a total sweetheart. I vowed that we wouldn’t miss Frolicon 2008! (And yet I wrote about it on Radlanta as if I knew what I was talking about.)
But as the day got closer, I was less and less excited about it. I guess after going to more events along similar themes, I had more of an expectation that this wouldn’t be my cup of tea. Really I only went in order to put a stack of Sex 2.0 postcards and condoms on the swag* table. Then I got mad at myself because I didn’t think ahead enough to include that stuff in the swag bags everyone gets at registration; there were postcards in there for Whippersnappers, Swinging Atlanta, SELF, and other groups/events like that. Why didn’t I think of that? I was so pissed.
Still, hopefully some new registrants will come out of the stack on the table. As we were leaving I saw a few people stopping by and looking at stuff. One guy started talking to me about Camille Paglia as I was putting the postcards on the table. That was kind of weird.
So yeah, we only stayed for about an hour, and most of that time was spent paying way too much money for a mediocre buffet lunch. What can I say, fetish/kink/BDSM stuff just doesn’t do it for me. In fact, it kind of irritates me. More power to people who are into it – some of my best friends, etc. This isn’t a slam or judgment on folks who like that stuff. I’m just not one of ‘em. I like fucking. I can’t be bothered with all the costumes and role-playing and master/slave this and foot-worship that and yadda yadda yadda.
Speaking of fucking, we briefly considered going to Trapeze tonight, because a couple who’d commented on our Trapeze review podcast said they were going, and we’re interested in meeting them at some point. But I’m still on the tail-end of the haze while my body chemistry adjusts to Lexapro, plus I’m on my period, so we figured it’s not the best night to go. I wouldn’t be feeling up to it because of the meds, but also that period thing… it’s like one of the last taboos. In Best Sex Writing 2008, Trixie Fontaine writes about her problems with getting credit card billing companies for her period porn site… it’s considered “extreme,” and even though they’ll deal with pretty much anything else you can imagine (and plenty of stuff you can’t), somehow a woman’s period is THE GROSSEST THING EVER. What the hell! Why is it such a big fucking deal?? (That’s a rhetorical question, so don’t bother trying to come up with an answer. THERE ISN’T ONE.) Seriously. If you can’t handle the fact that yes, most women get their period every month, and no, your dick won’t shrivel up and fall off if you fuck her during that time… then just turn in your Sex Card right now, because you don’t deserve it.
Well, I was going to write about how I got a manicure the other day, but I can’t think of a clever transition and this is long enough already. So I’ll write about the manicure thing tomorrow, because it’s likely to spiral off into a tangent about class and expectations and social stratification. Betcha can’t wait!
* I’ve recently learned that the spelling “schwag” refers to marijuana. “Swag” is actually an acronym… “stuff we all get!”
Strippers Ball
For those of you who may be wondering, yes, I did do the Strippers Ball thing last night. I talked about it in detail on the podcast we recorded tonight, which will be posted soon. I don’t feel like trying to restate everything I said in the podcast, but in summary, yes, I was in the contest – the very first contestant, in fact – before bowing out because it was clearly more focused on mimicking spring break than showcasing actual talent. But at least I got up and danced in front of a room full of a few hundred people (which might be the closest I get to amateur night for a while, since practically no strip clubs around here do it anymore). And later, two friends from pole dancing class and I had a loads of fun on the pole, after the stupid Strippers Ball was over. I won’t lie, I was a little disappointed; but I ended up having fun anyway, even if the contest wasn’t awesome.
Update: The podcast is up.
Awesomeness
Via Hobo Stripper, I found this video of the winner Miss Poledance Australia 2006:
On an only vaguely related note, last night Rusty and I went to Little Wings, another Atlanta swinger’s club. It was formerly Velvet Heaven and recently re-opened under new management. All in all the place did not suck, although I think Trapeze still gets top marks because of the layout and the kick-ass buffet.
Anyway, they had two poles, and I danced twice. The second time, I almost lost my shoe, but I wasn’t embarrassed – happily, I’m past being embarrassed about that kind of thing. I did scrape up my left knee a little, because they had this weird itchy carpet on the stage. I couldn’t do as many moves as I would’ve liked, because the poles were painted, making them difficult to grasp. But I think I did pretty well! Also, there was a guy in a cape and devil horns who pole danced several times, and he was really good. I wondered if he was a male stripper. (See, men pole dance too – for those of you who, for whatever unknown reason, judge an activity’s merit based on whether men do it.)
I love being proven wrong!
Rusty and I went back to Trapeze last night. You might remember it from my less-than-stellar (and Too Hot for a Certain Aggregator) review here. Well, this trip was a complete 180.
One major difference that should be noted upfront is that no single men are allowed at Trapeze on Saturday nights. That certainly contributed to the difference in atmosphere.
We got there only slightly later than last time. As soon as we walked through the door, the contrast to last time was stark and immediate. There was so much energy, and everyone seemed to be having a lot of fun. There was a lot of laughter, and the dance floor was packed. There was also just a much bigger crowd that last time, and the average age of the clientele appeared younger (late 20s – early 30s). It seemed like a lot of people knew each other.
We got a drink (orange juice) and sat at a table watching people dance and taking in the atmosphere. Over the course of several songs, couples and groups of three or four made their way toward the mandatory-naked area in the back.
Soon we headed back there too. There seemed to be more attendants working in the locker room this time. We had brought our own padlock this time, but as it turned out, the attendant had a key to lock and unlock each locker.
When we went through the doors into the back area, the first big difference was, again, a much bigger crowd, and a much higher energy level. We started to walk around, and then Rusty noticed a door that we had somehow missed before. I don’t know how we missed it last time, but we did; and it led to a very large area (about the same size as what we had thought was the entirety of the Naked Area) with three hot tubs, a pool, another bar, several beach futon thingies, and two semi-private beds.
And there was fucking.
After the initial shock of “how the hell did we miss this before??” wore off, we decided to get in one of the hot tubs. We sat in the hot tub and watched a couple fuck on one of the futon thingies. I was also able to watch another couple on the other side of the pool, but someone was blocking Rusty’s view. We sat there for a while, very pleased with how the night was turning out. After the hot tub became too hot to bear, we got out, spread our towels on one of the futon thingies by the pool, and sat there fooling around and such.
I don’t recall how long we sat there, and I think at one point we got up and walked around to see if anything interesting was going on in the other part of the Naked Area, before coming back; but eventually we went to one of the semi-private “rooms” – a bed in a little hut-looking thing (I think they were going for a tiki theme) with tied-back curtains on each side. We ended up fucking in there (we laid out our towels, of course; etiquette is key) with great gusto. One couple remained a faithful audience the entire time, while other people came and went, peeking in occasionally. After that was over, we laid there winded and extremely warm, and finally staggered back out to the clothing-optional front area for drinks and a plate of fresh fruit.
We sat, recovering, and watched a small group of people on the dance floor, including one woman who was a really good pole dancer, despite the dangerous pole. I wanted to ask her if she took classes anywhere, but I’m generally terrified of going up and talking to strangers, so I didn’t.
After we finished our drinks, we went back and sat by the pool again. There were two orgies happening in it, which we watched for quite some time. At one point a woman came up and asked me, “Do you play with girls?” I said no, sorry, and she smiled and walked off. She did find a girl to play with soon enough.
Eventually we got a second wind and ended up fucking again, on the futon by the pool. The couple sitting directly across from us certainly got quite a show. Round two was fairly quick, and then we were both exhausted and tempted to fall asleep. After sitting around for a few more minutes, we decided it was time to go home.
It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when we left, and, strangely, when we got home we weren’t even all that tired. We ended up going to sleep around 4:00.
Last night was, in a word, awesome. We had a blast, and would like to go back again. I am pleasantly surprised, to say the least! We have a three-month membership, and if it’s fun again the next time we go, we might spring for a full year. Saturday night, couples-only, is definitely the way to go. It’s pretty expensive, so it’s not something we can afford to do every weekend or even every other weekend; but we’ll be back eventually.
Friday night – the sex club, and the person on the roof
The two major events of last night involved me scraping up my leg while pole dancing at a sex club, and the police coming out to our apartment building at 2:00 a.m. These two things are not related.
We decided to go to a sex club to (here comes the big surprise) watch people fuck. I didn’t exactly have high expectations, as I had been to a sex club about 6 years ago and was underwhelmed to say the least. But, I thought, that was one night at one place; why not give it another shot? It might be fun and hot; and if not, well, at least we went, and we could laugh about it.
I did get my hopes up a little after talking to a friend who had been to a club called Trapeze about 3 years ago, and reported that it didn’t suck. And, according to their 1999-esque web site, they had a pole. (Side note: I do not recall the name or location of the club I went to ~6 years ago. It was somewhere in/around Atlanta, but that’s all I remember. It might not even exist anymore.)
So we went out there, and plopped down the $115 to get in ($50 membership + $65 door fee – they don’t waive the door fee on the night you buy your membership). They had a full buffet, and I’d heard that the food was really good, so the first thing we did was go get some food. And indeed, the food was awesome. Honestly, it was the highlight of the night. (Close second was a furtive blowjob we witnessed near the dance floor, but really, the mashed potatoes and broccoli still win in my mind.)
We sat at a table near the dance floor. There was really bad porn on two TVs, but fortunately the sound was muted. After we finished eating, I sat there waiting for the DJ to play a song that didn’t suck, and for annoying people to get their asses away from the pole so I could go up there and show them what’s up. Finally, I just decided to go up anyway even though I didn’t really like the song and this one couple would not move. So we went up there, Rusty stood on the “sidelines” so to speak, and I wiped the pole down with a napkin. This obviously wasn’t good enough, but I thought it might be better than nothing. Well, I ended up not being able to do a whole hell of a lot, because the pole was really slippery and dangerous. I tried a few spins and such, but for the most part I couldn’t get enough grip to do anything 100%. When I tried the fireball spin (Darcey will know what I’m talking about) I damn near fell off. Discouraged, out of breath, and bruised, I sat back down. Rusty said I did a great job but he could tell the pole was holding me back. Later, I noticed that I’d not only bruised the crap out of my legs, but they’re peppered with scrapes and cuts, too.
After I caught my breath, we decided we might as well go to the back area and try to see if we could watch people fucking. So far the clientele hadn’t exactly blown our skirts up, but we thought we should at least see what’s up.
The club was pretty clearly segregated into a “naked” and “non-naked” area, which annoyed me. And to go back to the part with the beds and stuff, you had to get naked or mostly naked. They had lockers, but they didn’t actually lock. That annoyed me too. Look, I don’t have a problem getting naked, but I don’t know these people; I’m not going to trust a bunch of strangers just because we all happen to be naked. But, still, we put our clothes in a nasty little locker, in a cramped locker room with a leaky shower (and some woman spilled her drink all over the floor right next to us), and wrapped threadbare towels around our waists. I kept my purse with me.
We walked through the double doors to the designated fucking area to find… not much fucking. Really, not any fucking. We walked around the whole place, and there was no fucking to be seen. A few old people had gone into one of the semi-private rooms and were groping each other, but I didn’t want to watch them fuck anyway. Mostly, people were just sitting around naked. WTF. Why do you go all that way and pay all that money just to sit around naked? You can do that at home. (Yes, you can have orgies at home too, but that’s a digression for later.) And most of the people were significantly older than us. I have nothing against people having awesome sex at any age, and indeed I intend to be having awesome sex until I’m seriously geriatric; it’s just that at this point in my life, if I had my druthers, those aren’t the type of people I’d like to watch fuck.
So, we stood in the corner for a minute or two, nonplussed. Some older men leered creepily. Finally we decided to just leave. So we got our clothes back from the nasty little locker and left.
I guess I’m a little disappointed, but not exactly surprised. However, we’ve decided to do a little more “research” and do a podcast about it, hopefully within the next few weeks. Since we have the three-month Trapeze membership (we didn’t have a choice), we decided we’ll go back on a Saturday night, and see if it’s any different. For one thing, single men aren’t allowed on Saturday nights. That might help create a less lecherous dynamic.
We also want to check out Club Venus (why do these places always have web sites that look like a bad mid-90s Geocities home page?) and see what it’s like. That might be the club I went to before, but I can’t remember. I don’t know of any other clubs that are still open (Velvet Heaven and 2Risqué closed; shame about the latter, they had an under-40 rule) and aren’t BDSM-themed or something. If you know of any others, let us know; but our podcast research may remain fairly limited in scope anyway, ’cause this shit costs money.
Later I want to write about why the whole “swinger” concept annoys me; but I’ll do that in a separate post, because this is already really long, and I have to talk about the person on the roof.
So, after coming home, we were lying in bed at around 2:00 a.m. or so. The lamp on the bedside table was on. Naturally, we were lying there naked. I was lying on my side, facing Rusty… we were relaxing and talking, and then all of a sudden he says, “Holy shit, there’s a person outside the window.” (When he was at the “there’s a…” part, I thought he was going to say something like “a ginormous insect on the bed.”)
I dove under the covers; I didn’t even look up to see the person. Rusty yelled, “What the fuck??” and apparently the guy ran off. I was scared and stayed under the covers. Rusty got up and called 911. He told the operator that there had been someone on the roof peeking into the window, and it looked like the guy was fiddling with the window as if he was trying to get in. (He wouldn’t have gotten very far… it’s like a 20-foot drop inside those windows.) So about 10 minutes later, a cop came out, and looked around the building and the roof, but didn’t see anyone. So that was that. We didn’t file a police report or anything. Oh and apparently the cop said something to Rusty about, “Most people have drapes.” (This was over the phone.) Excuse me?? For the most part, I was happy Rusty was dealing with cop and such, but I wish I had been on the phone at that moment. I would have pointedly asked exactly how us having drapes on those 20-foot high windows would have made it okay for someone to be creeping around on the roof at 2:00 a.m. A million other questions about this stupid non-sequitur spring to mind as well. I mean, also, I shouldn’t have been wearing that short skirt. And what was I thinking, walking through that part of town alone?
So anyway. That was our night. My leg is still sore from the shitty pole dancing. I’m pretty much over the “dude on the roof” incident now, and am just pissed more than anything. (Yes, we told our landlord; but you know how things have generally been with her. Strained, to say the least.) We’re thinking it would be nice to have drapes up on those windows, but we’ll definitely have to hire a professional to install them, because there’s no way in hell either of us is getting up there.
Stay tuned for, eventually, a podcast about our experiences with Atlanta sex clubs. And I’ll also write a post about the whole “swinger” thing, and the concept of sex clubs in general.