6ft 8 in a sex club - “I can’t play, you’re married!”

 

Yes. That’s exactly what I was told on Friday night.

With a friend staying over to help for a couple of weeks, we finally had a rare night of childcare. So of course, we jumped at the chance for a night out and headed to the local club. Not our favourite spot by any means (past visits have been a bit... meh), but it’s nearby and easy. And after a long week, that was good enough.

We arrived a little later than planned. Mr wasn’t in the best mood after a busy day, late departure, and general grump. We settled in while some of the regulars played organised games. It was very clear there was an established clique, and we weren’t part of it. Still, we grabbed a drink and drifted toward the dark room next to the air-con for some reprieve from the heat.

One there a few men joined us to chat amiably:

One older gent, decent enough shape

A stockier, shorter guy who seemed friendly (we met him the next night for a private meet!)

And then... him.

6ft 8. Good looking. Polish. Mid-30s. Broad, calm, softly spoken. Honestly? He  did not fit in to this club but I was glad he was there.

We chatted as a group for a while before I lay back on the bed to relax. The tall Pole wandered off. The others stayed chatting. At some point, nature called, and on my way back from the loo I spotted him sat alone and clearly overwhelmed.

I asked if he was okay. He confessed quietly that this was his very first club visit. He was feeling a bit lost.

I offered him a soft out: “Come back and chat with us. Nothing more.” He hesitated. But he followed.

We lay side by side on the bed. I expected small talk. Instead he kissed me.

A common rule is no kissing because frankly most people are shit at kissing but I loved his kisses. I’d have been happy with just that, but his hands were curious pulling at my dress to kiss my boobs, teasing my nipples gently. I sat up and straddled his lap, still clothed, letting his lips explore me. Then I lay back again. His fingers slid to my knickers, pulling them to one side and touching me with surprising confidence.

He whispered, “Open your legs.”
Firm. Direct. Hot.

I did. Happily.
His fingers worked wonders. The kind that make your breath catch and your hips move on instinct. He kissed me between instructions, and I felt myself melting into it.

Then I reached for him. And everything shifted.

He pulled his hands away
Leant in close.
Whispered in my ear:
“I’m so sorry. I can’t do this.”

The room was full. I think there were at least eight strangers watching from the foot of the bed. That’s a tough thing  to deal with for anyone so not judgement from me. I didn’t feel embarrassed or rejected. I just respected it. That’s the deal with swinging, consent is everything, and anyone can change their mind.

We dressed, returned to the bar, and chatted some more.
Then came the kicker.

He asked who I’d come with.
I gestured to my husband.
And he said:
“No. I can’t have sex with another man’s wife.”

…Sir.
You are in a sex club.
Surrounded by swingers.
This is not church. This is not speed dating. This is not Love Island.
You had my knickers to the side twenty minutes ago.

And that’s the line?
Mind. Blown.

We exchanged Fab details, but I doubt I’ll hear from him again. I won’t forget him though for being so wildly, comically out of sync with the setting.

What did you come here for, exactly?