Thursday, July 23, 2015

Childhood Crush: Part One

I'm sitting at the bar of Night + Market, a popular Thai restaurant on Sunset Blvd, next to a guy I had a crush on in Middle School. He was 25 then. He’s 40 now. My 12-year-old self is doing cartwheels.

Childhood Crush and I grew up in the same tiny hippie beach town in Northern California. Recently when I was home watching the 4th of July parade with my parents, he cruised past with his crew of local kids on motorbikes. I spotted him instantly, as I always do, and felt that old familiar pang of a 15-year crush. He nodded in recognition, my name on his lips, and continued on in a cloud of exhaust.

In seventh grade I played Demetrius in our school’s production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (there weren’t enough boys and I was tall). Childhood Crush was friends with our director and filmed us doing the play. I think that’s when we first met and the crush was instant. He was at NYU film school and to me represented the glamorous world of filmmaking I so longed to be a part of. He was also short and wiry and blond and had that kind of white-rapper-ish aesthetic that is still totally my jam. He was a fast talker, a hustler, confident and energetic, and even as a kid I felt he would be successful. And he was. He went on to make several well-received documentaries, one about the modeling industry that I watched when I was considering making my own documentary about actresses in Hollywood and body image. On that project he collaborated with his girlfriend at the time, a gorgeous runway fashion model. I was very impressed with their work and reached out to him for advice about my own doc. That was 2011 and the last time we interacted before I saw him on the 4th of July.

On the night of the 4th, as I laid in my childhood bed, I did some lite stalking on Facebook and decided to message him.
“Hey! It was good to see you today. I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up—I wanted to hear what you’re up to! Hope all is well…” Pretty benign, but I felt a flutter as I hit Send. Not long after, he wrote back. Apparently he was going to be in LA the following weekend helping a friend write a script. We made plans to meet.
“I’ll take you to Soho House,” he said.
“Fancy,” I replied.

So here we are, pre-Soho House, sitting at the bar of Night + Market. When we finally get the waitress’s attention, I order a lychee and vodka cocktail and he gets a Thai iced tea (he’s not drinking because he challenged himself to stop and now he’s seeing how long he can keep it up.) Apparently he likes to challenge himself—he tells me how he enjoys running up the incredibly steep hills of San Francisco, where he currently lives. He orders Pad Thai and I joke that he’s having “the white man’s special.”
“People have said I’m the whitest person they know,” he smiles. “Also the straightest.”
I order fried pigtails and he asks, “Wait, are you seriously ordering that?”

As an icebreaker, I ask him what his perception of me was when I was twelve.
“That in fifteen years you’d be hot,” he jokes. “No, you were bold. You called me and asked if you could be in this silly little student film I was making.”
“I had a crush on you, you know.”
“Really?” He seems completely shocked by this admission and it suddenly occurs to me that I wasn’t on his radar at all. This might sound obvious, considering the significant age gap between us, but when you have such an intense crush on someone as a child, it’s hard to imagine they don’t feel the same way. At least for me it was hard to imagine. I always assumed my crushes were reciprocated. Maybe because one of my mom’s big lessons to me growing up was that all the boys were in love with me and all the mean girls were just jealous.

As we talk, I’m struck by the fact that I don’t know this person at all—I don’t think we’ve ever actually had a real conversation. I had thought he’d be sophisticated and academic, and had even been nervous about coming off as not smart enough. This fear is quickly assuaged.

Childhood Crush lived in New York for eight years and now lives in San Francisco, and yet he is still someone who uses the word “fag” in all seriousness. (He only does this once, which is enough.) He also calls women “chicks”—I bring this to his attention and he seems to not realize he’s doing it. He calls me “dude” a lot and I’m reminded of Gaffer Guy, who used to call me “man.” This is not the only aspect of Childhood Crush that reminds me of Gaffer Guy. He talks a lot about his last girlfriend who dumped him out of nowhere, or at least that’s how he puts it. He qualifies this by saying, “I neglected her, I didn’t pay enough attention.” I can tell by the way his eyes dart around the room that this is probably true.

Mostly what I enjoy about his company is that we come from the same small town so he gets references that no one in my contemporary circle of friends would ever understand, and he knows all the same people from my childhood. He tells me about how he lost his virginity to this beautiful girl I idolized when I was a kid. He explains how she summoned him one day so he stole a rowboat and rowed across the channel from our town to the neighboring beach town, and then pretended he wasn’t a virgin when they had sex for the first time. He was thirteen. She was sixteen. We talk about the other kids we grew up with, about the ones who are married with babies now, the ones who went to prison, the friends of his I also had crushes on.
“Did you ever consummate any of them?” He asks.
"Unfortunately, no."
We talk about what a unique childhood we had because of where we’re from. Boys and girls played outside together, we biked everywhere, we climbed trees, we smoked weed. He expresses that he could see raising kids there. I’m not sure if I could go back.

Inevitably, we start talking about sex and it’s soon revealed that we’re both pretty big sluts. He tells me about how he had a threesome with his last girlfriend and a friend of hers.
“A woman?” I ask.
He scoffs, “That’s the only kind of threesome as far as I’m concerned. Two guys and a girl, I don’t know what that is.” I ask if he’s homophobic and he tells me that he’s not, he doesn’t care what other people do, but the thought of having his penis next to another guy’s absolutely disgusts him.
“Is that coming from you or the culture, though?” He seriously thinks about this.
“No, it’s coming from me,” he says finally.
He tells me that when his girlfriend went out of town, she told him he could fuck her friend. And he did. On Skype, so his girlfriend could watch and give him instructions. He beams.
“Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about monogamy,” I say, “I felt really different about all that stuff the last time I was in a relationship so it’s hard to know how I would be this time. I don’t know if it's for me anymore.”
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, I don’t want any chick I’m with to be fucking other dudes. No guy wants that.”
“So, you’re allowed to fuck around, but she’s not?” I ask.
He shrugs. He asks how long I’ve been single.
“Four years.”
“Why, no one will have you?” He laughs out loud.

Wanting to match his threesome story, I tell him about the Sex Club in Portland. He seems very interested and asks a lot of questions, but I also get the sense it’s making him uncomfortable hearing me talk so frankly about sex. I somehow feel like he doesn’t think it’s cool for women to be as big of sluts as he is. Regardless, I find myself unable to stop telling him things. I don’t know how to justify this except to say that the fact that he’s known me since I was twelve and that he’s from my hometown makes me feel oddly comfortable around him. I tell him about how I cheated on my first boyfriend with a 43 year old man who had a kid. He seems to deduce from this disclosure that I am incapable of being faithful and asks if I “cheated on [my] last boyfriend a bunch.” When I say that no, I never did, he doesn’t appear to believe me. He mentions cheating on a past girlfriend (the top model no less!) but concludes that she was probably cheating on him too.

He makes several joking remarks alluding to the fact that I’m a slut, but when I reveal my insecurity that he’s gotten the wrong idea about me, he says, “Girls are always so worried about that.”
“Yeah because guys are allowed to be as big of sluts as they want but if you’re a woman and you talk openly about sex, you get shamed for it.” He agrees that this double standard is “fucked up.”
He catches on pretty quickly that I’m a big sex-positive feminist, and seems wary of this. He says he grew up surrounded by feminists and it’s not that he doesn’t believe in it, but he doesn’t seem to understand quite what it means.
“You know all it means is equality between men and women, right?” I try to clarify.
“Yeah yeah, I know,” he says, sounding tired.

We leave Night + Market and walk to Soho House, where he is a longtime member. We squeeze through the incredibly loud, schmoozy crowd in the main bar and head into the quieter, plant-filled dining room to sit on one of the couches with views overlooking the whole city. He has a nonalcoholic beer and I’m sipping a Campari and soda slower than I would be if I weren’t drinking alone. At this point in the night, now on my second cocktail, I’m in the mood for some heavy canoodling. Unfortunately, any sense of flirtation we might have established in the restaurant seems to dissolve the moment we step into Soho House. He seems to have pivoted into “workin it” mode and, as his eyes scan the short skirts that surround us, I find it hard to keep his attention. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come here after all.

Even as we sink side-by-side into the couch, I can’t tell if this is a date or a business meeting. Ostensibly, one of the reasons we got together was to talk about work, and Soho House feels perpetually like the place you go to “make a deal.” But if we were going to talk business, I feel like it should have happened earlier in the night. I mean, we’ve already established that we’re both sluts and I had a crush on him when I was twelve. What more information does one need to get this thing going?

Instead of leaning over to kiss me, he decides it’s time to start telling me about The Biz. He proceeds to monologue at me for a good twenty minutes about film festivals, sponsorships, how to get your movie funded, commercial viability, blah blah blah. I stare into space as he talks, leaning back on the couch, and consider closing my eyes. I play a game of how long I can go without saying a word to see if he’ll notice. He doesn’t. I’m not exactly sure why he’s telling me all this, but he seems to think it’s stuff I need to know—it might very well be useful information but I’m too bored and confused to really listen. While he’s talking, I decide to give up on the idea that my 12-year-old self is going to have any satisfaction tonight, and resolve myself that it’s time to go home. I finish my drink and say, “Shall we get out of here?”

He wants to show me the members-only screening room so we walk along a couple of abandoned corridors and enter a small-ish David Lynch-esque room filled with red velvet arm chairs and chests full of cashmere blankets. We lean back in the chairs facing the screen and talk some more, and I wonder why we haven’t called it a night yet. We both seem to be waiting for something to happen, and for whatever reason neither one of us apparently wants to leave the other’s company. I consider reaching out and taking his hand, just to do something different. But his energy is strangely uninviting. We just sit there, enjoying the quiet of the room, until another couple comes in and we leave.

As we walk back to my car, we pass a Jaguar dealership, and like a little kid, he jumps up on the cement block and bounces excitedly. “Jaguars!”
I laugh,  watching his tight, compact little ass move in his jeans. We get in my car and he asks, “what now?” I just assumed I was taking him back to his friend’s place, considering how he’s been saying he’s tired and he seems quite bored. Again, I’m reminded of Gaffer Guy.
“Wanna go up to Mulholland and look at the view?” He asks.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m tired but life is short,” he says.
I laugh. “You should make a T-shirt.”
“I’m gonna put that on Facebook,” he announces and takes out his phone.
 I find myself irrationally happy that the night will not end here.

We get up to Mulholland and I park at a lookout with a view that’s blocked by bushes. He leans way back in his seat so it’s almost horizontal, and stares at the ceiling of my car. I do the same.
“What are we doing?” I ask, laughing.
He closes his eyes. Eventually I decide to make a move, so I reach over and start stroking his hand. He smiles, keeping his eyes closed. After awhile, I ask if he’s asleep. He wakes up. I wonder why he hasn’t tried to hit on me all night, I wonder what we’re doing up here. I take his hand and put it on my breast. This enlivens him somewhat and he starts stroking me. He gets his fingers under my shirt and pinches my nipple. He tries to undo my bra but can’t from this angle so, in one quick move, he swoops over me, unclips my bra, and lies back down. He fondles my breasts, but when I glance over he still looks like he’s sleeping. Eventually, as though resigning himself to the task, he leans over me and starts sucking on my nipple. He doesn’t try to kiss me and I wonder if he’s got a Pretty Woman thing about kissing. Too intimate for this seedy car encounter with someone he remembers as a child. Finally he does kiss me. And then his hand is down my pants and he’s fingering me. Then his cock comes out and I’m sucking on it.
“Do you want me to come in your mouth or fuck you?” He asks.
“I want you to fuck me.” Duh.

We move into the back seat and try to find a position that works.
“It has to be from behind,” I say and pull down my pants. A condom materializes and I appreciate that he’s taking care of that so I don’t have to worry about it for once. He fucks me for a bit, awkwardly trying to position himself. The windows steam up and it gets very hot and sweaty. He stops suddenly, throwing the car door open.
“I need to take a break,” he busts out of the car with his jeans around his ankles.
“It’s so hot and cramped in there,” he says, pulling up his pants. “I mean, not like I have a cramp, it’s just small.”
“So you didn’t throw your back out then?” I tease him.

We return to the car and I unearth my purse from the wreckage of the back seat to retrieve one of my Skyn condoms. We get into position again, but this time it’s even more challenging and he’s losing steam.
“I’ll just finger bang you for awhile,” he says.
“Let me get on top of you,” I move around, but he’s already out of the car. Too uncomfortable and needing air. This time we don’t continue. We laugh about what a high school moment this was—fucking in the car at make out point. I lament wasting one of my good condoms.

I drive him home and pull up in front of his friend’s house. He still doesn’t get out of the car. We keep talking and then he shows me some YouTube videos of Chris Rock doing standup. He thinks I won’t like some of them because I’m a “wretched feminist” (his words). I give him a head massage as we sit there—he still seems tense. He closes his eyes and enjoys it. I tell him that I’m trying to stop attracting men-children, but I guess I have this maternal instinct that continues to attract them despite myself. I tease him about dating younger women. We both know we have a problem. He says he’s never dated anyone his own age, that that would make him uncomfortable. I tell him it’s probably because he’d have to stop calling them “chicks.” It’s after four a.m. and we’re still sitting there. I wonder why. At some point, he says, “why am I looking at YouTube?” And he leans over to kiss me. It escalates. I suck him off and he comes. He smiles at me as I wipe my mouth, “Well, you’re not twelve anymore.” I tell him I need to go to sleep—he still doesn’t seem to want to leave my car, even after the blowjob. I wonder what more he wants from me tonight. He doesn’t seem to want anything, except to not be alone. I suddenly realize he is painfully lonely, and it makes me feel for him despite his abrasive personality. Underneath it all, he’s so vulnerable, and I’m still drawn to him despite myself. Eventually I say, “you have to get out of my car now.” And he does. We kiss goodnight and I drive home, finally getting to sleep at five in the morning.  

Thursday, July 9, 2015

Sex Club

"Do you know what kind of place this is?" The pretty young woman at the front desk asks us as we check in and pay the $30 "couples" membership fee.
"Yes," Best Guy Friend and I reply in unison.

Ron Jeremy is apparently an investor in the club, and therefore his name is used to promote the place: “Ron Jeremy’s Club Sesso Swingers Club.” I have to say my only hesitation in visiting Club Sesso is the Ron Jeremy affiliation. His association evokes a certain level of sleaze and creep-factor that, upon entering, I realize is not the vibe whatsoever. While doing my extensive Yelp research to find the best sex club in Portland, I discover that Club Sesso has 5 Stars and all the reviews are positive and enthusiastically written by women and men in relationships. There is a wholesome vibe to the reviews that initially attracts me, a sense that this is simply a sex-positive environment where like-minded people gather to have fun. The reviews are spot on.

First of all, when we first walk in, we are greeted by a friendly, tatted young woman who politely checks us in. Then Eileen, the “Madame” of the establishment, a petite 70-something woman with cropped blond-grey hair and a youthful spirit, materializes to give us the grand tour. She also asks if we know what kind of place this is. We smile and nod. She leads us into the small bar where several couples sip drinks and furtively glance around to see who has just walked in. There is porn playing on a small TV near the ceiling. The empty dance floor has two cages with poles inside and some multi-colored directional lighting. As new members on our very first visit to the club, our first drink is on the house. I order a Campari and soda. Best Guy Friend asks what they have on tap. I glance up at the balcony above us where one couple and several single guys stand separately peering down, assessing the fresh meat. I try not to hold eye contact with anyone for too long, but enjoy the intensity of their gazes. The sense that everyone is openly here for the same reason cuts through some of the usual bullshit of going to a bar to find someone to hook up with. 

I think there are a surprising number of people here for a Wednesday night, even one guy I find pretty hot who keeps making eyes at me as he passes with his girlfriend. I hold his gaze for a beat longer than usual. Eileen assures me that “this is nothing” and says we should plan to come back the following night for Gang Bang Night or Friday for Wet T-Shirt Night.
“School Girl Night is really fun,” she says. “All the girls dress like school girls and the men dress up like professors. It’s very sexy.”
She indicates the empty dance floor.
“On Wet T-Shirt Night, all the girls get in the cages. They love it.”
She informs us that her husband, who owns the club with her, has Parkinson’s so he doesn’t make it down so much any more.
“But when he does, I get up on that pole and I fuck his face,” she shares nonchalantly. I want to be this woman when I grow up. I feel immediately fond of her, not in small part because she reminds me of my ex-boyfriend’s mother, someone who has always been one of my grown-up heroes.

Eileen shows us the “complimentary dinner buffet”, reminiscent of a janky school cafeteria and I congratulate myself for ordering us a couple apps at the bar where we pre-gamed before coming to da club. She then leads us upstairs where there is porn playing on a bigger screen behind a bar with a mattress on the floor instead of a bartender. This is the first "play area." All the other play areas are small separate rooms equipped with a large mattress, several towels, and condoms scattered on the bed like chocolates. One smaller darkly-lit room has a sex swing. There are doors for privacy and windows where voyeurs can peek inside if the couples inside are kind enough to open the blinds. No one is having sex as far as we can see, but it's only 10 p.m. We can hear some distant groaning coming from one of the private rooms, but the door and curtains are closed and uninviting.

Best Guy Friend, who has frequented sex clubs in Germany where he says the rooms are all open and people fuck anywhere and everywhere, asks Eileen about this.
“Are there any rooms where people can have sex out in the open in front of people?”
“The third floor room is all open, but it’s closed on Wednesday nights. On Gang Bang Night, people really go for it up there.”
“Do people ever have sex in the bar?”
“Oh no. But on Wet T-Shirt Night, someone might get a blow job or eaten out in one of the cages,” Eileen informs us. Apparently we’re here on the wrong night.

Eileen tells us that it’s very important to stay active at her age, and says she pole dances regularly to stay fit. She shows us her muscular thighs and encourages us to feel how strong they are. We do. She talks joyfully about sex and pleasure, and about how the city is always trying to find excuses to shut down the club.
“Really, even in Portland?” I ask.
“People hate sex in this country,” says Eileen matter-of-factly.
Best Guy Friend, being German, doesn’t understand this mentality.
“America was founded by Puritans,” I inform him.

As a fairly attractive “couple” in the club, we attract a good amount of attention, and soon a pretty and flirtatious African American woman is hovering close and smiling at me. I tell her that Best Guy Friend and I are platonic friends, and she tells me, “I want to have what you guys have with my boyfriend.” This confuses me, seeing as Best Guy Friend and I don’t have sex. It makes more sense when I realize she has clearly dragged her boyfriend to the club, probably because she wants to hook up with a girl, and he’s not really into the experience. She points him out talking to another guy that I guess is trying to pick them up. She repeats several times, meaningfully, “I would rather hook up with you than that guy, I’m actually pretty into girls.” I play a little dumb because I don’t want to get sucked into whatever weird energy is going on between her and her boyfriend.
The hot guy and his girlfriend are still meandering around, him catching my eye every time he passes. I point them out to Best Guy Friend.
“Maybe we can swing with them,” I suggest.
“She’s not interested in me,” he says. She doesn’t seem very interested in the club in general and isn’t checking anyone out, or even really looking around at all. I wonder if there’s ever a case when one partner isn’t dragging the other one into this experience.

A young heavy-set girl with a long-standing membership to the club takes it upon herself to be our hostess for the evening. She also up-sells the Wet T-Shirt Night and encourages me to partake because: “you have great tits.” Still, no one is having sex publicly, which is slightly disappointing for a sex club. I’m struck by the fact that it’s probably much smarter to bring someone you're actually fucking rather than your platonic best friend (duh) and marvel at how even the couples who would choose to come to a sex club on a Wednesday night are still shy about doing it in front of people. I think about how my ex-boyfriend and I would have cleaned up in our heyday.

An attractive, wiry Israeli Dude introduces himself. He is from Tel Aviv and works in New York and is in Portland for business. He invites me and Best Guy Friend outside to smoke weed out of his Audi. As we stand there smoking, I complain that no one’s having sex and he says meaningfully, “If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen.” Best Guy Friend raises his eyebrows at me: a challenge.

When we return from outside, everyone’s spirits have lifted somewhat because “a girl is being tied up upstairs.” Our hostess leads us up the stairs to where a big-breasted woman is standing on the mattress behind the bar, her arms over her head, tied up and blindfolded. A large man with rainbow-colored hair is smacking her ample ass. She writhes with pleasure and anticipation as he teases her, methodically perusing a selection of tools he might use on her.
“This is called a scene,” explains our hostess. “When you’re tied up and blindfolded, your senses are heightened and you have no control, leading to a feeling of euphoria.”
“You’re the hostess with the mostess,” I say stupidly. Best Guy Friend laughs and rolls his eyes. The large man lubes up a dildo and starts fucking the woman with it, and I find myself giggling like an embarrassed school girl as I watch this very private moment made public. Soon the woman is untied and the scene is apparently over.

Club Sesso allows single guys in (most swingers clubs don’t), so there are a lot of random dudes slinking around in the shadows, watching and waiting. There is a sense that everyone is waiting for something to happen, and I get impatient with this. Flirtatious woman is still hovering nearby, so I try to encourage her and her reluctant boyfriend to grab a room and have sex so we can watch. I also attempt to volunteer our hostess. She says she’s more of a “watcher.”  Israeli Dude keeps repeating in my ear, “If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen.”

Finally, the hot guy and his girlfriend start getting it on in the corner of the upstairs room. Literally everyone in the club (mostly dudes) gathers around to watch. I feel almost uncomfortable watching them because everyone else is. My instinct is to give them their privacy.
“They want us to watch,” says Best Guy Friend, a sex club etiquette aficionado.
The hot guy puts down a towel on a couch in the corner of the hang out area and his girlfriend crawls on top of him and starts slowly moving up and down.
I suddenly realize that many couples must come here just to get turned on so they can then go off and fuck each other in private, rather than actually coming here to find someone new to have sex with. This idea bores me, and I decide to be part of the change.

Israeli Dude keeps casually suggesting, “we should just get a room.” I agree. We should. We start trying to negotiate which room, but I can feel every guy in the room watching me trying to pick a place to fuck, which makes me self-conscious.
“We should do the swing room,” Israeli Dude suggests.
“Okay,” I say. Go big or go home.
Flirtatious woman follows us, ingratiating herself. “Can I join?”
“Sure!” exclaims Israeli Dude. But I’m not sure I’m ready for my first public sex experience to also be my first threesome experience, and this girl’s cloying energy is kind of annoying me. She’s asked me about a hundred times what Campari is, and even after I’ve explained it to her and let her taste my drink and she’s made a disgusted face, she continues to ask: “But what is Campari?!”
“Maybe later?” I suggest.
“Okay,” she negotiates, “when you’re ready, give me a sign and I’ll knock on the door and you let me in.”
I vaguely agree to this plan and push her out the door. I open the curtains on both sides so people can watch. Immediately, a sea of male faces fill the two large windows. Best Guy Friend stands off to the side with an amused smile on his face.

We start to kiss and Israeli Dude tastes like beer and weed.
“You’re about to see a lot of tattoos,” he tells me.
He takes off my shirt and his own. We make out and try to negotiate how we’re going to have sex in this bed-less room we’ve chosen.
“Let’s get you in the swing,” he says.
Why the hell not? He puts my legs up in the straps and I’m amused by the fact that I’m now spread-eagle in front of a bunch of strange men. I can check that one off my Bucket List! He starts to eat me out, which probably looks sexier than it feels as I try to balance my ass on the straps so that I don’t unceremoniously fall out of this contraption. My skirt is still on and I try to free my legs so I can get it off. He tries to help.
“You need to take my legs out,” I inform him. I’m glad the guys watching can’t hear our negotiating from behind the glass. I imagine this is reminiscent of what it must feel like to shoot a porno. He frees me and I stand up. Skirt comes off. Now I’m standing in boots and a bra, and that’s it. I go down and start to suck on him.

Then, he gets me up against the wall and eats me out again, and he’s good at it and I much prefer this to the swing. I arch my back, aware of my audience. Best Guy Friend tells me later that at this point the guys outside were yelling for Israeli Dude to take off my bra, but we couldn’t hear them. Eventually, bra does come off and I bend over the straps so he can take me from behind. As he does this, I am facing the side window and can see many faces peering in at me. I avoid their gazes.
“What do you want me to do?” Israeli Dude keeps asking. At this point, I feel like I’m kind of done and ready to call it a night.
“I want you to come,” I say. He doesn’t.
I straighten up and we make out again. I lean into him, laughing.
“There are so many people watching us.”
He asks again what I want and I say, “I think I’m good actually.” There’s no way I’m going to come in this situation and I feel like I got what I came for.
We turn to our audience like, show’s over folks. I pull the curtains shut and start to get dressed but he won’t let me. He’s very hard and doesn’t want to stop. He starts kissing my neck and my breasts. I decide to finish him off, and I have to say the situation gets a whole lot sexier the second our audience is gone.
I hear banging on the door, which I know is flirtatious woman wanting to join in. I ignore the pounding, and he does too, or he doesn’t hear it because at some point he says, “I want that other girl to come in here and for both of you to suck me off.” Yeah, that’s not happening. Eventually I hear her being escorted away by a club employee as she pleads, “I was supposed to join them.”

I get dressed and head out. Flirtatious woman is nowhere to be found, and Best Guy Friend seems to think she and her boyfriend went off to have sex in a private room. I guess the affect of the club worked on them after all. The three of us leave the club and Israeli Dude offers us a ride back to my Airbnb. Best Guy Friend wants to walk and process the experience, so we say our goodbyes and head on our way. Best Guy Friend shares that it was interesting for him to see how I have sex. I’m pretty proud of myself that on my very first trip to a sex club, I found a stranger to fuck and did it in front of people. I find myself suddenly ravenous and so we do something I never do: stop at McDonald’s for a sirloin burger.