“I kept asking my teacher, ‘Is this someone’s condo? Does someone live here?’ But she kept avoiding my questions. Eventually, she gave in: ‘Actually, it’s a sex club.’”
“Wow. Really?” I asked, incredulous. “I’ve heard of them before, but I didn’t know there was one in Calgary.”
I sat there on the phone, waiting for Hali to express her disgust. I assumed these places attracted desperate, sleazy men, and that did not interest me. But instead, she said, “I want to go.”
“WHAT? What! Are you out of your flippin’ mind?”
“No, I’m not,” she said laughing. “I really want to go. Tonight. They’re having a party and I want to go. And I want you to come with me.”
I had to laugh too. “Hali, you’re crazy.”
“We don’t have to do anything. We can just go and check it out. I looked at the club’s website and talked to the woman in charge. It’s not at all what you think. You have to be screened to get in. No single men are allowed; only single women and couples. They have over four hundred members. Tonight, the theme is ‘Wear What You Dare.’”
“Ohhhh, Hali,” I said, shaking my head. “Wear What You Dare?”
“Yes. A perfect opportunity to wear your new pink corset.”
“Yeah, right.”
“The owner assured me it is not sleazy at all. She said their clientele are mainly professionals, the kind you’d see downtown in a suit on a Friday afternoon. You would never know they go to a sex club. She also said that in this club, a woman’s choice is always put first—no means no, and it must be respected at all times. We are not obligated to do anything. We can just watch if we want.”
“Soooo . . . how does a first-time visit work then?”
“Well, first you have to fill out a form on their website . . .”
As Hali went over the registration how-to’s, I sat on the line, trying to swallow Hali’s proposition. I exhaled loudly; so many questions—ethical questions: Even if we didn’t participate in any sexual goings on, could we be considered indecent or corrupt just for visiting such a place? What if something actually happened? What if we liked it? What if we ran into someone we knew? What if we bumped into someone from the sex club somewhere else in the future?
“Okay, okay,” I sighed. “What’s the name of the website?” I was totally fascinated but a little disgusted, too. Warning bells rang in my head like a truck in reverse: Stay clear! Back up! Don’t go this way!
Why do I consider this so lurid? I wondered. What was wrong with consenting adults mingling in this way? Who was I to judge the spectrum of sexual expression? Is there even a barometer? In my mind’s eye, I saw myself standing alone in a spotlight. A game show host is whispering to a hushed audience. “Will she take the challenge folks? THAT is the million-dollar question. Or will she turn her back and stick with her cloistered stay-at-home mom existence?
Screw it!
I promised to fill out and submit the application. “I’ll ask my sitter if she’s free after the kids are in bed tonight.”
“Thanks, Delaine!” said Hali, clearly elated. “I don’t know why I’m so curious about this, but I really want to see what it is. And I won’t do it unless you come. I can’t ask anyone else but you.”
I hung up the phone and immediately logged onto the club’s website. I browsed around attentively, searching suspiciously for sleaze or any red flags. Instead, it reiterated a lot of what Hali had told me, highlighting their many rules, requirements, and policies. The site itself was very tasteful and professionally presented. I navigated to the application page and ten minutes later pressed “send.”
Then I walked over to my children’s school and joined the other moms who were picking up their kids for lunch.
HALI AND I agreed to meet at the Big Town shopping mall parking lot and drive to the club together. I’d squeezed into my pink corset, feeling sexy but exposed. How could I leave the house in this? I thought. Hali planned to deck herself out in a latex dress, with a cardigan over the top, just in case.
Driving in my minivan, with Shakira belting out “Hips Don’t Lie,” I felt weirdly free. I was up for the adventure, whatever it would be. I turned the music up, grooving in my seat and singing along. My minivan suddenly felt more like a dance club on wheels than a mommy-mobile, with its empty car seats and stale Cheerios. After years of tolerating toddler and kids’ tunes to make car rides bearable, I had forgotten just how much I enjoyed dance music. How many renditions of “The Wheels on the Bus” had I endured? I’d listen to anything in lieu of sitting in rush-hour traffic with three screaming toddlers in the car. Oh, the number of red lights I had willed to turn to green . . .
I looked out the window as I sped through the night, and the glimmering lights of the downtown core winked back at me, inviting me to discover its hidden secrets.
HALI’S CAR SAT idling in the middle of the mall parking lot. I pulled up alongside her and got out—gingerly. Damn corset.
I opened her passenger door and sat down—gingerly. Hali was putting on lipstick in her rearview mirror. “Okay,” I said, “So how are you doing?”
“I’m good,” she said, automatically. Then she looked at me. “But I’m nervous. Are you?”
“Yes!” I laughed. “This is crazy. Absolutely freaking crazy. But, whatever.” I leaned back in the chair. “Let’s do it.”
The club was located in the back of a long, monochrome industrial building. Except for the club’s unmarked black doors, this side of the building was as dull as the front. It felt like gangster territory, and behind these closed doors I imagined smoky poker rooms and car thieves reassembling stolen parts. Hali and I were completely silent.
“That’s it there,” she half-whispered, “The one with the small red light out front.” She parked a few doors down, but kept the car running.
“It’s kind of funny that it has a red light,” I said lightly. “It’s like we’re going into the red-light district.”
“You sure you want to do this?” asked Hali, nervously rubbing her hands.
“ME? You’re the one who wanted to come! And now, yes, I want to check it out. We didn’t come here to just sit in a parking lot. It’s right there, we look great, so let’s go—before I lose my courage.” I opened the door. “Worst-case scenario, we stay for ten minutes then leave.”
“Okay.”
My heart beat faster as we approached the entrance. I lifted my chin, thrust my shoulders back, and swung open that door like I owned the place.
We stepped into a dimly lit entryway. Further passage was blocked by another closed door, beyond which I could hear dance music. To our left, a man and woman sat behind what appeared to be a coat check. Phew, they’re both dressed.
“Hi,” the woman said loudly. “Can I help you?” Not friendly, but guarded. She’s a watchdog.
“Hi, my name is Hali. I spoke with the owner earlier today, and my friend, Delaine, and I are visiting for the first time tonight.”
The man behind the desk was looking at me as Hali talked. He was slim and short—maybe five foot seven—and had a goatee. I half-smiled at him and tried not to fidget. His appraising look made me feel even more self-conscious than I already did. Guard Woman pulled out a sign-in sheet and pointed. “I need you to write your name here and sign here. I also need to see your driver’s licenses.”
Yes Ma’am! I quickly jumped to do her bidding.
“And I’ll take your jackets,” said the man with the goatee, his voice rich, creamy . . . like butter. I felt naked as I shrugged it off my bare shoulders into his hands.
He can’t see anything, I reminded myself. Just relax!
But he knows you’re sexually curious! That’s why you’re here! trilled a panicked voice in response.
Front door admin complete, Goatee Man opened the inside door. “Welcome ladies,” he said with a brush of his arm, and we stepped into a large room. It was much like Hali had described: a bit like a condo, but in lieu of living room furniture, bar tables
and stools were spread across the hardwood floors. About fifteen people were scattered around the dimly lit room, but I didn’t dare look at anyone directly. Instead, I looked around them and above them, at sensual red-wine walls and dark wooden tabletops. The overall feel was warm. Mysterious. Sexual.
“I see you brought some alcohol,” Goatee Man said. I looked down—yes, I had forgotten. Knowing the club wasn’t licensed, I had grabbed a half-bottle of white wine out of my fridge on my way out the door.
Goatee Man walked over to a bar and poured our wine into glasses for us. “Allow me to show you around,” he offered graciously. “And feel free to ask any questions you may have as we go along.” Hali and I quickly sipped our wine.
As Goatee Man went over the club’s rules, I stood close to Hali, only half listening. I was dying of self-consciousness. Were people sizing me up as new meat?
“. . . and toward the end of the night, you’ll see that a lot of people leave this area and go upstairs,” I heard him say.
There’s an upstairs? Hali and I followed him back toward the entrance and up a set of stairs. No one else was up there. Away from the scrutiny of others, I calmed down somewhat. Goatee Man led us to an area on the right that held the same furnishings as any comfortable living room: couches, side tables, coffee table, artwork on the wall; there was even a TV in the corner, which was on. But it wasn’t a sitcom playing, it was porn. And the paintings were erotic as well. Goatee Man continued, in a very matter-of-fact tone: “You’ll find on the side tables anything you might need—condoms, towels, wet naps . . .”
“You mean people will actually come up here to have sex?” I blurted.
“Yes.” He guided us to another room; this one had jail bars as a door. “If you want some privacy, feel free to come in here.” I peeked inside. Two fully made-up queen-size beds lay side by side against chocolate-colored walls. Between them hung a painting of an open vagina. I noted that the wine-red bed pillow matched the labia in the artwork. Whoa. They don’t miss anything.
“And over here—” he led us across a bridge illuminated by tiny white floor lights, “. . . again, we have couches set up with all the amenities you might need. This room is often used for group activities. And way over there—” he pointed to the far corner, “. . . we have a Saint Andrew’s cross and other scene paraphernalia. That section is popular on Saturday nights, which is our Fantasy Night for dominants and submissives. But all members are welcome to use it any night they wish,” he added, smiling politely.
We made our way back to the top of the stairs. Goatee Man wrapped up: “You don’t have to participate in anything up here. You can simply watch if you like. Some of our members are exhibitionists and love an audience,” he added, smiling. “While others are into voyeurism. But, if someone asks you not to watch, you are expected to respect her wishes. I can’t say strongly enough, no means no here. Women’s choice comes first and must be obeyed at all times. You will see us walking around, monitoring the goings-on of the night to ensure that all our members are safe and happy.”
I was taken aback but also reassured by his businesslike manner, as if he was showing us around a resort hotel. Hali and I made our way back downstairs and found a table near the back of the room by the dance floor. I was starting to feel a little buzz from the wine and was finally relaxing. I scanned the room quickly, then again, more slowly. Everyone was busy doing his or her own thing: socializing, laughing, sometimes in small groups, some just in pairs. I noticed that most of the men were fully dressed in business-casual attire. But a number of women were wearing more daring outfits, and they came in various shapes and sizes.
I stared inconspicuously at two older women at a table close by. One appeared to be around fifty and wore a skimpy, black bedroom dress like the one I bought at Miss Chiff’s Closet (the one full of holes). Her companion was a beautiful heavy-set woman, who also revealed skin and curves with no apparent concern. They both seemed so relaxed and comfortable—here and in their bodies. I observed their husbands, who both looked like businessmen: One bald, one bulging at the belt, they were absorbed in conversation.
At the back of the room, Hali and I quietly shared our observations. We noted that the youngest group of people in the room was in our age bracket. They were socializing as if at a pub. Two other couples in their forties were dancing and chatting on the dance floor; one woman looked like Sally Homemaker in her grey and pink-checkered vest.
A couple of men and women approached us for casual conversation. But we both quickly expressed that it was our first time here. I think we scared them off.
“Oh my God,” I heard Hali murmur.
“What?”
“Don’t look now, but you know those older women a few tables over? I think they just switched husbands.” I casually looked over and . . . yup, yes-sir, no-doubt-about-it-folks—a switchover had transpired. Not only were the husbands openly touching the other’s wife, one woman was rubbing the other woman, too.
I didn’t want to stare but I couldn’t help it. Obviously they weren’t uncomfortable exhibiting, so why should I be shy about watching?
My body and brain were noticeably warm and fuzzy from the wine. The music was getting louder. And the songs being played were current, sexy; perfect for dancing and grinding. Sally Homemaker paraded back onto the dance floor with her husband and another man in tow, and it wasn’t long before she was being grilled, fried, and sandwiched.
“Look,” whispered Hali. “They’re going upstairs.” The two older couples had disappeared as a group up the stairs. Hali couldn’t resist adding commentary: “Going upstairs for some action, folks.”
I reached for my wine glass to help me chase down what I was witnessing. But dammit, it was empty! I wished I’d brought more.
Meanwhile, over at the pub-like gathering of younger adults, one of the women had taken off her jacket, showing off her assets. Her tall, slim frame was covered only by a lacy G-string and black leather chaps. The cutest man over there (Hali and I had agreed) was now squeezing and necking a luscious-looking black woman with a long mane of hair.
Suddenly, movement above me caught my eye. I looked up and realized that I could clearly view the upper floor. And directly facing me was the Saint Andrew’s cross. Black Minidress Woman was being tied onto it by her bald husband. The other woman was across from her, but I couldn’t see her. I could, however, see the top of her husband’s head; I think he was strapping her into something, too.
Once Minidress Woman was bound to the cross, her husband lifted her skirt, exposing her spread-eagled nakedness for all to see. He stood in front of her, kissing her, his hand visibly playing elsewhere. She smiled and talked. Sometimes she tilted her head back against the cross, obviously enjoying the pleasure she received. I pulled my eyes away, wishing even harder that I’d brought more wine.
I looked up again. A man was still in front of her but . . . hold on, people. It was now the other woman’s husband. They were switching back and forth!
“Wow, Hali,” I exhaled heavily. “This is turning me on.”
“Yeah, it’s super sexually charged,” replied Hali, who’d been observing the upstairs’ events too. “I’m glad I had sex three times last night,” she said with a sly grin.
“You did? But I thought you went to the stripping class!”
“And afterward, Josh came over.”
“Well I’ve had sex maybe six times in a flippin’ year and this is really getting to me!”
“Do you want to go upstairs and watch?” Hali half-teased half-dared.
“God no! No way! I don’t want to participate in anything. Watching from here is more than enough.”
But soon, the electricity in the room began to frustrate me. “Hali, I’ve probably had the least amount of sex out of every person in this entire room and I’m sitting here watching everybody else get some,” I said, exasperated. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
It wasn’t yet midnight as Hali drove me back to my car. But I felt like
I’d just spent days in the Twilight Zone. “Wow,” I exhaled. “That was something else.”
“Yeah. It was intense. The entire place breathed with sex.”
“So, are you glad you went?”
“For sure,” she said. “It was great to experience it. But I wouldn’t buy a membership,” she added, emphatic. “I doubt I’ll ever go back, though who knows with me these days. What about you?”
I thought for a minute, eyebrows knit. My feelings weren’t totally black and white. “Well, it definitely pushed me out of my comfort zone. Right now I really want to have sex, so it obviously worked for me on some level! The problem is, I’ve got zilcho in the playmate department and I don’t think I could have simply hooked up with a stranger there tonight—and in front of all those people—so I’m not sure what that means.”
“Would you go back again?”
I thought again for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. A part of me is a bit curious about their Fantasy Night, the whole dominant/ submissive thing. But I doubt I’ll follow up. When it comes right down to it, I think it was neat to experience it, but it’s not me.”
“See? I think that’s what’s so cool about this, Delaine: We’re growing, changing, trying new things; yet when it comes right down to it, whether we’d decided to go upstairs or not, we’re capable of making choices that work for us. Other people would probably judge us just because we set foot in a sex club. But we know we can step outside our box and still be true to ourselves.”
Hali pulled up beside my parked minivan, and we continued talking. The night didn’t just test our comfort zone, it galvanized thought. We were both bursting to share our personal insight about our sexuality. “The fact that people knew, beyond a doubt, that I was there because I was sexually curious made me really uncomfortable,” I admitted. “When I go to a bar, I can sit in the corner, play coy, and pretend like I’m not there to pick up. But at this place, as soon as we walked through the doors, I couldn’t hide: I was willingly entering a sex club, so I was openly admitting that I was there because of the sex. That was an uncomfortable feeling for me to sit in.”
The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom Page 8