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Not Real Perverts

I picked up the Portland, Maine, Phoenix because Beck was on the cover. On the back page was an ad that read: "Hot, attractive couples and single women in the New England area want to dance and have safe sex with you and yours in sumptuous surroundings. No drugs, no pressure, no single men. Fun and excitement. Eveningwear required." Dave and I were transfixed, but faced a dilemma. We had always reassured ourselves that we weren't real perverts because we weren't wife-swappers. It was an arbitrary line, but once we drew it, we hung onto it as firmly as a Dungeons and Dragons player will tell himself that as long as he's not a Dungeon Master, he's not a real geek.
     So we drew a new line. As long as the wife-swappers are in eveningwear, it's not perverted. I called for more info. It seems these people borrow houses for the weekend, and designate rooms for different activities — from do-not-disturb (for traditional wife-swapping) to "please-disturb" (where a screwing couple want to get walked in on by everybody, watched and fondled all over the place!). The guy telling me this does tech support for his day job. He kept asking me questions like how often do I defragment my computer. When I said never, he said, "You're a bad girl. You're a bad, bad girl." I'm a bad non-defragmenter.
     He's going to call back tomorrow at a random time with information about the next "social." He has to make sure we're real people at a real address, not police or pranking frat boys. Dave and I are in a state of thrill.

January 12, 2000

My god my god my god my god — it's this Saturday! At a restaurant in Dedham with "Jimmy's" in the title. Given these two facts, I doubt eveningwear is still applicable. Dave and I considered designating a new pervert line we wouldn't cross, and then decided, "Ah, screw it, we are perverts."
     We were agitated all day. "What if they want to lick my feet?" I cried out, mid-laundry-folding. I kept coming up with new worries and awful imaginings. "What if they try to explore or communicate?" Those kinds of people are always doing that.
     I was also concerned about the residue. Well, that sounds like a fungus. Call it an aura — a luminous radiation left on my husband's penis by his last sex partner. I don't want his type's radiation around: those odd, cranky, bespectacled women with giraffe necks. The girls I like, he finds too young, too short, too plump and too dumb. I'm less picky about men — I don't care if they're fat or old. Who am I kidding? I want them fat and old! Fat, old men defying death by splattering life-giving seed on my biological clock.
     I was flooded with insecurity. At the end of the day I took it all back and said, "I only want to sleep with you." I kept changing my mind and getting more and more insecure until I guess I got boring, because Dave fell asleep. So I dumped a cup of water on his secure and sleeping head.

January 13, 2000

The swingers newsletter arrived in the mail, and ooh are they bi-unfriendly! You can trade your wife but you aren't allowed to be attracted to a man if you're a man? "Hey man, I'm a pervert, not a homo." For god's sake, men — you're attending an event at Jimmy Testa's. People hold party-after-the-hockey-season events there. This is no time for snobbery. I'll tell you one thing: I am not wasting a dry-clean-only skirt on these hicks. I'm going to have to completely rethink my outfit now.
     To be fair, I should say they do list some bi- and gay-friendly swapping organizations that you should go to if you're that way. But why does everything have to be so segregated? I don't want to be with a bunch of homos any more than I wanna get stuck in a roomful of straights. I want to go where the spirit moves me, ride the eagle down the rainbow's edge. Is that so much to ask?


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