Sex Club America

Sex Club America

Love, Sex and Family
What Going To A Sex Club Is Actually Like By Rachel Varina | January 2, 2020

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For the past, say, decade of my life, the idea of sex clubs has tantalized my brain. Whether it was watching parts of Eyes Wide Shut when my mom thought I was asleep, or devouring every piece of Fifty Shades like the basic betch I am, something about kinky sex has always fascinated me. And the most interesting kink of all was the sex club.
As someone who is jealous 98% of the time, it made zero sense for me to hit up one of these places. I can’t handle confrontation, comparisons, or situations where my self-confidence will be tested in the slightest. Why did I go, then? The same reason anyone would: My husband and I were drunk, bored, and didn’t feel like going out for sushi again. Well, not that kind of sushi, anyway (sorry, mom).
We had no idea what we were getting into, but f*ck it, we were going. So, as a not-so-adventurous woman who recently lost her sex club v-card, I’m here to walk you through the ins and outs of my first time, and how you and your expectations might just be shook.
From ordering the Uber (and most likely dropping the pin a block away so the driver doesn’t know where we’re actually going) to entering the club, the sheer thought of the nerves I’ll feel entering is already making my palms clammy. What do I do with my purse? I probably can’t wear Spanx, right? Will people be naked off the bat? Do we start making out on the dancefloor then go to a room or what? I have absolutely no idea how any of it works, and as someone who studies a restaurant menu for DAYS before actually going to said restaurant, the vast amount of unknowns is the scariest part of all.
There are two ways to approach this situation: embarrassed awkward or excited awkward. Either way, it’s going to be awkward, but you have the option to make it fun or weird. The Uber ride? Weird. Walking into the club and signing waivers and getting a tour of the nearly-empty facility? Very weird. Being set free post-tour to go to the bar and start flirting with strangers? Very, VERY weird. There’s no denying it—this was way out of my comfort zone. The thing to remember is that it’s strange for everyone the first time (at least, I’m assuming?). Instead of pretending it’s not bizzare, embrace the bizarre. Ask questions. Laugh at the strangeness. The only thing that makes it more uncomfortable is pretending it’s NBD watching real, live strangers hump in front of you for the first time.
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When I picture my ideal sex club, it involves a lot of people who are between the ages of, say, 22-37 and of the same general attractiveness as I am. Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s what we’ll be walking into. First of all, I live in FLORIDA. Second of all, hot, young people are probably too busy being hot and young to spend an ungodly amount of money to watch strangers have sex on a Saturday night.
After reading reviews of not only the club we’re going to, but every other club in America and a few in Europe, the results are: You have no idea what you’re going to get into (or what’s going to be getting into you, if you know what I mean.). We could walk in and it be all things nose hairs and liver spots, or it could be firm asses and strong abs. My thoughts? Me (a solid 6-8 depending on the day) and my husband (a 10 where it counts) will either be the stars of the freaking show or the stubby outcasts.
As a couple of twentysomethings in a state where the average age of residents is 42, we could have walked in wearing bags over our heads and still been one of the hottest couples in the room. Like in almost any other situation, the sex club offered a wide variety of people of varying attractiveness. The only difference? As opposed to a normal bar or public event, everyone actually tried their best to look good. With a firm dress code, the population obviously put effort into their appearances.
Sure, the majority of the guests were in their 30s-50s, but it wasn’t *just* people who saw the invention of the f*cking telegraph there. By going on a big event night (the club’s biggest Christmas party of the year), we figured there’d be at least a few other couples who weren’t covering up grays yet, and luckily we were correct. While, yes, there were a few uncomfortably attractive people in the mix, all in all it was a collection of normal people who were trying their best to look good, which is better than I can say for almost any other situation I’d find myself in on a normal weekend.
if anyone sees me going to a bar with a cover in 2020, please slap me across the face and make me check my bank account
— Betches (@betchesluvthis) January 2, 2020
Now, obviously, as any closeted type-A could tell you, I know the prices of the club. I know how much it costs on any day for single females, couples, and single males (sucks to be you in this situation, gents). I know how much cover is, I know how much the drinks cost before 10pm, and I know how much they’ll price gouge us once it hits 10:01. F*cking duh. What does this look like, amateur hour? But, there’s still an element of the unknown. Will I feel so uncomfortable that I’ll have to down multiple $15 shots before I can make eye contact with anyone or will I be able to make both sexually AND fiscally responsible decisions?!
I knew the price of cover. I knew the price of the drinks. Hell, I even knew the price of how much the 30-minute Uber would cost to and from the venue. That still did not prepare me for looking at my credit card statement the next morning. My estimated cost for the evening? $175. The actual amount I spent over the course of the evening? Around $350. Between surge pricing, after-drinking munchies, and the fact that I become a shot-buying whore the second liquor hits my lips, the damage was as painful as my post-sex club hangover.
From what I understand about how these places work, there are spaces where the sex happens and there are spaces the sex doesn’t happen. The hookup-free areas are basically like any other bar (loud music, crowded dance floor, sexual tension) and it’s not until you head to the play areas that things really get ~scandalous~. My vision for these areas? A lot of pleather and plastic that will instantly make me wish I brought my own Lysol wipes. Will there be a dungeon with cheap chains and posters of bars on the wall? Sure. Will there be beds with mirrors above them? You betcha. Do I think I’ll be turned on? Not in the slightest.
This particular place had two separate areas, the bar and the play areas. While the bar area was like any other bar I’ve ever been to, with pool tables and oldies-stocked jukeboxes, the play areas were unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
It took us a while (and by “a while” I mean a lot of drinks) to build the courage to switch over to the non-bar side, but once we did, we were astounded. Room after room of plush, king-sized beds greeted us, each with a different theme (a space room, a safari room, a fully red room), a mirror on the ceiling, and a window where other people could watch you get it on. Beyond the private rooms were the group rooms complete with, you guessed it, black, pleather couches. So. Many. Black pleather couches. Beyond that? Again, you guessed it: a dungeon with multiple cages, sex swings, chains, and a wall full of things like whips, gags, blindfolds, belts, and clamps.
The one way it differed from what I expected was how clean it was. Everywhere you looked, hand sanitizer dispensers were mounted on walls, fresh towels were being laid out by polite-yet-detached workers, and the linens on the beds were being changed and the couches were being thoroughly wiped down. On one hand, I didn’t feel like I was going to catch something by accidentally brushing up against an armchair. On the other hand, seeing someone in latex gloves scrub down a chaise lounge after four couples orgasmed all over it was slightly unappealing. Overall, was it hot? Sort of, and also sort of not.
I could expect this to go either way, but in my head, I’m going to be optimistic. As soon as we walk in, a spotlight is going to land on me and the entire bar will let out a soft, slightly sexual gasp. She has arrived and oh, isn’t she perfection? Couples will stampede over to me, tripping on their stripper heels and slipping across the lubed up floor to be the first to talk to me.
With pleasant, knowing smiles, my husband and I will graciously greet our new fans and politely tell them that *giggle* it’s our first time. *Giggle* We’re sex club virgins. We’re just here to observe for now, but we’ll see how the night goes. *Wink.* From free drinks and shots to private tours of the facility and endless compliments, we’ll be the most sought-after couple, not only that night, but to have ever entered the club.
Did people hit on me? Yes *hair flip.* Was it nonstop? Not even a little bit. Turns out, the world did not stop turning the moment I crossed the threshold into the latex-scented caves. The thing is, the people at sex clubs are used to other people coming into sex clubs, especially the newbies. While multiple couples and single females came up to us, no one was especially pushy or weird. In fact, it was just like any other situation: Light small talk and downing drinks. The only difference is that after a few minutes people would ask if you wanted to f*ck them. The craziest part? A polite “no thanks” was all it took for them to smile and walk away. REVOLUTIONARY! While it felt a little uncomfortable turning people down at first, in this environment it feels totally safe to ask for sex and to casually say no. Again, REVOLUTIONARY.
If this boy breaks my heart I’m skipping the subtweets and just shooting him
— 𝖆𝖑𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖐𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖓𝖎 (@almondmilkhunni) December 30, 2019
As stated before, I am, as the French say, “a jealous-ass bitch.” Ever since my first boyfriend in second grade kissed my ex -best friend behind the slide, my trust issues have been out of control. So, the thought of walking around a venue where my husband would not only be looking at other women, but potentially be solicited by said women, seems like a special circle of hell specifically reserved for me. And bonus points? I get to pay for it!!!!
In almost any situation, if another female so much as brushes against my man, I’ll be right there to casually elbow the bitch away and put my tongue down his throat. I had a feeling this would be the same, except elevated. In reality, removing the weird boundary that we *couldn’t* check out or flirt with other people actually lessened the jealousy. Sure, there was still some, like when the brunette wearing nothing but pasties was talking to my husband about finance for 10 minutes, but in reality, it just made things more exciting. With trust and communication, you got the thrill without the actual risk of cheating.
Whether it’s my husband or someone else, that’s kind of the whole point of the place, right? Naturally, we have set up rules before entering this, as any couple who doesn’t want to break up in the center of the dance floor needs to do. We know what is and isn’t off-limits and we both have the right to say “let’s leave” on a moment’s notice and then we’ll hightail it outta there. That said, even with all of the unsexy and very rigorous boundaries in place, the whole point of this (other than internet fame and bringing shame to my parents) is to get laid. If I’m shelling out that much money for overpriced drinks and bad dance music, you better believe I’m going to get weird.
All I want this year is to get laid more & cry less
— libra in the streets scorpio in the sheets (@garbage_babey) January 2, 2020
I was dressed like a slutty elf. I spent $350 on ONE NIGHT OUT. We started drinking at 5pm. Yes, I had sex. Yes, stuff happened with strangers. No, my husband and I didn’t break up because of it. Yes, it was a f*cking blast. Yes, it made our relationship stronger. No, I don’t think it’s cheating. Yes, I would HIGHLY suggest going. No, you’re not going to get any more scandalous details from me about what went down. Not yet, at least…
Considering my love of attention and my thirst for anything taboo, I have a feeling that once I step foot into my first sex club, I’ll want to keep coming again and again and again. Yeah, yeah—pun fully intended.
While I’m not sure I’m going to purchase an annual pass to my neighborhood sex club, I’m also not writing the idea off. While I wasn’t obsessed with the venue, the clientele, or those freaking black pleather couches (ugh), there’s something to be said for branching out of your usual bedroom routine and trying something different. Whether that means a gang bang or just giggling with your partner in the corner, there’s something (read: orgasms) for everyone who is willing to get out of their comfort zone.
Images: Alexander Popov / Unsplash; uuppod, betchesluvthis, almondmilkhunni, garbage_babey / Twitter
Formerly one of the HBICs at Total Sorority Move (RIP), Rachel Varina has a long history of writing about things that make her parents ashamed. She's an avid lover of holding grudges, sitting down, and buffalo chicken dip. Currently, she lives in Tampa, Florida, but did not feed her husband to tigers. And even though she's married, she doesn't suck. Promise. PROMISE! Follow her on Instagram and Twitter (@rachelvarina) so she gets more followers than that influencer her husband dated in high school.
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Came for the sex, stayed for the food🍗.
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Sometime last year, my best friend was invited to a sex club in Manhattan by someone she was sleeping with.
When I say sex club, I mean Eyes Wide Shut , but without the creepy masks and mandatory white-tie-with-a-cape attire. The type of place where you pay a fee and can basically choose to participate in an open orgy. You can just watch other couples/threesomes/foursomes, have sex with the person you came with, invite a third (fourth? fifth?) into your copulation, or just straight-up masturbate for an hour. Whatever floats your O.
The experience was all my friend would talk about—what she saw, what she didn't see (but heard), and also, strangely, what she ate.
Yes: In addition to broadening her sexual boundaries, the sex club apparently also broadened her palate with, of all things, an impressive buffet.
"In addition to broadening her sexual boundaries, the sex club apparently also broadened her palate with, of all things, an impressive buffet. "
I'm not talking the gross, salty stuff that gets served at strip clubs. I'm talking dishes like Chilean sea bass and avocado salad, lobster macaroni and cheese, filet mignon—*fancy* food. And, like the side dish of sex being served all around it, it was all-you-can-eat.
As a single woman in the city always looking for my next extravagant culinary experience on a noticeably unextravagant budget, I was intrigued. All-you-can-eat five-star food for $30? And maybe a bizarre sexual encounter to serve as the (potentially literal) cherry on top?
My friend started forwarding me emails from the sex club (sex clubs have mailing lists?) boasting their upcoming menu for the next sex soiree: baby back ribs, lemon rotisserie chicken, smoked salmon—and, lest I forget the most convincing part, a bottomless liquor fountain.
So on a freezing Valentine's Day night (because if you're going to do it, you might as well go all out), we bundled up to "treat" ourselves to a fancy dinner in Midtown—courtesy of the sex club.
We arrived at the nondescript building at around 11 p.m. and paid a nice, middle-aged woman with a mom haircut our $30 each. My friend asked if there was still food available. "Of course," she said, smiling. "Go right on in, girls."
We immediately whooshed through an entire room of naked people touching each other, my friend following her nose right to the buffet table. But once we got to the pile of platters, we realized—there was no food left. Not a crumb. Just the sad remainders sauces and steam.
"This is bullshit," my friend said as she pulled out her phone. "I'm getting us a refund."
Mind you, it's my first time in a sex club. So when she leaves to go back to the nice lady at the ticket booth, I'm suddenly alone, mere feet away from people who are moaning and grunting, occasionally popping their head in to also see that there is no food left.
But I'm so awkward with my body—I don't even know if I should sit or stand (maybe stand for awhile and then sit?) because I don't know how to be in such close proximity to strangers openly having sex. Apparently, this does not come naturally. At least not to me.
After what felt like an eternity, my friend finally reappeared and said she had secured us both refunds. Hungry and cold, we passed back through the room of humping strangers and went home.
A year later, still being tempted by regular email blasts about decadent chocolate cake and buffalo mozzarella, my friend and I decided to give it another go. Only this time, we strategized differently: We got there early—at around 7:30, prompt dinner time.
This time there was food. Mountains of it. And we ate like kings. Plates of rotisserie chicken and the most delicious Chilean sea bass I've ever had—surprisingly delicate. Well worth the $30 and soundtrack of orgasms in the background.
"I saw a Hasidic man getting a blowjob—his yamaka still on despite that he was completely nude."
While we're shoveling food into our faces and mumbling to one another about how this is the most incredible meal we've ever had, we begin to notice that everyone else taking a seat is either partially naked or completely naked. Meanwhile, my friend and I just look we're out to dinner—fully dressed. We chit chat with strangers like, where are you from? Oh yeah, I used to live around there but I moved here . But there's no denying the awkwardness of reaching across four pairs of exposed breasts for another helping of garlic mashed potatoes.
At one point I got up (to go inquire when the next batch of rotisserie chicken was coming out) and bumped into the co-owner—a lovely man in his mid-40s who repeatedly told me that he just "wanted everyone to have a good time and enjoy themselves." His wife was the other co-owner, and she did all the cooking. She takes tremendous pride, he said, in serving rich, tasty dishes to the patrons.
After dinner, people started traveling to different rooms to commence the true festivities of the evening. I was too full to eat anymore, and figured I had already sat across from these people at dinner, so why not explore? Even in this setting, there was something innately distasteful about bailing after dinn
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