Ask and You Shall Receive: Swing in the City
By Daniel Buyanovsky

It’s 1 am, and I’m hopping out of a gypsy-cab at an intersection in Bushwick. I’m three hours late, but there are still hours of proper fucking to be done. Two flights up, cliques of naked fornicators are anxiously dancing and waiting for the night to get into full “swing,” so to speak. When I walk up to the unassuming doorman, he asks, in his best Batman impression, “What are you here for?”

“Chemistry,” I say. I’m here for Chemistry – the latest pseudo-swinger’s party-that-hates-to-be-called-a-swinger’s party to hit Brooklyn. And despite desperate warnings from friends about contracting HIV upon entry, I pass through the double doors and onto the second line of security.
When I’m handed a velvet baggy of condoms, I’m allowed in, so long as I don’t drink (I’m not yet 21). I’m given no other guidelines, save for the few sent to me the night before by Chemistry’s hosts and evident enemies of space-bars, KennyBlunt and ShielaMonster, who promised the night to be marked by an “erotic environment that is much more about the journey than the destination.”

Upon entering, though, I wasn’t so sure. At first glance, it was a loft party like other Brooklyn loft parties. Some people dancing, some drinking, and the rest moseying around, waiting for whatever would set the whole thing off. Not yet in the dancing mood, I opted to explore. First stop was the massage tables, where a beautiful woman was laying butt-up. Hoping to get into prime position to watch, I moved to sit down on an ottoman (that a man had already been sitting on).
After a clumsy moment in his lap, I slid over to the bench beside him and struck up a conversation. I asked him how he was liking the event.  
"Pretty cool, man," he admitted. Pointing to the girl I'd just sat down to look at, he continued, "that's my girl right there. We've been to a couple of these, and the others were pretty weird, but I like the vibes here. There's more than just fucking, you know?"
“Right,” I agreed, initiating a silence that seemed to last the entire length of an electro-pop megamix.

Finally shifting our attention from the sensual massage, he nodded to me, "there's a lot of hot girls here, huh?" While he have been peeping the prospects for a three-way, I took his comment as an offer to stop staring at his girlfriend's ass. So, I did. I stood and motioned to shake his hand, as he grabbed it while pulling me in closer.
"Just be safe and open, bro. You'll have a great fuckin' time." I started to thank him for the tip, but something a few feet behind his shoulder caught my attention - a naked woman deep-throating a heavy-set man in a khaki suit.
"Have fun," I shouted, escaping the man's grip. I needed a drink, but while trying to squirm through the slippery limbs on the Twister mat, a man grabbed me by the shoulders from behind (hardly the best time for this to happen) and pleaded -

"Bro! Can you spin for us?" Still in exploration-mode, I bypassed the drink and abided, as he handed me the spinner and ripped off his tanktop.
"Right hand blue!" I yelled to a half-dozen naked people. With every call, people were falling, sliding, landing on top of each other, kissing. Every person on the mat was really a few inches from fornication, and as I got more and more involved, all I wanted to do was be that catalyst. I felt like the Moses of love.
But, my power trip was cut short by an enthusiastic young lady, so I handed over my duties, whispering, “be careful.”  
I continued on through the party, and soon found myself in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by two dozen pants-less people. It was fun for a second, but only a second. Quickly, it became an obstacle course filled with the kind of obstacles you really want to avoid being tapped by on the backs of your thighs.
Onward.

After a quick pause at the pizza-bar beside the dance floor for nourishment, I walked off to search for my friend, who I found sitting with a middle-aged blonde woman. After some introductory pleasantries, she divulged her passions.

"I’m…tantric. And tantric people don't just fuck. We love! We love everything about the human form, baby. I didn't come here to just get fucked."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, baby. I'm here because my friend really needs to get fucked. I'm just here for support." Something told me she wasn't the only person around with a "my friend…" excuse. That something may have been the fact that this was her third party. I guessed that she had a lot of friends who needed the service Chemistry so effectively provides.

As she spoke, though, I found myself getting attracted to this woman. Maybe it was her effortless casualty. I had to find out – "so are you planning on hooking up tonight?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure. We'll see how the night goes. But the thing is - if ever I want to, I just have to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Ask, for whatever, baby. Ask, and you shall receive."

"Receive what?" I demanded. Why was she being so cryptic? What was I supposed to ask of all of these strangers?

"Okay, listen. If you want a hug, you ask for a hug. If the girl wants to hug you, they will. All you do gotta do is ask."

The advice seemed fool-proof. "Can I have a hug?"

"Sure, baby." She grabbed me by my shoulders and shoved me into her chest, letting out a moan. "Ask, and you shall receive." She let me go and took me by the hand. "Now let's have some fun!"

Following her, I wrestled my way through the obstacle-floor for a second time, and when we got through she led me into the "Private Room” – a sprawling den filled with faux-gold wallpaper and crimson draperies that whispered Arabian nights.
Still holding my hand, she told me to stop, and look around. Reluctantly, I did. On a circular mattress toward the back, a man was fucking a woman doggy-style while another woman sat on the edge of the bed and watched, as if seeing her parents naked for the first time.
Beside them, a set of bunk beds was rocking so hard from penetration on both top and bottom that it looked as if somebody was bound to sprain something. And after a quick scan of the rest of the room, I finally found myself staring at the bed directly beside me.
There, a man close in stature to Israel Kamakawiwo'ole sat Indian-style between two women in scissor-position. The man was, for lack of clever wordplay, fingering both women and smiling. He seemed peaceful.

"Hey, man," I offered.

"Hey," he responded, through his wide grin.

This was as close as I'd bring myself to asking, so we just sat down on the bottom bunk beside the three cavorters - one of whom turned out to be the woman's friend "who really needed to get fucked."
Before any attempt at small-talk, my adopted escort started tonguing her friend's nipples. Unoccupied, I started to gently rub the inner thigh of the other woman, which felt like an unfortunate cross-breed between Brie and GoGurt. I was content with the slow rub, but things were quickly escalating with Israel at the helm, so I excused myself to “get some air.”

Escaping the scene, I broke for the rooftop, where I was sure I’d find a bearable alternative to the downstairs fun. Instead, I found more of the same. To my left, a foursome in its early stages; to my right, two men being fellated; and right in front of me, the “fuck-tent” – the open-air answer to the “Private Room” downstairs, minus the bunk beds. Inside, curious cavorters were rolling around and trading partners like a dosey-do.
Suddenly consumed by the unrelenting gyration, epiphany struck as I whispered to my date. “I think we should have sex.” With little hesitation, she nodded, and so we climbed inside the tent.

The inside of the tent was business as usual – with no thought to outside spectators. Until the moments after. As I pulled on my clothing, I leaned forward to countless sets of staring eyes, and felt a thousand fury-fists of social anxiety pummeling me back inside. I was on the other side of the fuck-tent looking glass, and I didn’t want to be anymore.
Eventually, we escaped to the street and into another gypsy-cab, where we exhaled our breath and the evening. We got home and slept in separate beds, and didn’t speak to one another for a week. Uncomfortably exposed, we weren’t sure how to cope, but it wasn’t until after the Chemistry that all of this came into play. At the time, though, we were free, and all of the night’s prior festivities were merely preparation.

The thing is – Chemistry works, because everyone acts so day-in-the-life. Everyone’s nonchalance is so inviting, that resisting the sexual vibes is like saying no to your grandma’s cherry pie – it comes in peace! And while you can try your hardest to remain uncomfortable, Chemistry’s is so insular and private, it’s like you can do anything, and it gets left behind. In fact, one of the event’s guidelines is post-party discretion.

Thus, inside Chemistry faux pas simply don’t exist. Any preconceptions about sexuality and nudity become entirely irrelevant, because everyone is doing it, in the most honest way they can. In the strangest of ways, the people at swinger’s parties are the most honest of us all. While some go to bars to buy drinks and play casual flirty games, others frequent strip clubs to catch glimpses of the nude female form (available in spades at Chemistry), while Chemistry’s attendees sign up to get laid – and likely spend less money in their pursuit.

Sure, you can call its attendees creeps, or dirty outcasts. But you have to call them primal – putting aside fake intentions and ideas of morality to follow their animal urges and simply spread seeds. If sex is the final destination, then sex is sex. Swinging just makes it easier.

So, in the sense of collecting a bunch of people in a room to hang out and politely hump, Chemistry is a wild success. It’s only downfall, though, is its attempt to be anything more than that, namely an erotic environment. This, Chemistry is not. It’s a fuck-fest, fittingly equipped with a fuck-tent.