There are certain things you do in your twenties (or thirties, who’s counting) that don’t exactly make it into the family scrapbook. For us, that thing was… well… we tried swinging. One time. In Las Vegas. Yes, that Las Vegas. The city where you can walk down the Strip with a yard-long margarita in your hand and still feel like you’re underdressed.
It happened six years ago, before kids were running wild through the house with mismatched socks and before I spent 90% of my day washing Ninja Turtle underwear. Rex and I thought, “Hey, we’re in Vegas. Let’s do something wild and weird.” And we did. We went to a swingers club. We met a couple. And we gave it a try.
And let me tell you, it was awkward. Like middle school dance awkward. Like the first time you try to do a TikTok dance awkward. Not bad, not awful, just… one of those moments where you suddenly become hyper-aware of every little thing, and you’re thinking, “So this is what we’re doing now, huh?” The other couple was nice. They were an African American couple from Los Angeles. The drinks were strong. We had fun in the way you have fun when you’re so far outside your comfort zone you might as well be on Mars.
The other woman was pretty cute, late 20’s and really seemed to enjoy Rex’s company. In fact, they didn’t return from the other hotel room for a good hour longer than it took the other man and I to get finished.
The husband was 32, a former backup linebacker in the NFL, and let’s just say very well endowed. Biggest I ever had, honestly. The actual sex was ok, but I didn’t feel the intimacy I feel with Rex. I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the sensation mostly. That thing was HUGE!
But we came home, high-fived each other for actually going through with it, and then never did it again. Six years later, it’s still the one and only time. Honestly, the memory lives less in what happened (because that part is fuzzy and weird and stayed in Vegas, as it should) and more in the fact that we actually did it. We looked at each other, said yes to something totally out of character, and then tucked it away like a secret inside joke.
These days, our wild nights look like binge-watching crime documentaries while folding three baskets of laundry, and I can’t say I’m mad about it. The Vegas story? It just makes us laugh now. Like, remember that one time we thought we were that couple? Ha. Cute. Now please hand me a snack cup because Anthony just declared war on his broccoli, and I need fuel.
And who knows — maybe in another six years, when the kids are older, and the laundry mountain isn’t quite so tall, we’ll take another shot at something unexpected. But honestly? I doubt it. Once was more than enough.