Swinger Sayings And Quotes

If she had to choose something, she’d say it was his build. Women were ingrained to go for the biggest Neanderthal in the village and they didn't come much bigger than Preacher. Disreputable Renegade Souls member. Perpetual Don Juan and swinger of his dick.

Promoting promiscuity in this evolved and civilized society is actually like signing the Declaration, that says: “I hereby renounce my membership of humankind, since I am neither human nor kind. I declare that I no longer belong to the modern human species, i.e. the Homo sapiens. From now on I shall be counted among the swingers of the animal kingdom, such as the bonobo or montane vole. I am simply an arrogant philandering savage.

Don’t forget – you’ll have to pretend to like me.” “Huh,” I say, scratching my chin. “So, like, I shouldn’t ogle other women? Or pick up some chick at the bar, and take her back to my room?” “Of coursenot.” A look of pure horror crosses Alex’s face. “But baby,” I complain. “Maybe your new boyfriend is a swinger. How do you feel about threesomes?” “Eric!” Her eyes bug out.

I say, “Lights,” and the place is suddenly like premiere night at the Egyptian Theatre. How can I describe the place? The walls and ceiling are rounded, like we’re living in a goddamn UFO. The tables and cabinets have rounded backs to fit against the walls. There’s an orange shag carpet and an avocado-green sofa covered with enough plush pillows that you could break a leg if they ever avalanched. The place is ringed by oval windows, and I can see lights beyond them. Aside from the sofa, the rest of the furniture is all smooth molded white plastic with the same warm seventies hipster colors on the chair seats and backs. The apartment is basically a Hugh Hefner bachelor pad in a Star Trek swingers’ resort.

Every couple of months or so, some boundary breaking article comes out in a nationally published magazine. The article makes a big thesis statement about relationships. Like say how, women don’t need men anymore, or how if you’re a woman over thirty-five, you should just settle with whatever guy is half-way nice to you, or how monogamy is not feasible, or plausible, or enjoyable, for any human. And we should all be swingers, or a study is released that say’s, you don’t have to love your kids anymore or something. They’re the kind of articles that are e-mailed everywhere and I get them forwarded to me about eight times. I will read one of these articles and immediately afterward I’m so swept up in it, I can’t help but think Yes, Yes, that is one-hundred percent right. Finally! Someone has confirmed that little voice in the back of my mind that has always not loved my kids, or I’m so happy I’m that much closer to my swinging lifestyle I’ve always secretly been craving. I’m normal and now it’s a national discussion and others agree and I can feel normal now. But then, a week later I’m thinking, I hate this. I feel awful. This wretched little magazine article has helped convinced more open minded liberal arts graduates that, the nuclear family doesn’t exist without some hideous twist, like the dad is allowed to go to an S & M dungeon once a week or something. It makes me cry because it means that fewer and fewer people are believing it’s cool to want what I want, which is to be married and have kids and love each other in a monogamous, long-lasting relationship.

We’re together,” I say, glancing at the guys. “The four of us. Well, Jake and Caleb and I are together,” I clarify. “And Ilmari and I…but he’s not with them.” They all stare at us with confused looks on their faces. “I’m too old for this,” Coach says at last, shaking his head. “You’re—is it like a swingers thing?” says Andrews, clearly trying to be hip enough to understand. “No, it’s polyamory,” replies Poppy with an excited grin. “You’re polyamorous. Right, Rachel?

What do you say to us giving this a go?” “What do you mean?” “You asked me yesterday what we are. There’s no way I’m fucking letting you go now.” “Are you going to make me sign a contract?” “No contract. But I worry,” I admit. “Because if you say yes, Honey, I’m a selfish man, and I won’t let anyone else touch you. I don’t want you feeling like I’m your only experience.” “Why don’t we become swingers if you begin to make the sex boring?

And,” Eileen continued, “it turns out that Ted is married to Lou, and Ed is married to Sue.” Abby felt her eyes get wide. “Wait, what?” “They swap,” Eileen said, with a smug-looking smile. “On the bike trips. They told us all at brunch, before we went back. They say it keeps things fresh and exciting.” “Oh my God,” said Abby. “So they’re swingers? A foursome?” “A polycule,” said Eileen, pronouncing a word she most likely hadn’t known before the trip.

DeJesus batted next, an aggressive slasher from Santurce, Puerto Rico. Scouts liked to say that Puerto Rican (and Cuban and Dominican) players were free swingers because “nobody ever walked their way off the island.