Nympho by Andrea Blackstone

appeared to be the norm.
    I walked into the next room and entered a whole new world of freakiness; the aura reminded me of an old-fashioned house party. People were grooving and grinding to Little Kim’s “Lighters Up.” It was so dark, all I could make out were shadows of faces and bodies. Women were dancing with women. Couples were dancing with couples. One man was indulging by getting his penis sucked as he stood against a wall. Next to him sat a brother who was enjoying a lap dance. The room was definitely hot, and not in a way that the fan in the corner could cool it off. As rumored, this place was off the hook, and I enjoyed being a voyeur. People stared at me a lot, but for the most part, I was left alone.
    Next, I took a walk upstairs to find out what that scene was like. As soon as my foot hit the top step, I observed a crowd watching three women dance in a large cage. One was topless, bent over, and gripping the bars while another simulated screwing her doggy style. They appeared to be college students, no doubt on the rolls of a university less than fifteen minutes away. As they laughed and enjoyed giving a freak show, I wondered how their parents would feel if they knew what was going down. I would sure they were clueless, believing their kids were studying hard in summer school. Yeah, right—studying. They were studying Freakology 101, just like me.
    Long, loose curtains flowed, brushing the floor almost in time with the strange music that was playing. There were benches built into the sides of both walls, and I assumed they were for the convenience of other voyeurs, or those who needed the leverage. The atmosphere and the music conjured a strange vibe that proved to be too eerie for my taste. I carefully pushed my way through the crowd and walked back downstairs.
    Suddenly, I felt as if I needed a cool, stiff glass of liquor, although I’d never had anything stronger than organic cran-apple juice in my life. One drink led to two, and two led to three. Before I knew it, I had exceeded my alcohol tolerance, which was, apparently, extremely low. I quickly learned I was the type who could nearly get drunk just smelling communion wine, let alone consuming it.
    I pulled the cherry from my last drink, and tilted back my head to bite it from the stem, just as I’d seen sex sirens do in old, low budget movies. I swallowed it and noticed that my nipples were peeking out of my dress. When I looked up, a handsome-looking man was staring at me.
    â€œHi, I’m Rich.” A tall brown-skinned man with smooth skin stuck out his hand to shake mine. “This is my girl, Deja.”
    â€œHello.” I looked at the both of them, wondering why they had me hemmed up.
    â€œAre you seeing anyone?” he asked bluntly. That’s when I noticed his mustache and goatee.
    I smiled. “No ring . . . no man. I do have a friend with benefits, but I don’t think that’s quite what you were asking about.”
    They both laughed as I held my hand up and wiggled it.
    â€œSo, you’re seeing Deja?” I asked, confused.
    â€œDeja is my wife, not my girlfriend.”
    â€œYour wife?”
    â€œWe can both do what we want as long as we discuss it,” Rich explained.
    Then it hit me—they were swingers, and this club was swinger, bisexual, and gay friendly. Being open-minded was a requirement. It wasn’t like anyone was here just to listen to the music, drink brews, and have a good time. They were here to hook up.
    All of those apple martinis I drank started to cloud my judgment. Rich and Deja began drinking a concoction I’d never heard of called Sex on the Beach, of all things. The next thing I felt was a pat on my ass, and then I was on the dance floor nestled between the two of them. Deja was bordering on the full-figured side, but still what I considered drop-dead gorgeous. She definitely changed my mind about what society may classify as an ideal size. She stood