Up until that moment, all the swing I knew was of the dance variety. Nick and I had connected on Tinder over profane, sacrilegious innuendos, involving self-flagellation, prostration and holy sutras to finding enlightenment in the bedroom.
Nick proceeded to show me a photo of the swing organisers: A selfie of a couple in their early thirties at the beach. Seeing their faces meant shit was getting real. But sex parties were never a high-priority experience on my bucket list. But guys HAVE to bring a girl along. Otherwise all the coffeeshop chee ko peks would just conveniently show up for some. Whether this was some made-up excuse to convince me to go or a requirement set out by an under-the-table swing party association, I had no way of knowing.
The fateful day arrived. Nick and I convened at a bus stop near the fuck-spot. Who would choose to meet at 1pm on a weekday afternoon? And why Geylang?? But I took to watching passing cars, wondering who else was driving to meet us. Even smart-mouthed Nick was oddly quiet, chain-smoking the entire way down Lorong 4, to the block of service apartments.
We reached the building, walked up the stairs. This was it. We knocked and entered the room. The curtains were drawn, it was dimly lit and there were two queen-sized beds, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke.
There they were, the organisers, the couple from the photo, still fully clothed. If there was a memo explaining proper sex party etiquette, we never got it. We started making formal, proprietous introductions, even shook hands. We awkz AF. As much as Nick and I attempted to be verbose, the old birds, Trevor and Bridget, picked up on our uneasiness. Trevor started the ball rolling. He was a property agent, and a chatty one at that. The cheeky glint in his eyes implied otherwise.
