Saturday, January 31, 2015
I am trapped in a dilemma and must make a decision soon. I have been invited to a "swingers" party. I was astonished, really, that there are still such things as "swingers." I thought that went out with the seventies. But apparently I don't run in the "right" crowds. Now I have no personal interest in going. Not at all. I can't even "swing" in that I don't have a partner. But that is not why I would be going. I'm seeing an HBO documentary all over this.
The invitation came last week. It will be a big deal, apparently, held at one of the big hotel resorts. Curious, I asked a number of questions. Who will be there? What is the age range? Will they mind being photographed? I began to think over the psychology of this. It is different than having an affair where you sneak off with someone without your spouse knowing. This is something else. There is another dimension to it. These people enjoy having others make love to their husbands and wives. There is a voyeuristic and perhaps a masochistic thrill to it. We all have it to some extent, but these are people who have decided to "live the dream."
I have become pretty non-judgemental over the course of my life, for living seems to make less sense to me all the time. I know, however, that this is not something I would ever enjoy participating in. When I try to imagine it, I don't project them to be particularly pretty or desirable. I think of a group of shoppers at the Walmart in a scene from a Fellini film. This group in particular, I think, will have a lot of metal and ink. There may be things that even I don't want to see.
During the week while mulling over the idea of trying to make a documentary out of this, I talked to a young fellow with a production company who is shooting a hunting show for one of the channels on cable t.v. I told him that what I thought they really wanted me to do was make porn videos that they could sell on Porn Hub or some such place. I haven't any interest in that, I said. I do, he quickly replied. I think he saw dollar signs. At least that is what I want to believe, but he is young, so maybe he was excited by the idea of making pornographic videos, too. What can you do? I told him that I didn't think this was going to be a really sexy crowd. Then he surprised me. He told me that he knew someone who was a swinger and who was really rich. The fellow's wife, he said, was totally hot. The whole group of them was rich and attractive, but they would never be on camera, he said. Of course. Of course. But I was already thinking that if I were able to meet them. . . .
The entire idea depresses me, though. I don't know why, really, except that it is a life that I don't want any part of. And still. . . should I pass on the opportunity to document such a thing? A big part of me is saying yes, stay home and read, watch a movie, take a schvitz, whatever. I don't want to be judgmental, but it isn't my scene, and I keep remembering my aunt telling me when I was a teenager, if you play with a turd, you're gonna start smelling like it. And I've noticed throughout my life that she was right. I mean, the opposite is true, too. I've tried to spend a lot of time with flowers. But I've never been able to resist traveling to other worlds to see what I don't want to have at home. I will go as a reporter, I tell myself, as a war correspondent, as an eye upon the world.
As I say, it is a dilemma that I haven't settled yet. I don't know. I don't know.
I mean. . . it's just sex. Ha! I heard a bartender say that once and have always loved the sound of it. That, however, has never had any personal truth for me. I am such a romantic baby, I can never separate the physical from the emotional in this. I am like a 1950's girl weeping and wanting to be held after making love. More or less. You know what I mean. Yes, yes, I know. . . I'm a mess. You don't have to tell me. I live with it.
Who knows, though. Maybe I'll go and something will snap and I will understand what it is all about, just like the Hokey Pokey.
Now there's a good title for the documentary.
Posted by cafe selavy at 9:02 AM