I Went to a Sex Club and Only Cried Once, Pt 1

Posting this publicly is making me shit 100% of the bricks in the entire world.

The title is not a lie, so if you don’t want to read about me going to a sex club, TURN BACK NOW.   That said, this is about as tame as it gets.  Like, if you’re picturing some 50 Shades shit, calm yo ass.  It’s mostly just me describing articles of clothing and referring to sex as “banging.”

Aight.  You’re still here?  And thus, presumably, not related to me?   Good.


I am a basic bitch when it comes to kink.  Not necessarily by choice, but largely because I’ve never dated someone who’s Down to Clown.  (My God, if there is a clown-themed sex club in Seattle, that is absolutely my next blog project.)

I’ve also never pushed the subject, because (A) pushing someone’s sexual boundaries is an asshole move, and (B) everything in the whole world terrifies me constantly.  Why ask someone to exit the comfort zone with me when instead we can just Netflix and chill until we’re incredibly bored with each other?  WHAT A PLAN.

Now, after several months of dating a dude who goes to sex clubs, I finally ovaried up and decided to make it A Thing I Do For The Story.

That’s the only way I can get myself to do anything that gives me the Anxiety Butt Pees. “It’s for the story!  Even if it’s a terrible, traumatizing experience, AT LEAST IT WILL BE FODDER FOR MY FUTURE COMEDY ACT?!”

So I went to a sex club.


And I only cried once!

Let’s get into it.

I spent the entire week leading up to Sex Club Day nearly dying from terror.  What do you wear to a sex club?  Do you just, like… walk up to da club in sex clothes?  Is there a changing room?  And while we’re at it, WHAT EVEN ARE SEX CLOTHES?

I eventually decided to wear this dumb bikini thing that I drunk-purchased on Amazon one night and forgot about until it came in the mail 6 weeks later.  DRUNK JESS MAKES GREAT DECISIONS, YOU GUYS.

Let’s pretend it looks anything like this on my body.

But then I’m like… how do I bang in this?

Cue me ACTUALLY Googling, “How to cut sex holes in a bikini.”  Because I am the human embodiment of Yahoo! answers.

Turns out, the answer is… Cut holes.  Stupid.

But I didn’t cut holes because I actually like this bikini, so, FUCK IT.  Or.  Don’t, because there are no sex holes.  HAR HAR.

Good thing it’s also really hard to take off due to all the complicated fuckin’ strings and shit!  I AM GOOD AT SEX CLUBBING.

Anyhoo, we walked up in da club.  There’s a weird little sign-in room.  Everything is dimly, redly lit.  Which is great.  I don’t need Wal-Mart lighting on my hole-free bikini and my deer-in-the-headlights facial expression.

We paid the cover charge, walked in, and… it looked like a bar.  Basically.

A bar with  sections of chain link fence on the walls, and oh right, no alcohol whatsoever.  (I knew this going in.  Don’t worry, I wasn’t blindsided by sobriety.  No one could ever be that cruel.)

Also, there was NO MUSIC.  Are you kidding me?

Aside from the 2 of us–with me cowering behind my boyfriend, at this point–there were like… 3 fully clothed bearded dudes sitting in one corner chatting.

As though it is a bar.

With no alcohol.

Or music.

Or other people.

Excuse me, barkeep, but can I have some FUCKING AWKWARDNESS on the rocks, please?  Oh, you don’t exist?  Cool cool cool cool.  This is fine.  Everything is fine.

In addition to the bar-like room, there’s a back room with beds n’ shit, if you want a little more privacy.  They’re all separated by (incredibly sheer) curtains.  Each bed is stocked with condoms and individual lube packets on a nightstand.  CONVENIENT.

There were 2 people on one of the beds, quietly chatting and occasionally making out.  Okay!  At least I was not literally the only person there not fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt, as was the case in the public room.

My Boyfriend’s Likely Comment Upon Reading This: “Excuse me, but I don’t wear jeans; I only wear cargo pants.”  Shut up.

Anyway, by that point, we were kind of like… Well, we’re here.  And there are beds and condoms, so.  WHY NOT.

Honestly, the idea of people being nearby when I bang doesn’t bother me.  I live in an apartment.  My neighbors have probably seen/heard more than these strangers.  Difference being, I have to make eye contact with my neighbors the next day, so that’s way worse!

Welp, I said something like “I feel like I should be quiet,” and was informed that yes, it is polite to be quiet.  You should be quiet.  In the sex club.

And, being me, I had a complete goddamn internal meltdown.

I was kind of under the impression that the whole point of a sex club is to… not be ashamed of sex.  But at that moment, I had never felt worse about banging.  MY SEX NOISES ARE IMPOLITE??  Why, because they interrupt everyone else’s sex noises?  Should I also be fully clothed, lest my naked body offends all the other naked people?  WHY DO I DISGUST YOU/EVERYONE.

I might be somewhat neurotic.

But I kept it cool for a while, because I really wanted to be The Cool Girl, and not The Girl Crying In The Sex Club.

So obviously I started crying.

God.  You really can’t take me anywhere.

BUT I WAS POLITE ABOUT IT LOL, so I quietly choke-sobbed on the bed as my BF went to fetch my coat.

A couple people must have shown up in the interim, because I could hear intermittent whipping and moaning sounds in the main space.  And let me goddamn tell you, sobbing while listening to someone get whipped is some cognitive dissonance like nothing else.

Especially since what triggered the crying was the idea that I was supposed to stay quiet.  So I was like.  “Fuck them, and their sounds.”  Ha ha.  I’m terrible at everything.

Anyway, I got dressed and left.  Hooray!

Then 2 weeks later, I went back.  Hooray!

“WOW JESS, HOW THE FUCK DID YOU WIND UP BACK AT THE SEX CLUB,” you might be asking… if you scream questions at your monitor sometimes?

Welp, I put that shit in Part 2, so fucking read it.  SPOILER ALERT, I don’t cry again, and it’s way better!


2 thoughts on “I Went to a Sex Club and Only Cried Once, Pt 1

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