One of my French friends once said that Russian people are sort of obsessed with normality. Who’s surprised? What else should he think of us after all these thunderous “anti-s” in regards to gay people, abortion, porn websites, oral sex, etc.? However, this is just an impression we make. If one looks behind that veil of cultivated decency, s/he can find a lot of interesting things that are far from being what is considered to be “normal.” In search of spicy details, Moskvaer tried to dive deep into the Moscow nightlife and went straight to the city’s largest swinger club.
Friday. Late evening. A man in a formal suit and with a headset in his ear—the security guy or face controller, probably—opened the heavy iron door. Another young and attractive couple entered along with us. The security man asked their names, checked if they were on the list and let them in, wishing them a pleasant evening. Later, we determined that these guys weren’t typical swingers—they were drinking, observing, and moving from one hall to another, but didn’t approach anyone but each other.
Around midnight, some half-dressed people were already walking around in the lobby while the staff, except the security men, was affably smiling.
We got the keys from the safe boxes for valuables, received individual sheets (to use as a toga, or as directed) and also slippers, as well as special bracelets that we loaded with a deposit for the bar. The entrance cost for couples was 3,000 rubles that night, for single men—10,000 rubles, and traditionally the girls were allowed in for free. The average price for cocktails or whiskey there is around 300 rubles, and we decided not to save on fuel. Dressed in matching outfits, we headed straight to the bar to wash down the excitement.
By the way, the question of what to wear was nearly the main problem with going to the club–nothing special and erotic was found in the locker room, but I really didn’t want to stand out from the crowd being in a chaste dress. A perfect solution for me was a black, sleeveless oversized man’s shirt worn as a dress with stockings and high heels (finally found a place in Moscow, where high heels seem appropriate!). Men mostly just wound the sheets around their hips, and a few of them were in shorts.
“Stranger, here you will do well to tarry…”
In the main hall, where the show (strip dances and vulgar contests that are supposed to set the audience on the right wave) was about to start, people were already gathered.
Women in stockings and corsets, men invitingly wrapped in sheets—at first glance, the average age of visitors was 35-45 years old, but then I discovered there were more mature, so very young curious people in abundance as well (in total there were about 80 or more people). The age gap did not really bother anyone.
“I have my own rule–not to deny anyone, be it a woman in age or a young girl,”—said a young man (a rare visitor of the club) sharing his experience.—”I’m here not for denying, but for the opposite.”
A 25-year-old young man with curly blond hair and a philosophical glance said that it was his first night at the club, even though he had known about it before.
“I came with my friends, but they were not allowed for some reason,”—he said.—”It is certainly cool here, but I think that frequent visits to this place aren’t worth it—it corrupts very badly.”
Well I don’t know whether the orgy, in which I beheld a young Epicurean, was his first experience, but something tells me that it was hardly the last… During the conversation, he definitely dissembled. I bet you twenty he was there again as early as next Friday.
You wonder if that can make you addicted?—Difficult question. I only know that some people tend to exhaust all their potential in any kind of business they’ve started. So talking about sexual potential, one night would not be enough for sure.
I had another strange conversation with a young 26-year-old Eastern-type brunette guy. Let’s call him Timur.
– How do you feel about relationships?
– Ok… Why?
– Just most of the women I’ve asked here say bullshit in regards to emancipation and try to convince me they are not interested in serious relationships at all.
– Well you didn’t come here to find a fiancée, right?—I was sincerely amused that a man would ask girls such a question in that kind of place.
At this moment a girl in a sheet, whom our hero had definitely met already, jumped to us and said, “I’ll take him away, if you don’t mind?” She held out her hand to him and they quickly disappeared. This girl, by the way, was also there for the first time that night, and what is significant, is that she gets her hand in very quickly.
By the time the show started, my companions and I had already managed to overpower the portion of Jameson and order again. Twilight, sound lights, white tablecloths on the tables in the front row, and crowning this completely awkward interior discobolus in the center of the room—a swinger party in the spirit of the 80s, I thought. Fortunately, along with the second glass of whiskey the show was over—people began to fill the dance floor. Girls were bare, and men were inspired.
After ending the show, the atmosphere changed drastically within a few minutes. I walked along the main hall toward the rooms that were set aside specifically for coupling sex, and in each of them I found a pornographic pictorial scene with a bunch of people. All I’ve ever seen in the PornHub videos was made a reality: people were actually doing all that stuff.
The room became incredibly stuffy soon and smelled of latex—to be there more than a couple of minutes, not being involved in the process, was impossible. It seems that no one air-conditioning system would cope with the fervor created by people woven in ecstatic intercourse.
It seemed to me, that there were a little more men than ladies, which, however, also did not bother anyone. Men generously shared with each other the women’s resources. During the night I had observed only one case where the lack of girls clearly made itself felt.
A blue-eyed tanned German in a white bathrobe was running around the club, and when he faced me, he asked in Russian with a typical German accent: “We lack a girl. Wanna join?” I politely declined, but he did not accept that answer. At first we even quarreled a little, and I had to remind him of the rules of the club, according to which the voluntariness and reciprocity are the immutable tenets. The German was perplexed. We were standing behind the bar. It was about 4 am.
– This is a very strange club. I don’t like it at all. Where are all the beautiful girls?
Then his girlfriend appeared as if from nowhere, and said:
– Remember another club where we’ve been recently? This “…” club. I really liked it more. Have you ever been there?—She asked me.
– No, I am a newbie to this business.
– Ah, got it. Try it, more cheerful. I’ll go have a smoke.
It was a miniature long-haired brunette with big eyes, dressed in a golden silk robe. She was absolutely angelic in appearance. Men are usually thrilled at the sight of such people, naively believing in their almost total innocence.
– You have a beautiful girlfriend—I said to the German.—Why not just calm down?
– Yes …—he sighed.—But I have this beauty every day, you know.
– I understand—I said, and it was true.
While we had some time talking about stuff, Timur approached us. He appealed to the German:
– Can I retire with your girlfriend for a while?
– Then bring me yours,—said the German.
– I am here alone.
– Then, no.
Timur nodded in understanding and went away, and I looked questioningly at my companion. He read my dumb question and says:
– And why should I be alone?
When I was leaving, we were faced again with this couple in the locker room—the German, it seemed, did not manage to find an extra girl to realize his fantasies. Obviously, he was a very fastidious German man.
Not only sex matters
A little earlier I had met another interesting couple. They were husband and wife, both of mature age. She was blonde, pretty tipsy and, apparently a rather noisy lady in everyday life. She was wearing a leopard negligee (not that it says it all, but not mentioning it would be a crime). Sipping a cocktail, the blondie turned to a man on the right side and at the same time pushed her husband’s arm, whispering, “See, this one is tall.”:
– Excuse me, are you a hockey player?
– No,—said the blue-eyed healthy fellow. Let’s call him Max.
– Then what kind of athlete are you?—She asked, drawing out the vowels.
– I’m on vacation, but I used to do physical culture—the man was clearly confused.
– So you don’t do any sport? Hmm. You cease to be interesting to me. I love sports and instead of all the gear and endless negative news on TV, I watch biathlon competitions. You don’t? It’s just aaawesome!
Then her husband, a gray-haired man with frowning brows, suddenly started mashing the blondie’s breasts, and the theme of sports drifted.
Max and I glanced at each other. He shrugged his shoulders and went to use his physical strength for its intended purpose.
Although later we had a chance to chat a little. It turned out that Max was a regular customer of the club, and visited the local parties a few times a month. He’d been a permanent partner in several stable couples, and here at the club he knew some people well.
I dared to ask:
– Look, it’s already quite late, and many girls look tired, but men look still fresh. Are they on drugs?
– Well, most of them take Viagra before arriving, for stability–it is a typical practice.
Well, as they say, pleasure is the highest good. It’s worth it to work hard.