SWINGING conjures up for me an old bit of wood with a thick grey rope, slung over the oak tree at the bottom of the garden. It brings back memories of being pushed ever higher: the thrill going up and the horrible stomach-churning descent.
Or even better, the old tyre at my mate Tom’s. It swung out perilously, beneath the branch of a large elm, over the cold, grey Thames below. Always the danger of falling in, being swept to the weir and certain death. Well, that’s what we kidded ourselves. In fact, we would, of course, have landed in the layers of mud that lined the shallows. I know. I did. Often.
It seems now, however, that swinging has taken on a whole new meaning. I’m not exactly sure which bits actually swing, but my friend Bev is addicted, and will no doubt tell me. She lives near Guildford and spends many of her Friday evenings driving up the M25 towards Heathrow, just off Junction 14.
The house is, apparently, one of those modern gated mansions, complete with stone lions on the portal and mock Doric columns. Very nouveau riche. Very Ab Fab. Very suburban.
The website makes it sound like a pleasant weekend away. Jacuzzi, swimming pool, games room and its own cinema. The guidelines to guests read like rules to the Rotary Club.
“Be considerate of others
“We have a zero-tolerance policy for drugs
“Do not drink and drive (see the location section for local hotels)
“Please turn LEFT when exiting the party venue, you will get to the motorway quicker (along the dual-carriageway)
Please leave quietly out of respect for the local residents.”
Well, it all sounds and seems like harmless fun. Along the lines of, “I’m just popping down the pub for a pint, dear.” According to Bev, the party costs £10 and you bring your own bottle. Single women, like her, are welcome at any time. Not surprisingly, there is a higher demand from unattached males and they have to ring ahead to reserve a place. Dress code is smart casual.
Bev went alone the first time. She’s a divorced woman in her forties. “How did she ever get the courage to do it?” I ask. “Desperation and gin.” she laughs.” I couldn’t face another lonely evening in with Saturday night TV.” Fair point.
It’s a growing phenomenon, The Federation of Free UK Swingers will be holding it’s Official Launch Party on April 29, 2006 in Blackpool. Soon one can imagine they will be fielding candidates in the elections. Gives a completely new notion to the concept of a swing to the left.
So is it here in Cyprus? Yes. There are 74 groups according to the web, but I am sure that it is more extensive than that. Not official venues as in the UK, but informal groups who meet in each other’s homes. Young friends, the other night in Plato’s, told me that they had been invited to a few parties by couples they knew. How were they organised? They didn’t know, but they guessed a few games, good music and copious amounts of drink. Their view was that it was more at the man’s instigation than the woman’s.
I can understand why my friend Bev goes. She says she enjoys being desired, enjoys the thrill of preparing for the party. She says it has made her more aware of her body, made her feel more alive, given her something to look forward to at the end of a hard week’s work.
“Err… isn’t it rather sordid?” I ask. There is a long silence. Then she looks at me and says, “Only if you think that way.”
She wants me to go with her one day. I am, of course, curious. But for someone who can’t cope with single sex saunas or those open-plan changing rooms, it would take a lot of desperation and gin. For now, I’ll do my swinging in the garden. Now where’s my rope?
