I Am The Team
One of the advantages of being the only player on my swinging squad is that I don’t have to take one for the team. There’s no one pressuring me to settle for something less-than-desirable so that he can enjoy a tasty morsel.
I’ve noticed that swingers tend to avoid discussing it, but the beauty and the beast phenomenon is a situation I face in probably nine out of every 10 propositions. I keep asking myself how do so many attractive, fit and intelligent women wind up with men who are 15 years their senior, carrying an extra 50 pounds or incapable of having a conversation, or of having it in English.
In my case, that last glitch may be due to the peculiarities of living in South Florida, where just about everyone is from somewhere else. Here, it’s possible to run into a language barrier even with my fellow countrymen. I can’t communicate with someone who sounds like an extra from The Jersey Shore.
Oh, and while I’m at it, those photos on the swingers dating websites of him wearing nothing but a giant wedge of cheese on his head – so not a turn on.
The weight thing is more complicated. Having been one, I can relate to the adage that fat girls need love, too. So, while I would relish finding myself in the sack with modern-day sex gods built like Venus and Adonis – who wouldn’t? – I think my expectations are much more down to earth.
Good chemistry and compatible personalities are much more important to me than washboard abs. But time and again I am meeting women who have gone the extra mile to make the best of their assets, while the male partners have decided to just let it all go. Often straight to the waistline.
What always surprises me about it is that these are often the same men who won’t tolerate a few extra pounds in their partners or new play mates, but they are shocked – Shocked! – to learn that a woman might not be attracted to a man with a beer belly.
I recently hit the jackpot: an older, overweight, overbearing and heavily accented man with a gorgeous, intelligent, younger blonde wife. By the third time in the course of general conversation that he flat-out told me there was something I should or shouldn’t do, I knew there was no way I could tolerate getting naked with him even if he and the wife threw in a weekend at their beach house.
What made the end of the evening more than a little awkward was being pressed for the reasons why I wouldn’t be staying to play. The most polite excuse I could manage was that I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with the husband, something he apparently couldn’t fathom.
Maybe I just should have said, “I’m not taking one for the team.”