‘Swinger’ Island

‘Swinger’ Island

‘Swinger’ Island

Not to brag, but I can spot a swinger party quicker than most.

My weekend started innocently enough on Saturday with a lovely ferry ride from Bay Shore Long Island to Fair Harbor Fire Island, where I stayed with a few friends of mine who’d gone in on a summer share. I arrived on the dock and a frozen drink was plunged into my hand, “Drink up, you’re on island time!” my girlfriend Liz slurred. The glass was half full, “It was a long wait…I think your ferry was late too.” Liz giggled. Every time Liz and I hang out, I get drunk and have some strange adventure. As Liz walked me back to the house, we passed a bar announcing it’s ‘White Party’ event that night. “Biggest party all season.” Liz tells me. I figure I’m only in Fire Island once, so I say, “We should totally go.” “Seriously?!” she screams, does her signature hair flip, grabs my arm, tilts her head to one side, purses her lips and growls, “I have enough white for both of us to rock that shit!” And it was decided. We were going to the ‘White Party’. At the share a few of the roommates teased us about going. “I hear it’s all teenagers.” “Last year somebody got undressed on the dance floor.” “I think a lot of Kismet folk show up.” Kismet is a town on the other side of Fair Harbor and considered the ‘red neck’ side of the island. A Deliverance banjo twang always accompanied a Kismet story. You get it. Anyway me and Liz deck ourselves out in white head to toe and walk out into the moonlit night. “I kind of feel like an asshole right now.” I laughed to Liz. At that moment a group of guys came rumbling out of their house, spotted us glowing in the darkness and yelled, “Yo, look out ’cause somebody’s goin’ to the white party!” I screamed back in a panic, “I just said what an asshole I felt like!” Like any good goomba the compliments start flying, “No, hey! C’mon, you’s look lovely, like a fog of Fire Island.” “Yeah, blow in, blow out!” more laughter. “Anyways, have fun girls!” our gentlemen callers disappeared into the woods as we turned the bend and entered the White Party. First thing I thought was they should-a called it the White People party. Then I noticed someone had written in lipstick on the mirror facing the dance floor-“The Hamptons have P.Diddy, We’ve got P.Adam’s!” and that was my first clue my friend and I may be in the wrong place. “Let’s get a drink for fuckssake.” Liz sighs. We make our way to the small bar where a buff blond chick with a bandanna on her head and too much eyeliner eyes us like her favorite dessert. Probably cherry pie or some other heavy metal sweet. Liz orders a vodka tonic I get a cranberry soda which makes our bbb (blond buff bartender) shoot me a death stare. No worries, MaryMeth, you’re still getting a tip. Liz and are suddenly are face to face with a couple who looked like they just stepped out of the movie ‘Footloose’. The woman had bleached blond hair that stuck out on the sides like a lighter had been taken to her head and singed its way down and around her horse like face. Her quite a bunch shorter man had slick black-died black hair, a button up shirt and a puca shell necklace to accentuate his tan and wrinkled chest. He also didn’t waste any time  “Hey, would you two sexy girls like to join me and my chick for a drink? We live just down the road in Kismet.” Cue the banjo music!! Oh shit, this couple wanted to swing. I knew this white party was a scam! And Kismet folk? Shit, I came in from NYC, the big, fancy city and these country mice wanted to take me home to their freaky-fuck-barn. Liz grabbed my hand, flipped her hair as if to make a path and whispered, “Not interested.” Pushing her way through the crowd, Liz finally got us outside where we shrieked with laughter til our whites were sweat stained. As we made our way back to the house, Liz turned to me and said very seriously, “You realize we would’ve had to make out if all that shit hadn’t gone down in there right?” In a strange way, she was right.

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