I Was Thoroughly Seduced by (and Fell in Love With) a Swinger Couple at CAMP

I no longer attend festivals to have sex. While I appreciate the sexual liberation of Burning Man-esque environments and the abundance of incredibly beautiful, bisexual poly kinksters, I’m lucky to have a community of sex-positive sluts in Brooklyn. I’m also very out as a (boy)slut and don’t need to hide it at my place of work because being a slut is my full-time job. So I go to festivals for art, performances, and to dance until my lower back aches and my plantar fasciitis has the soles of my feet howling.

But if someone with impeccable energy approaches and woos me? Well, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And over the Fourth of July, while at CAMP (Calling All Magical People), I was thoroughly seduced.

They were the pinnacle of I saw you across the bar and liked your vibe, which, I know, doesn’t have the best reputation because usually that couple—how do I put this delicately—isn’t the most attractive. But this MF couple was comically beautiful, overwhelmingly so to the point that when they approached me, I whipped my head around to make sure they weren’t speaking to someone behind me.

We were at the circus, waiting for a live show with clowns, aerialists, contortionists, burlesque performers, and freestyle songsters. A fallen tree had knocked out the power grid, cutting the electricity, but with a few backup generators running, the festival attendees weren’t about to let a little heat and rain interfere with their joy.

We were seated on the floor, waiting for the performance to begin, when I ran out of water. (I know, a rookie festival mistake.) Seeing I was struggling to get the last drops from my bottle, a man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “I have some,” he said, handing me the tube from his camel pack. He was shirtless, wearing a skimpy pink thong with black fishnets underneath. His pink bandana matched his thong and complemented his bright green eyes. He looked vaguely Western European, with a strong Roman nose, thin lips, and a devilish grin.

Next to him, a woman wore a matching outfit in various shades of pink and fishnets. Her blonde hair was braided into pigtails. Her face was adorned with sequins. Her eyes were big and full of wonder, and she wore big black platform boots, but she was still a foot shorter than I.

“Thank you,” I said, only taking a few sips as I didn’t want to leave them dry.

“I’m Leon*,” he said, “And this is my wife, Brandy*.”

“I’m Zach,” I replied. “Great to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake, but then realized how oddly formal that would be for the setting. “Can I give you both a hug?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison. After exchanging warm hugs, Leon asked me, “By any chance, are you the Boyslut?” My asshole puckered. There was something in the way he asked the question—not “Did you write a book called Boyslut?” but “Are you thee Boyslut?” I felt like slutty royalty. I couldn’t help but embrace my inner Marie Antoinette. Instead of letting them eat cake, I would let them eat my cake.

“I am,” I shouted, my voice shooting up an octave.

“I absolutely loved your book,” Brandy said. “I was actually thinking of it recently, when someone accidentally puked on Leon’s cock while blowing him.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Ever since Boyslut’s release, I’ve had countless folks share sexual puke stories with me. Every time, I can’t help but think: Is this my contribution to society? Is this what I’ll be known for after I die?

We kept talking, and I learned that Brandy and Leon were swingers of the Hedonism II ilk, attending the yearly Young Lifestyle Week. They, like me, have a group of slutty friends, a sorta 40-person polycule, and once every few months, they throw a big orgy at their home in a Baltimore suburb. But it’s more than just about sex. They have small workshops, dance, and do yoga together in the mornings. They reminded me of my little polycule, HOME, which, after five years as a member, I still struggle to describe accurately. I’ve landed on saying, “It’s a very organized and aggressive friend group filled with slutty, little weirdos.” (As what other friend groups have a Discord?)

We took a break from talking when the performance began, and the sheer talent of every artist wowed me. I’ve been to countless festivals, including Burning Man, Love Burn, and Elements, but one of the things that separates CAMP is the exceptional caliber of the performers. Perhaps it’s because CAMP has a large contingency of New Yorkers, home to Broadway creatives.

After the show, house music came back on, and the three of us started dancing. Initially, I danced while leaving room for Jesus, but when I met Brandy’s gaze, neither of us turning away, I figured our eye-fucking meant only one thing: She was down. I turned to Leon, who gave a subtle nod, tacitly telling me to go for it.

I leaned in and quickly lost myself in her lips. She was a delicate kisser, soft and gentle, yet I could sense a deeper hunger in her. I wrapped my arms around the small of her back, pulled her in tightly, and gave her booty a squeeze. I was in a daze when I pulled away.

“You’re an incredible kisser,” she said.

“It takes two,” I replied.

I turned to Leon, whom I couldn’t exactly get a read on sexually. He was dressed ostensibly gay, but festivals are like Bushwick on steroids. Just as I can’t tell if the hipster walking down Myrtle Avenue is queer (my culture is not a costume!), spotting a queer man at a festival based on appearance alone can be next to impossible.

“Can I kiss you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m okay,” he said. “I’m not bi.”

“Totally,” I replied, thankful for his no.

“Actually,” he clarified. “I do sometimes kiss men.”

“And he does like getting his dick sucked by guys,” Brandy interjected.

“It’s more that I don’t find men super attractive. I’m more attracted to fems, but if I’m in an orgy, I can be down. I don’t find hooking up with guys gross or anything like that, so I don’t mind kissing sometimes; I just don’t find myself attracted to men.”

“I totally get that,” I said, thinking that more straight men should be like Leon. Getting your dick sucked, regardless of gender, just feels good, so even if you’re not incredibly attracted to men, when in Rome, and by that, I mean at a Bacchanalian orgy, accept the pleasure. Life is simply too short to turn down a blowjob.

“Actually, I do want to kiss,” he said.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Yes!” he said, more enthusiastically leaning in. I met his lips with mine. Leon kissed exactly like his wife, and I was lost in déjà vu. When he pulled away, he said, “You really are a great kisser.”

I turned to Brandy, then back at Leon. I had a stupid shit-eating grin on my face. What had I just stumbled into? What good thing had I done in a past life to deserve this?

We continued dancing, hands waving in the air, a little two-step, throwing ass. Periodically, the three of us would kiss, and our hands would linger on each other’s bodies.

“Do you?” I paused, wondering if I had misread the situation, but then remembered to trust my gut, as that bad boy is right 99% of the time. “Do you want to go fuck right n—?”

“Yes,” Brandy interrupted. “Oh, thank God, yes. I’d love that.”

“Would Leon want to join?”

“Probably not, but let me ask!”

I stepped away to give the married couple a moment to converse alone. Thirty seconds later, Brandy came back to me. “He’s going to keep dancing, but told us to go have fun.” I looked over Brandy’s shoulder to see Leon with a cheesy grin, giving me a big thumbs up.

Brandy and I walked hand in hand back to their tent, and I was met by a cool gust of air. (They brought an AC powered by batteries.) Their tent was surprisingly spacious, clean, and organized, unlike the space in my cabin, where I had just thrown everything on the floor and spent half of the trip searching for my flashlight, a thong, or earplugs.

I lay on her bed, with nothing to take off, as I had only been wearing a thong. She took a moment to get ready, placing a lube bottle and condom next to the bed, and then undressing until she was only in a thong of her own.

“I was attracted to you because of your face, your smile, and the way your eyes light up when speaking,” I said. “But seeing you like this, my God, your body is absolutely insane.”

“Thank you,” she replied, explaining that her toned physique was the result of being a dancer.

She hopped onto the foot of the bed and slowly crawled up my body until we were face to face. Her hips were pressed against mine. Her tits flush against my hairy chest. She gently bit my lower lip, prying my mouth open, and then French kissed me. Her breath was minty. She had surreptitiously taken an Altoid.

I squeezed her ass, pushing her even closer to me, feeling the weight of her body. I wanted to touch every part of her at once. Her ass and thighs, her lower back, her tits—to gently caress her face, down her jawline. My hands moved frantically to touch as much of her as I could.