Chelsea B. of Meridian, Mississippi was chosen last week’s $25 winner with the correct answer, RESTROOM.
Swinging at the Bonaventure Hotel.
The brochure said, Swingers and Non-Swingers Welcome. I opened it and removed two tickets.
“Let’s go,” I said to Terry. “Don’t want to be late.”
We headed to the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angles to attend the 1978 LifeStyles Swingers Conference.
The Gold Room
The sign said: The G-spot: What’s It Do, And Where The Hell Is It?
We went in.
“I don’t think I have a G-spot,” Terry whispered.
“All women do. It’s just inside the front wall of the vagina. You’ll see.”
Two hundred people packed the room. We snagged good seats on the side.
The head honcho was explaining house rules.
“Number one: No nudity in public spaces. We’d like to be invited back next year. Number two: non-swinging couples may visit the mat room to observe exhibitionists, but they are not to disturb the swinging of others with their loud talk, as it could be mood-destroying.”
He urged everyone to attend tomorrow’s panel discussion on How Swinging Can Enhance Any Relationship.
“As the night wears on,” he said, “folks may find themselves more comfortable changing into robes or negligees.”
The G-spot man
He came on stage wearing a white lab coat and wheeling a massage table with a red sheet and pillow.
“Good evening,” he began. “A woman approached me outside and said she looked forward to my talk on the G-spot. She’d never heard of it, she admitted. I asked her, ‘Do you enjoy sex?’ And she said, ‘Infrequently.’ Then I asked, ‘Is that one word or two?’”
Everyone climaxed with that one.
“Enough foreplay,” the G-spot man said. “Let’s begin.”
Ear-shattering hoots, hollers, and whistling rocked the room.
“What we need first,” he said, shielding his eyes from the lights and scanning the audience, their tongues down to the floor, “is a G-spot. Who’s got one we can take a good close look at?”
Dozens of waving hands shot up. “Me! Me!”
I glanced at Terry, hoping she’d suppress any urge to race on stage.
He chose an attractive, freckle-faced woman who worked her way to the front wearing a mini-skirt and see-through top.
Everyone howled and cheered.
“What’s your name?” the G-spot man asked.
“Jackie,” she said, beaming, like someone hoping to win a new Frigidaire.
“Do you know where your G-spot is?”
She giggled. “No, but I’ll bet you’re going to show me.” And many others, I thought.
More hurrahs and foot stomping.
“Who’s your partner?” he asked.
She pointed to the crowd, and a young redheaded woman stood.
“That’s Bonnie,” Jackie said. “We’re bi.”
He motioned for Bonnie to come up. She bound to the front, grinning like a schoolgirl picked to be on the good team.
“Bonnie,” he said, “you’re going to find Jackie’s G-spot for us.” He turned to Jackie. “Go ahead and take off your clothes and lie on the table.”
“While Jackie’s getting settled,” the G-spot man said, “move the chairs aside and everybody come close.”
Terry and I be-lined it up to ringside.
Jackie flung her clothes into the audience. A man made a headscarf of her panties.
For the next twenty minutes we watched Bonnie learn to locate Jackie’s G-spot, stimulate it with her finger, and bring Jackie to five howling orgasms.
“That was informative,” I said to Terry as we strolled out. I whipped out our brochure. “What workshop should we go to first?”
She looked at me with flashing eyes, pointed, and said, “This one!”
Next Week Tantra: The Art Of Mind-Blowing Sex.
IF YOU’RE ENJOYING these goofy blogs, share them with friends (or, heck, anybody). There’s a new one each week (until I run out of drugs, girlfriends, and wives).