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A night under the disco ball at the Red Rooster

A writer ventures to a swingers club—solo

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Have jumpsuit, will invite you to dance.
Illustration: Danny Hellman
Lynn Comella

It was never my intention to go to a swingers club on my own; it just worked out that way. To be clear, I’m not a swinger. Monogamy has always been my thing. I am, however, a curious person.

The night started out just like any other, with me rifling through my closet for something to wear. I decided to use the “key party” scene from the movie The Ice Storm as inspiration, settling on a figure-hugging jumpsuit with a plunging neckline and a pair of strappy vintage heels. The outfit was sexy yet comfortable, with a kind of American Bandstand meets Soul Train vibe. It fit the seductive image of swingers I’d concocted in my mind.

By the time I arrived at the Red Rooster, I was nervous. I grabbed the bottle of wine I’d brought with me—it’s all BYOB there—handed my $5 donation to the men at the door and headed inside.

One of them, Rick, complimented my outfit and offered to give me a tour, leading me into a room with a dancefloor and a shiny disco ball, and then another with a hot tub. A naked woman walked casually by, and no one batted an eye. In the next room, a couple was having sex. In this context nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“If you need anything, and I mean anything,” Rick emphasized, “just let me know.”

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The Red Rooster
6405 Greyhound Ln., 451-6661.
vegasredrooster.com

I made myself comfortable by the bar, while Rick stood nearby, flanking me like a security detail. The rules, he had told me earlier, are clear: No means no, and there’s absolutely no touching without permission. Anyone violating these rules is tossed immediately. No exceptions.

He didn’t have to worry. No one bothered me, and no one behaved inappropriately. Instead, I met a series of polite and friendly men, who came to the Red Rooster because it wasn’t like other places in Vegas: no pretense and no bullsh*t, with well-defined rules. Sex could happen (or not) and you could watch (or not), but you could also just hang out—quite literally, if you wanted—in a place where people were doing their own thing without judgment.

I spent most of the night talking with Mike. He’d been in the military but now worked for Metro, and he liked to dance—merengue, salsa, you name it. But he’d injured his leg in an accident a few years earlier and hadn’t done much dancing since.

I liked him. He was quiet and sweet, just my type. The more we talked, the more he opened up about his accident, which had involved a pickup truck, a motorcycle and the loss of one of his legs. Since then, he explained, it had been hard for him to have relationships with women, including sexual ones.

A song came on that we both liked. I looked at the empty dancefloor and asked if he’d like to dance. He looked down at his leg and said he wasn’t sure if he could, that he might fall. He worried that he might step on my feet with his prosthetic leg, but I assured him I’d be fine.

Like two kids at junior prom, with my arms around his neck and his arms tight around my waist, we slow-danced under the disco ball, in our little Red Rooster bubble.

Afterwards we made out in a corner. But it was getting late, and I knew I needed to go before things heated up. Mike walked me to my car and asked for my number. I said no. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and part of me wanted to preserve the memory of our night exactly the way it had been. I kissed him goodbye and got into my car.

Minutes later I saw the flashing lights of a Metro patrol car in my rearview mirror.

“Where are you coming from tonight, ma’am?” the officer asked. Where am I coming from? Good God, I’m coming from a swingers club. Do I have to tell him this? Should I lie and say something else?

I decided honesty was the best policy, so I explained that I had just left a club not too far from there, the Red Rooster. The officer gave me a knowing smile, took my license and registration and said he’d be back in a moment.

And then it hit me: Had Mike called his buddies at Metro to stop me as I left the club so he could get my contact information? Was that possible? Was it even legal? What the hell was going on?

When the officer returned he told me I’d been stopped because the plastic frame around my license plate made it difficult to see the name of the state. I nodded, but remained unsettled.

The officer was kind. He got a screwdriver from his patrol car and, at 1 a.m. on the shoulder of Boulder Highway, with me standing in my clingy jumpsuit, he removed the offending frame and sent me on my way.

Flash forward one year. I’m with a friend at Downtown Cocktail Room when in walks a very striking couple. The person I’m with makes an introduction.

“I know you,” the man says.

“You know me?”

“Boulder Highway,” he says. “I pulled you over.”

We share a laugh, and I tell everyone my story about flying solo at a swingers club, a man named Mike and a strange encounter with Metro on the way back home.

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