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Voyeur
- Orgasm Rating
- Address Visit Website New York, NY
- Website http://www.voyeurevents.com
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First off, a caveat: I went to Voyeur a swinger party novice, but no novice to a little play with strangers. Having perused the Voyeur website, I expected a Burning Man type atmosphere: edgy, costumed and full of tail feather, in short, a party for the wild and sexually open-minded. Past events appeared packed with a young, attractive, “alternative” crowd engaging in all kinds of naughtiness. Voyeur screens its guests ahead of time, thus, my friend and I were required to send pictures and a brief statement about ourselves in order to be included on the guest list.
The crowd at Voyeur, unfortunately, showed all the edginess of an egg. Striped shirts, teased out hair and belly button rings made up the norm. I wondered, briefly, if we had come to the wrong spot. By all signs, we had stumbled into yet another C-list Chelsea club. I had been informed via email to arrive right on time, as the throngs eager to swing would be overwhelming and I risked losing my reservation. We took this admonishment with a grain of salt and arrived about an hour after the party started. Maybe the throngs were polishing their toenails that evening, but the crowd was uncomfortably spare.
The venue, at first, held promise. The event was hosted at the G-Lounge in Chelsea (which, without a shred of originality, I kept wanting to call the “G-Spot”). The G-Lounge is a typical Chelsea club: the upstairs held a long room with a bar at the back and front and velvet benches lining the walls. Several little sitting (or lap dancing or make-out) nooks were closeted off to the side by sheer curtains. Generic hip-hop blasted over the speaker system. Couples and single women wandered around, sipping drinks. The atmosphere, at least, felt classy and discreet, if somewhat lacking in sexual charge. Off to one side, stairs led to a lower level. The downstairs was intended as the space for couples to couple with each other, however, nothing about the three “bedrooms” did much to put one in the mood. All smelled dank and reminded me more of the rooms in a certain whorehouse in Nevada, than a place for getting into a bit of intimate wrestling with another tempting twosome. Red shag carpeting covered the floors and worn polyester comforters lay on the beds. Two of the bedrooms stood empty, though through the half closed door of the other I could see a couple getting a jump start on the evening. Much as I would have liked to stay and play voyeur, I felt a keen desire to leave the dank den of polyester sin.
Upstairs, my friend and I were approached by a blond woman in her 40s. In a Russian accent, she asked if we were lonely and invited us to join her and her friend, a large, silent man. We made small talk: both of them were married, though not to each other, and went to swingers parties up and down the east coast. She and her friend had been to Voyeur before. I inquired how Voyeur compared to other clubs. She shrugged and rocked her hand back and forth. I tried to imagine rolling around with her and the large silent man in one of the downstairs rooms and took a big drink of my martini. In one of the curtained nooks, two women in hip-hop gear were engaged in a heavy grind. I spotted an interesting looking couple in their early thirties, and attempted to engage them in conversation. The man stared at me. The woman, dressed in a French waitress costume, ignored me and demanded another drink from her man. My friend and I checked our watches. It was about 1:30am and the crowd showed no sign of livening up. One couple necked with each other in a corner, everyone else stood around looking vaguely uncomfortable and clutching their drinks. Realizing that our chances of seeing anything that would justify a little healthy voyeurism (or spark something more) were slim, we called it a night.
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