All week long I’d searched my heart for what to do next. That’s after I racked my brain for hours to find a way to tell Pilot I wasn’t sure I was the girl to show him the ropes.

I gazed at the profile that Maestro and I had set up as a couple on a swing website. We’d never gotten around to adding any pictures. Every time I’d brought out the camera to take a photo of the two of us together, he always had an excuse.

“Let’s do it in the morning.”

“I’m really horny right now.”

“I look soooo tired.”

The site itself didn’t enthrall me. Not a lot of locals on it. I knew he’d talked about a few others. A woman he said he’d met online had mentioned two in particular. What were they again?

A Google search revealed what my mind couldn’t recall: Swing Lifestyle. Yep. That sounded familiar.

There was no way to search the site without putting in a profile. I hesitated. What would I say? I had no partner. I’d heard that single women like me were highly prized and desired. Unicorns they called us. But this didn’t interest me. Especially the driving home all by myself part of the equation after a party. What I loved best about swinging as a couple was what happened afterwards.

I remember the first time Maestro and I went to a sex club.

I’d met him at his apartment. In the parking garage under the building. Given the description of the dress I’d bought for next to nothing at Neiman Marcus Last Call, he’d joked that we’d never leave his apartment if I were to meet him upstairs. I still recall the hungry look on his face when he opened my car door and I stepped out—sans any sort of lingerie.

The place was in a warehouse district. Far off the beaten path. There were several bulky men sitting outside the entrance—they directed us where to park. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. While the music was blaring, no one was dancing. The few patrons that were there—a couple who was chatting on a couch, the single men at the beverage counter (no booze), and those at the high top tables—all gazed at us when we walked in the room.

We went upstairs to have a look around. A portly woman dressed in a black lace teddy stood up when we got to the top of the stairs. She showed us the rooms: The couples room had several small sofas, a large bed and a swing and chair like I’d never seen before. The other rooms all had room just for a queen sized or double bed and a nightstand. All the rooms she explained had condoms and towels in them.

We went back downstairs and got a bottle of water. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Finally thirty. That’s when a few couples walked up the stairs. I knew that would trigger Maestro. He whispered in my ear, “Let’s go follow them. I want to watch.”

We quickly realized they’d all taken private rooms. But Maestro had something else in mind. “Let’s get this party started.” Before I knew it, we were in the couples room. Alone. He led me by the hand to the swing, sat me on it, slowly lifted my skirt and went down on me. All I could hear was the whirring of the fan and the pitter patter of feet outside the huge frosted picture windows—with numerous peep holes—that lined a side of the room. Within five minutes, four couples had joined us. They seated themselves on the sofas that lined two walls across from where we were.

Maestro moved me from the swing to the bed and slowly removed my dress to reveal my naked body. My shoes never left my feet. Even when others joined us on the bed. We didn’t swap partners that night—nor did Maestro allow anyone to touch me. That was fine with me. I loved being watched and gazed at longingly by others. Who would have known that I loved being an exhibitionist? The woman who once wore flannel pajamas and socks to bed whenever the temperature plunged below freezing?

But it was the ride back to Maestro’s apartment at 2:30 in the morning and the sex that followed that I’ll never forget. Nonstop chatter. About what we did. And what we saw. Over and over we replayed the entire evening. The intensity of the conversation made for some of the steamiest sex we’d ever had together.

That’s what I longed for once again. Only, this time, I desired no drama. And so I began to write.

“I seek single (not married, not engaged, not separated) men, preferably younger than me, who are interested in being my partner at clubs, parties and the like for . . . ”