Daniel Stern

My life is fairly normal. I didn't wake up one morning and find out that I'm suddenly a star, with people clamoring at me. I feel like I'm moving up the ladder just a little, which is fine.

The only other thing I can really remember wanting to do besides acting was a gas station attendant. At the time, that seemed like a great job - wash the windows, pump the gas - it looks so cool coming home with black hands. There's a natural transition, from wanting to be a gas station attendant to being an actor, right?

Despite your delusions to the contrary, swingers, by and large, are a civilized lot. We come in all ages, shapes, sizes, nationalities, and ethnicities. We have differing beliefs, varying opinions, IQs, and senses of humor. We have families, friends, careers, hobbies, mortgages, and retirement plans. In short, we__e just like everyone else. We don__ strap on leather chaps and nipple clamps to go about our day. Wearing kinks on our sleeves like badges of honor isn__ our style. Truth be told, we don__ talk that much about our dalliances_-at least not to Vanilla folk. We__e not ashamed. We simply assume most of the world doesn__ get our way of life. And more times than not, we__e right.

See, far above arrogance and selfishness on the rankings of undesirable Lifestyle traits, topping the lengthy list of carnal sins, occupying its very own stratosphere of unforgivablereprehensibility, is lying. Without question, fibbing is the fastest way to secure a one-way trip to blackball status in the swing community. So assured is a liar__ exile from the Lifestyle that should a perjurer come clean about a material untruth and still secure playtime, that individual will have rewritten the entire swing rulebook. And no matter how enticing it may be to rewrite history, I do not recommend attempting it. Not unless you__e lusting after a celibate existence.

I__e written for those who want to learn, truly learn, about a community with which they aren__ familiar. Or for those who have preconceptions but can admit they may not be entirely accurate (and, in some cases, that they are completely wrong). This means my reader must possess an open mind and a certain level of curiosity. If that__ you, proceed to checkout. An uncensored glimpse behind the curtain, hairy backs and all, awaits.

The selection process is simple. Hubby exhausts every ploy in his psychological arsenal to filter out the liars, fakes, and undesirables. (If only every husband were so devoted . . .) Me, I try to prove that I__ not the stereotypical single male. That I__ in the Lifestyle for the right reasons. That I__ courteous and respectful. All of which are true, but the burden of proof is onme. It always is.

After consciously enduring a twelve-inch knitting needle navigated into the unseen recesses of my pelvis and almost passing out at the sensation of my hip inflating with fluid and somehow clinging to my sanity through the hour-long, migraine-inducing blare of the imaging contraption, which resembled a compact wind tunnel, possessed the amplification capability of a Marshall stack, and pushed my patience beyond the limits of superhuman endurance, I wasinformed by my orthopedist that the image of my still-smoldering hip had revealed, and I quote, __ust a little inflammation._ In the world of orthopedic medicine, __ little inflammation_ apparently qualifies as sound diagnosis.

When I__ RSVPed for tonight, I hadn__ expected to be the youngest by three-plus decades. To be honest, I hadn__ expected anything. I didn__ have the mental capacity. The excitement over my first house party overwhelmed me and kept my thoughts abuzz for threeweeks.Jim and Valerie suggested Harry and Jackie invite me. Understandably, Harry and Jackie were skeptical about bringing a single male into their close-knit group, but Valerie vouched for me, which persuaded Jackie. I leapt at the invitation__ny single male would have__ut now, learning about the most recent medications to assist smooth menopausal transition, I was seriously rethinking my decision.

The selection process is simple. Hubby exhausts every ploy in his psychological arsenal to filter out the liars, fakes, and undesirables. (If only every husband were so devoted . . .) Me, I try to prove to that I__ not the stereotypical single male. That I__ in the Lifestyle for the right reasons. That I__ courteous and respectful. All of which are true, but the burden of proof is onme. It always is.

How long you guys been renovating?_ Craig asked Arianna.__bout a month.___ow much longer?__rianna sighed. __he contractor messed up the counters, so who knows.___reaching to the choir.___eah?___h, yeah. But in the end everything turned out for the best.___ow so?___ell, for one, I switched from laminate to granite.___ranite . . ._ She exhaled, confounded, as if the granite countertop quandary was the most perplexing philosophical question of all time. __eah . . .We__e torn.___ore expensive, but aesthetically superior,_ Craig lobbied. __lso retains value longer.__nowing the sexual perversity about to transpire, I couldn__ reconcile that I was suddenly in an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Granted, I didn__ know from normal pre__roup sex discussion topics, but I was pretty sure home improvement wasn__ on the list.

I__ no expert, no natural-born talent, definitely no guru. As you__l soon learn, only through a colossal experiment in trial and error did I reach the sexual summit. Although I own up to having worn a cape in a few intimate scenarios, I don__ possess supernatural powers of any kind. Perhaps my IQ is slightly above average, but Mensa isn__ busting down my door. If pressed to define myself, I__ say I__ Horatio Alger between the sheets: a self-made swinging single male. . . with a hefty dose of Buster Keaton mixed in.