Swap (The Black Lesbian Swinger Series)

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Once, after I came in her hands, I burst into tears (yeah, I know, big dyke energy), and she held me tightly in her strong, sure arms. “You’re OK,” she said. “I’ve got you.” She kissed my hair. I’d never considered before that being a femme with a butch partner needn’t be some inequitable hetero horror show, but instead could be something imbued with incredible queer comfort and power. It could be fun. It could be hot. With the balcony door open, I watched the landscape cruise by while he used his mouth to bring me to orgasm. I switched positions on the couch, so he was behind me, making sure he got to take in the pleasurable view while experiencing his own pleasure. I promised everyone that we would meet on the next LLV trip, be it a hotel takeover or a cruise, and that next time we wouldn’t wait so long to get to know each other. For the last stretch of our afternoon, we were dropped on a secluded beach at Nevis, where a few of us ferried beers and our new favorite drink, the very college-esque Panty Ripper (coconut rum and pineapple juice), from shore to the rest of the women waiting in the water. One woman stuffed a bunch of beers into her bathing suit and we cheered whenever anybody pulled one out. A couple women had GoPro cameras, with which we took a lot of increasingly drunken group shots while we swam. One of them was attached to a floating handle that looked very much like a big yellow dildo, which, once somebody pointed it out, kept sending us into hysterics.

I’m loose and light and a little sleepy from my second Corona and a blossoming sunburn. Sure, I say, why not, thinking all the while: If any other 27-year-old lesbians could use a self-esteem boost, all they need to do, clearly, is get themselves on an Olivia cruise.

Certainly someone’s been singing its praises. Ahead of its first Melbourne event Skirt Club Melbourne already had 100 members. We both like Justin Bieber, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, babies, spicy foods, and romantic comedies, as well as traveling, swimming, dressing up, having sex, being tall, biking (“cycling,” she’d say), and making detailed plans well ahead of time. We also appear, at this admittedly early stage, to be each other’s scarily perfect sexual complement; lesbian sex can look like a million and one different things, and we like so many of the same ones that it is, honestly, a miracle we ever got out of bed and did anything normal, like eat dinner or generally interact with other people. (Turns out, there was nothing wrong with me during my sad stretch of a dry spell after all — I just hadn’t been having the sex I actually wanted to have.) It was thrilling, and cathartic, to have such a deep, generous conversation with three smart women about a question that’s been at the center of my personal and professional life for nearly five years now: Can lesbians, and women in general, survive the gender revolution?

No one says the word “lesbian” all night, with the exception of one girl who asks me, “Are we not supposed to say the ‘L-word’ here?” WHEN women started jetting into Sydney from interstate and overseas for exclusive, risqué women-only sex club parties with dress codes like “lace and latex”, the Skirt Club knew it was time to spread its wings. After a morning of topless photos on the beach, we invited a friend to our room for a threesome. She had suggestively asked to help celebrate my husband’s birthday, and he was more than happy to unwrap this gift.I enjoyed both of their company over the next few hours, but afterwards, I was hardly able to stand.

I’ve hosted a lot of women’s sex parties, and many of them require significant warm-up time to get the girls feeling comfortable and ready to play,” she says. “Not so with Skirt Club. These women dove right in. And yes, it was really hot.” I would go straight to my friend Dom’s house, not even stopping at home to shower first, where I told him that I was, indeed, having a quarter-life crisis. We felt pretty awkward, but we soon realized that this is just natural human behavior. People gravitate toward those they already know. And when you throw in the strong likelihood that you're going to be exchanging fluids with them later on in the evening, then of course, you're going to be a bit more discriminating about who you're hanging out with.

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It felt like it does when girls make out with each other at clubs to garner attention from surrounding men, except there were no men to show off for,” she says. “So what are these women here for? Do they actually want to find a woman to go home with or is it just the excitement of possibility?” I got a lot of young women in their 20s asking me how they could run a blog,” she says. “What I really noticed about Skirt Club at the beginning was that rather than just being hedonistic, it was a great social opportunity to meet liberal, like-minded women. And it’s typical to how women express sexuality. It’s not just nudity and sex.” The invitation to Skirt Club, a women-only, bisexual and bi-curious sex party, tells you one thing, loud and clear: This may be a girls-only orgy, but it’s not lesbianism as you know it. This is Katy Perry singing “I kissed a girl and I liked it.” This is an Agent Provocateur window display. This is the kind of awkward, lighthearted, lesbianism many women either had – or wished they’d had – in college. It’s “lesbianism” that lesbians will recognize, but have a hard time endorsing without some irony. It’s lesbianism as a side piece. It’s lesbianism: our little secret, for women whose bi-curiosity has become too overwhelming to ignore. A couple days later — after getting my serious lesbian conversations out of the way — I was about 14 rum punches deep and drunk-dancing on a catamaran.