Snickering on the Fringe of Debauchery
Doubts kick in at the manor house gates,
arguing whether we've found the right place
when the security guard's flashlight floods the car.
As instructed by my dentist, Doctor Ketamine,
who recruited us into this sleazy affair,
we blink the hazards once in Doggers' Morse,
registering our interest in the Swingers' Ball.
Frantically fumbling for hasty disguises,
the guard's light lingers on our blushing faces.
Filthy buggers, I've got your number—
he gauges the lusts of each party guest
flashing crotchless thongs and torn fishnets.
Orgy uninvited, he retreats inside his lodge,
preferring Pornhub to closed-circuit footage,
perving at Voyeur fare on his phone, POV.
Ornate gates parting suggestively,
we inch forward onto gravelled drive,
scour expansive grounds for the Airbnb.
Bashfully purchased from Nice & Naughty,
an assortment of gadgets rest on the back seat—
vibrating eggs and rabbits, the paraphernalia
of some deviant's disturbing version of Easter—
mindful of second thoughts I kept the receipt.
Aware of rustlings in the ornamental bushes,
we catch glimpses of strange moonlit chimera
carousing in hare, fox, horse-headed masks,
naked but for sandals and knee-length socks,
embroiled in each other's human bits.
The manicured grass sullied by rude revelers,
bloodless rumps frolic under lawn sprinklers;
splayed thighs nudge rosy-cheeked gnomes—
grinning lewdly, their dangling fishing rods
fail to hook polished helmets, pierced hoods.
A final attempt to cure marital woes,
after role-play and relationship therapy failed:
Can you play the role of a well-hung man?
One of Wifey's less hurtful suggestions.
If you'll impersonate a sexy Helen Keller,
the best response I could muster.
Which is why we find ourselves here.
Slipping on novelty masks–
Donald Trump and Princess Di—
we hesitate at the front door
before delivering the secret knock,
and are swiftly admitted inside.
Declining the bare-arsed butler's request for coats,
we're assailed by heady Jazz-funk, thrumming speakers,
hardcore porn projected onto every wall, ceiling,
room temperature to rival a reptile enclosure.
Lingerings of Vaseline, fruit-flavoured lube,
sweat and mingled emissions fatten the air,
as if we have stumbled into a smutty sauna.
Instead of canapés the waiters offer
Viagra on silver platters, edible underwear,
prophylactics of every protrusion and colour.
No expense spared kitting out the kinky premises,
the gymnasium converted into a sordid circus:
in squelching metronome, on trapezes,
semolina bellies slap cream-cheese arses;
on trampolines of jiggling middle-aged spread,
ballbags swing in the conditioned air
like saggy elongated Newton's cradles.
On an over-sized, tiger-striped waterbed,
a Circuit judge wearing a gentleman's girdle
attempts a manoeuvre that would make Sting wince,
until he feels his bulging hernia,
squealing in agony as another disc slips.
In every nook and cranny, seedily-lit chamber,
the swingers pound away, blind to orifice or furniture,
like some knock-kneed geriatric human centipede.
Perverts abound, organs thrust,
opportunist for unguarded bum or breast.
Writhing limbs slick as newly-born cattle,
there is grunting and groaning fit to rival
an all-Williams sister Wimbledon Final.
A slathering barrister named Geoff The Lash
intends to pluck my swinging cherry,
toppling ceramic vases, knocking off hats
with his monstrous wayward one-eyed member,
stalking me from parlour to conservatory.
The local MP sits in his basement lair, a lonely gimp
snooker ball gagged, pleading for a visitor,
limbs red raw with second hand leather.
Barely unbuttoned, we observe from a distance–
Di and Don, Wifey and I—
by darkroom light or disco strobe
streets of varicose veins and cellulite.
Doctor Ketamine clad in an adult diaper,
being spanked by the Mayor sporting a merkin,
spots us anxiously skirting the room,
and spits out his soother when the Mayor burps him.
Snickering on the fringe of debauchery,
we grin at each other, mount our escape
unnoticed, unmolested, seemingly unchafed.
Skipping out to fresh unfettered air,
we relish the satisfying crunch
of driveway gravel underfoot,
the dulcet double-beep of an unlocked Passat.
Pulling away from The House of Gusher,
our nipples unclamped and butts unplugged—
electricity applied to neither of my testes.
We've swerved spit-roasting, dodged donkey kicks—
our walnuts remain utterly unwhipped.
Partook of no downers, siders or uppers,
willingly wafted no nitrate or poppers.
Requiring no industrial-scale mouthwash, penicillin,
nor rectal X-ray—nothing deposited there illicitly.
Waving Au revoir to the sulking gatekeeper,
we laugh for the entire journey home,
safe in the knowledge we are not exhibitionists,
delinquents, sex fiends or trouser tourists.
Realising human Wheels of Fortune,
glory holes and dildo Iron Maidens
were not what was lacking in our marital relations.
Fraternising with suburban miscreants
was all it took, we inform our therapist,
to restore decorum, keep the home fire lit,
while pencilling-in the next depraved shindig.
