Swap Club Year 2

By Lauren Wise

The old 1970s trend of suburban husbands and wives having consensual sex with other married couples is alive in Montreal.

For her fortieth birthday, Valerie Matthews gave herself the sex life she deserved and joined the not-so-secret Swap Club with her husband Ryan. One year later, determined to hold on to the excitement they discover

• Language: English
• Publisher: Del Ciotto Publishing
• Release date: May 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775282839

Lauren Wise

Lauren Wise was born and raised in Montreal, Quebec. She is described as having a quirky sense of humor and a love for entertaining people. It was no surprise that Lauren had aspirations to becoming a writer at a young age.

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Swap Club Year 2

Lauren Wise

Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Wise

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7752828-2-2 (Paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7752828-3-9 (E-Book)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Acknowledgments

For Max.

This one’s for you.

23

…or (in case you’re still wondering) Disclaimer

This book (like its predecessor) is fiction. I learned from Book 1 that people would like nothing more than for this to be a true story. There are two ways for me to view this: 1—people are so struck by the authenticity of my writing that they cannot imagine that I could have made this up; or 2—people have such low estimations of my capacity to imagine that they assume it had to be based on true events. Either way, I choose to view it as a compliment because I did make it up. The characters in this story are fictitious. Nothing in these pages are based on true events.

Just to reiterate, this book is not about me.

But it is about you. Let me help you remember an old flame or a lost love—maybe even the cute crush who sat next to you in science class—and hopefully stoke some of that desire.

So sit back, take your clothes off, and enjoy. (Unless you’re on an airplane, in which case get a blanket and make sure your seatbelt is visible.)

~ Lauren Wise

MY LIFE IS PICTURE-PERFECT. Just creep my Instagram and you’ll see for yourself. Embedded in a checkerboard inlay of pictures, you’ll find posts of my ideal nuclear family of four, all of us smiling at the camp buses, barbecues, and vacations; #familyfeels. The odd selfie of my daughter Hallie and me; #momsanddaughters. My son Michael with his hands in the air, celebrating his winning goal at hockey; #hockeymom. And several pictures of my husband Ryan and me; #tbt #thisguy #loml.

See? Picture-perfect. I couldn’t be happier, and I’m making all kinds of new friends too! Like, for example, the gorgeous but slightly tipsy Roxy sitting next to me. I can feel a lifelong friendship brewing.

"Fuck me! Val, is it? Your life is freakin’ amazing!" Roxy belted out as she scratched her head.

Yeah. So, we do this every second Saturday of the month, I explained.

"Let me get this shit straight. Your husband lets some guy fuck your brains out once a month? And you let him go screw some fuckin’ broad too? Roxy scratched the other side of her head. And you pay a membership fee? Damn, I’m in the wrong business."

Yup. I’m pretty lucky. I leaned against the concrete wall. I was chilly, so I tugged my skirt down a bit more. It’s been a crazy couple of years.

Girl! You’ve been doing this for years? Roxy stuck her finger in her ear—I guess it was itchy too.

Well, a year and a half to be exact. I looked around. "Not every swap ends like this."

Tell me more, woman. Tell me about a swap. Roxy’s black pantyhose were ripped to shreds. I couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or not. Who knew these days?

Well, the nights typically start with me waiting around my house alone around eight for the doorbell to ring. I’m usually pretty anxious… You never know who is going to show up given how tiny Montreal is. The majority of the mystery men ringing my doorbell once a month for our three hours of sex-filled fun are likely an old high school boy toy, an ex-boyfriend, or a token awkward encounter.

And your husband? Roxy managed to get out of her ear whatever was plaguing her. Where’s he at while you’re letting some strange man into your house? she asked while flicking away the germy gob stuck to her three-inch nail.

"He’s standing on some strange woman’s porch about to ring her doorbell while her husband is out on some other strange woman’s porch."

"Let me get this motherfucka straight. You’re at home waiting for some man to screw you while your husband is going to screw some other guy’s wife, while her husband’s out screwing someone else’s wife? And you guys pay money to do this?"

Yeah… pretty much. I thought about how it sounded, like I had done over and over in my head in case I ever had to explain it to my mother, who was usually the one watching my kids while my husband and I were gallivanting in bed with other married couples. Adding parts about the importance of spicing up your sex life and how I’ve separated the sex and my marriage into special storage boxes like what you see at the Container Store. My life was perfect… right?

"Tell me more… I’m innerested. Roxy’s eyes were fading. Tell me about the sex."

Well, usually drinks help to get my nerves to settle.

"I loooove drinking!"

I surveyed the men in uniforms looking up from their computers, trying to see what all the commotion was.

Ladies, please. Keep it down. A large man with gray hair and glasses quickly warned us.

Anyway, I continued in a quieter voice. Once I have the drinks going and we’re more comfortable, most of the time I lean in for the first kiss. You know, to let him know I’m good to go. Then, once the presex-makeout session is getting hot and heavy, I normally suggest we make our way to my bedroom. Some guys like to stay downstairs on the couch in the living room, some like the bed. I kind of like to go with the flow, and I’m usually the instigator with the removal of clothes. I generally take their clothes off first, their shirt and pants, then the boxers. I like when they pull my clothes off too; I’m not really shy anymore about that stuff. I used to be more self-conscious, but now I’m used to being naked in front of strange men. I know that sounds weird.

I looked over to make sure we weren’t attracting notice again before continuing. I realized after so many swaps that I really love giving and receiving oral. I’m actually pretty good at it. I once made a guy come in under five minutes. I even made this one guy come with just a three-minute hand job. I’ve also figured out that if I position myself properly when I’m on top, I can actually get my clit stimulated enough for mind-blowing orgasms that last crazy long. Oh yeah, and my nipples are pretty sensitive too… I never knew that a suck or a nibble while having sex could actually increase the intensity of the experience. Did you?

I had gotten so lost in my own fog that I hadn’t realized Roxy had fallen asleep, mouth open and snoring. I could see the silver cap on the one molar she had left in her mouth.

Valerie Matthews? The words echoed against the concrete.

Okay, so maybe my life isn’t a perfect Instagram story, I thought as I examined my whereabouts.

Yes! Here! I called out. My legs were stuck to the vinyl chair.

You’re free to go—your husband has come to collect you. The officer looked over at my hooker-friend Roxy, who was still snoring.

Okay, so maybe there were some bumps in the road this year, and maybe I’m stretching the truth just a little. What are a few white lies here and there? This wasn’t how I pictured year two. Last year at this time, I was relishing the joy and fulfillment Swap Club was bringing me. I was in multiple-orgasm, dancing-my-way-down-the-grocery-aisle, ass-licking-ain’t-so-bad heaven.

I sat there frozen, not sure if it was because my ass was stuck to the vinyl chair or I was afraid of Ryan, who was waiting for me outside the holding area. I wasn’t exactly sure if Ryan even had the desire to hear how the hell I’d ended up detained by the Montreal Police.

If he did, then maybe I should leave out the part when I got into a complete stranger’s car and was driven to a remote warehouse in the middle of Griffintown. Yeah. Probably not a good idea now that I thought about my night.

My name is Valerie Matthews.

Swinger.

Proud mother of two.

Finally released from Police Station Number 12.

I’ve only slept with men I’ve been married to. How many women can make that claim?

—Elizabeth Taylor, eight marriages, seven husbands, seven divorces.

This Ain’t No Never-Never Land

I SHOULD PROBABLY CATCH YOU up on my not-so-perfect life.

My ass was freezing to the cold leather seat in my husband Ryan’s car. We both sat in silence. We were parked outside Celeste’s (that’s not her real name; Ryan’s not his real name either; my name isn’t even Val, but if I told you my real name, I’d be in even more trouble than I’m in already). Celeste is the innovative madam and orchestrator of Swap Club.

We had just finished our one-year contract for Swap Club. That’s right—contract. Swap Club has rules, although I had already broken many of them. Ryan and I thought we were meeting Celeste for an exit interview. Turned out, it was a reentry interview.

Ryan and I left and sat in the car outside, both of us dumbstruck. One year of Swap Club had been a wild journey, but we seemed to have managed to make it out unscathed. Kinda. But we had never contemplated a year two. Who knew what that would do to us? The new contract was pinched between my thumb and my fingers in my giant wool glove.

Earth to Ryan.

What? Ryan responded finally, breaking out of whatever spell had been cast upon him.

You’re acting like I knew about renewing our contract. I had no clue! I thought we were just going to say our goodbyes and thank-yous. I turned in my seat to look at Ryan, but his hazel gaze was fixated through our windshield. Ryan?

Here we were in our typical standoff, only normally this type of silent treatment had to do with my big mouth at some corporate dinner party.

I don’t know what we should do, Ryan finally responded.

We don’t have to do it again, Ryan, I said, but I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. Our sex life used to be six minutes once a month, if I were lucky. After one year of Swap Club, Ryan and I weren’t breaking any records, but we were connecting with each other more frequently. Not to mention I’m guaranteed three hours a month with someone else’s husband. Should I just be honest? Tell Ryan that I want to keep screwing other men and vice versa? I didn’t even think there would be an option to renew! After all the broken rules, lies, and deception… I hadn’t even entertained the idea that Celeste would let us back in for another year! Now I had our renewal contract in my hand. The idea of passing this up was an impossibility. I had to convince him. But before I got the chance, Ryan shifted to look at me.

Let’s do it. And this time no messing around. Stick to the rules. No bullshit.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I started to become skeptical of his motivation. Could he read my mind? Was my husband telepathic? Telepathetic? I felt like there was a huge neon sign hanging over my head with arrows pointing down at me. HORNY HOUSEWIFE.

Are you sure? I asked, the same way I offer to pay for lunch with my mother when she grabs the bill.

Didn’t you have a good time? Ryan asked.

I did. I had a great time. But last year I had to convince you to join Swap Club for me, and this time you’re ready to sign without any second thoughts.

Give me that. Ryan snatched the contract out of my hands, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a pen. That was last year.

We’re signing? Right now? I was shocked, relieved, and fucking thrilled. Ryan signed his name and then passed the pen and contract back to me. I signed my name, and then Ryan opened his car door. He ran up Celeste’s walkway and stuck the contract in her mailbox.

As we pulled away from the curb, I flipped over to the Classic Rewind channel on Sirius XM, and we were treated to the eternally happy double clap of J. Geils and his band reminiscing about his homeroom centerfold. The song had me right back in the dining hall at summer camp when I was twelve years old. The jukebox would blast the song for four hundred campers smashing their hands down on the table twice every time J. Geils belted out my blood runs cold.

Four days later, I ate lunch with my on-and-off-again longtime friend Melissa, and she diagnosed me with stuck song syndrome. I wasn’t so sure about her diagnosis—for me it was a classic case of nostalgia that tapped into my deep-rooted neural tapestry of memories connected with music from sleepaway camp. Yet the joy Mr. Geils had once provided was slowly turning to madness as I could not get the damn hook out of my head. Na na na na na na…

A week later and I was still humming to the beat doing mom errands. My memory has just been… through my house, putting away laundry, Angel is a… and even as I shampooed my hair the morning Ryan and I had sex in the shower. Yes. I did just say sex in the shower with Ryan. Not sex after my shower or before my shower with Ryan. Sex in the shower with Ryan, a sure sign Swap Club had done us some good.

I had been rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when Ryan tapped on the bathroom door. It was eight thirty in the morning, and typically Ryan would have been already at work. That meant Ryan was choosing to play with me in the shower instead of sitting at his desk and playing CFO. It seemed Ryan’s sex drive had kicked into high gear.

The water is warm, I said as I splashed some water at his face and held the glass door open for him. He was semierect, a pure form of flattery considering all I had done thus far was let him see my naked body.

Ryan stepped into the shower and pressed my body against the wet tiles. They were cold against my spine. I flinched at first, but then my back warmed them up pretty quickly. We kissed as the shower poured over our bodies, keeping us cozy in a blanket of water. I felt his firm penis between my legs, not yet inside me, just rubbing against my soapy bits.

Ryan took my breast into his hand and licked my nipple. Less self-conscious about the shape, firmness, and size of my breasts, it seemed that my newfound comfort with my physique had granted Ryan access to more of my body. Even my saggy-ish mommy boobs.

I lowered myself to sit on the marble bench, but not before I pushed aside the array of shampoo bottles. We had shampoos for colored-treated hair, thinning hair, dry hair, dandruff, oily hair, and conditioning treatments for unruly hair, frizzy hair, and split ends. You would think we shared our shower with a bunk of fourteen-year-old girls or a quality-control rep for Unilever. Half the bottles were empty, and half the bottles were over a year old. Most of the bottles had just become a part of the shower furniture, and I felt too attached to throw them out.

My brain had wandered off as it did so often. It was as though I couldn’t help it. Last year I blamed my boring sex life on my inability to focus, but now I was convinced that my brain was incapable of staying in the moment. I had to get my mind out of the shampoo aisle and back into the hot sex scene I was in. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the thrill of having shower sex with Ryan, that he’d taken time to be with me over his job, and how amazing Swap Club was in our life.

I sat down, wincing once again at the cold against my bare skin. Ryan came closer, the shower hitting him from behind. I took him into my mouth and began to give him head.

I’m going to fall down. Ryan laughed as his legs twitched with every pull from my mouth.

So? I grinned, my hand rubbing his length.

My fingers and lips worked simultaneously, Ryan’s knees buckling slightly. I looked up at him. His eyes were closed in pleasure, his head tilted back slightly. The shower had become so steamy that I could see the ceiling start to drip. Could that cause damage to the paint? Would it peel? Would there be mold? Wait—was that mold?

Clap, clap! My memory has just been sold…

Val? Ryan, who sometimes could read me so well, felt my mind was preoccupied. The rhythm at which I was rubbing his penis had slowed down significantly, and my mouth was barely covering his shaft.

Focus, Val! Focus. Sorry! I pepped up and took the extra moisturizing Pantene conditioner to lube up my hands. I had to up the ante to make up for my mind wandering off. Again. I turned Ryan around and placed his hands against the wall to secure him.

What are you doing? Ryan asked as I spread his legs with my lathered hands.

Just close your eyes and enjoy. I looked back up at the dripping ceiling. We had to wrap this shower up or else the hot water tank would empty out before Ryan had his happy ending.

I spread his cheeks and began to rub his penis from between his legs while my other hand rubbed the area between his balls and butthole.

Oh my… Val… Where did you… Ryan couldn’t finish his sentence. His forehead stuck right against the dripping tiles, one hand bracing himself and the other dangling by his side, his fingertips turning into the California Raisins.

My hands were busy working in unison, rubbing him from behind. Ryan’s knees were shaking.

My angel is the centerfold.

Stop! Stop! Ryan stopped my hands, caught his breath, and then shut off the water.

What’s wrong? I was eighteen percent sure the song was in my head.

I’d thought he was enjoying himself. I’d thought it was feeling good. I guess not all guys like ass-play…

Ryan opened the shower door. Our bathroom was hazy, and I felt like a pork dumpling inside a bamboo steamer. Ryan grabbed a towel, wiped himself down, and then wrapped me up in it.

Come. Ryan led me out of the steamed-up shower stall and into our room where he laid me down on the bed. He opened the towel and got on top of me.

I felt chilled as the air touched my skin. I used Ryan’s body to warm up. Ryan looked in my eyes as he kissed me deeply and then slipped inside me. I held him close—I wanted the body heat as much as I wanted him in me. It was a refreshing change to start our day with sex rather than end it.

My mind wanted to check the time, but I fought the urge. My mind wanted to think about what to make for dinner and if I had remembered to set the dishwasher last night before bed. I kept on fighting the urge to be anywhere but here, in bed, having wet after-shower sex with Ryan at—Wait, what time is it?

My damp hair hung down over my face as I rolled myself on top of Ryan. He pulled my hair back with his hands as I moved my hips, rotating them in a smooth and steady gyration. Ryan’s hands held firm on my hair, increasing the pressure of my lips against his. I was a sucker for a good kiss. I could feel his grip on my hair tighten as we climaxed and then completely let go.

My cold hair sent chills up my back.

It’s nine forty-five—you’re beyond late for work. I checked the time; I couldn’t help myself.

I know, Ryan said as he got out of bed. Where the hell did you learn that trick? Ryan smiled at me. I literally thought my head was going to explode.

I don’t remember… I smiled back. It was a pretty crazy year. I watched Ryan get ready for work. We had come a long way, or maybe I should say he had come a long way.

Are you excited for another year of Swap Club? I asked him as he pulled a pair of socks out of his drawer.

I’m not going to lie—I’m always a bit nervous about our secret, but I like our vice. And I like our sex life much better than I did a year ago. Not to mention, my blood pressure is down and you just fondled my perineum in the shower.

You’re crediting Swap Club for the results you got from your annual physical?

I was just thinking out loud. Ryan sat on the side of our bed, putting on his socks. I just want to make sure it’s what you want—again.

Oh, if you mean for my birthday, then—No.

Ryan looked at me as he placed his sweater over his head and adjusted his shirt collar. What do you mean, no?

This doesn’t count as my birthday present this year. I smiled and then fiddled with my diamond tennis bracelet, which hadn’t left my wrist in over a year.

Of course not. Ryan grabbed his wallet and keys and kissed me on the forehead. Babe, it’s almost your forty-first. He made his way to the door. El Taqueria Friday night? He winked at me.

I took my pillow and whipped it at Ryan’s head. I’ll kill you!

Kidding… I made a reservation for eight at Gibby’s. And then he disappeared out the door.

Wait! I called after him.

Ryan peeked his head back into our room and looked at me with his eyebrows raised slightly.

What’s a perineum?

Ryan left me in bed, and I heard him laughing all the way down the stairs. Forty-one was going to be awesome. I wasn’t even annoyed that we were having another one of my birthday dinners with Melissa, Jeff, Tanya, Harry, Helen, and Steve, where I’d have to sit and listen to their banal chatter about their problems. I stared out the window and wasn’t bothered by the frost covering it or the layer of snow coating the dried-out branches of our tree. I, Valerie Matthews, was happy, and it wasn’t even summer!

The sound of the doorbell snapped me back to reality. I curiously made my way downstairs. It was probably Ryan, forgetting his salad in the fridge, his snowbrush, his cell phone, or any of the several items he kept with him on a daily basis.

I looked out the peephole just to be sure it was Ryan. After all, I was completely naked. And then my heart managed to fall all the way down to my sheepskin Ugg slippers.

Dear God,

Please give me the strength to tell Tyler to leave and never come back. I promise I will clean out all the empty bottles of shampoo from my shower stall.

Na na na na na na. Angel is my centerfold.

Amen.

That’s why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they’d call ’em something else.

—Jim Baker, Sixteen Candles

The Horseshoe That Brings No Luck

Swap #1: January 10, 2015

IT HAD BEEN OVER A month since that brisk November evening when I left Tyler standing alone in the street. Just a glimpse at his eyes through the peephole brought me back to the infatuation days when he was the gorgeous teacher’s assistant from my Art of Diplomacy class when I was at McGill. Never in a million years had I thought Tyler would be brought back into my life via our local swinger’s club. Avoiding eye contact at all costs was crucial, I thought as I opened the door. I couldn’t help myself, and I liked my shower full of empty shampoo bottles anyway.

What are you doing here? I asked as I hid behind my half-open front door, grabbing at Michael’s bomber jacket hanging just at arm’s length. I covered myself, just barely, and let Tyler in. I didn’t want anyone to see him on my doorstep.

I’ve been waiting for your husband to leave.

Waiting? How long have you been out there? I tied my hair into a wet knot, keeping my hands busy just to be safe in case a crazy urge overtook me to grab Tyler and kiss him.

Well, he usually leaves by eight, so I guess I’ve been waiting—

Two hours? I finished his sentence.

Yeah, I guess it’s been two hours.

Why? And how do you know he leaves at eight most days? I was one-quarter creeped out, two-quarters flattered, and one-quarter overcome with crazy urges. Why are you here, Tyler?

I had to see you. I fucking miss you. Tyler took a step closer, and I lost the battle with my eyeballs, I couldn’t control the need to see his crystal blues that were more stunning than I had remembered. He had scruff on his face and looked sexily unkempt.

You can’t do this! What about your wife? I have a husband! I felt a pang of guilt tremble through my stomach.

We’re separated, and I still can’t stop thinking about you.

I had to stay strong. I had to keep in the forefront of my mind how important it was for me to keep my focus on working on my marriage to Ryan. I just had morning shower sex while our kids were at school! This was no time for my brain to turn to mush and bring Tyler into the mix again. But damn, those eyes, his square shoulders, and fuck—the spot below his ear on his neck that I could still taste, and I couldn’t stop looking at those lips that had made me come over and over again just a few months ago. Those lips that always seemed to mouth the words I needed to hear when I was at my lowest. Those lips that send shock waves from my lips all the way down my spine.

Val, I just needed to see you, even for just a few minutes. Tyler turned toward the front door. I can see that you’re uncomfortable. I’m sorry to be selfish—I’ll go.

I watched as Tyler walked out my front door. The willpower to let him go, again, was a challenge. I kept reminding myself that I was naked and I had made my choice. I had just found some balance in my marriage. A precarious balance, but still balance, that led to shower sex and Ryan’s perennial or periodontist or whatever it’s called on a weekday morning.

Val, I thought in my most assertive inner voice, stay inside and shut the door.

Tyler! I yelled from the front porch. (Note to self: I need to work on my assertive voice.) But he didn’t hear me. Patricio, our landscaper, powered on his snowblower just in time. Surely it was a sign from a higher power that I need to keep myself in line. And only screw members in our organized sex club. (Ex-members such as Tyler are the forbidden fruit.)

As I generally try to abide by signs from a higher power, I closed the door and checked the time. It was ten thirty.

Shit! I’m late! I ran up the stairs to get ready. I was supposed to be at brunch with my mother in thirty minutes, which meant my mother had already been waiting for me for fifteen minutes. What a morning I was having. Delayed by shower sex and Tyler showing up at my door. I threw on the blue jeans slung over the edge of my laundry basket, the first shirt I could grab from my closet, and ran out the door with my hair in a wet bun. My mother was going to have a field day with me. You should wear makeup, you dress like a schlump, why is your hair wet at lunchtime?

I was meeting her at Nick’s, the only restaurant my mom referred to by location. I’ll meet you on Greene Avenue. Not I’ll meet you at Nick’s.

I rushed like crazy, and with help from the parking gods, I was in Nick’s by 10:52, but she wasn’t there yet. My perpetually early mother, the one who actually lives in Montreal but adheres to Atlantic Standard Time, was late. I only realized when I arrived that my mother hadn’t sent me her usual ten texts asking me my ETA. It was ten fifty-five, and Carol Matthews was not already sitting sipping coffee from a mug stained with her red lipstick.

I pulled out my phone and checked my messages, but the only alert shining on my home screen was a reminder to buy paper towels, detergent, and creamer.

Your mom isn’t here yet? the hostess asked. Even this stranger knew that Carol Matthews was always here before me.

No. I guess she’s on her way. I followed the hostess to a booth and pulled out my phone to check again. I was starting to think I got the days mixed up. Maybe I was supposed to meet my mom tomorrow. I checked my messages. Nope, it was definitely today. I called her.

Mom? Where are you?

I’m parking. I’ll be there in a second.

My eyes were glued to the door. For once in my life my mother had me worried. A few moments passed, and there she was. Like a Hollywood movie star, Carol Matthews turned every head as she walked up to the booth. Her red lips, Chanel sunglasses, and indigo-blue fur coat looked like perfection