SWINGING BY RHEA COMBS

I am a swinger and damn proud of it. For a long time I was quite embarrassed about my secret fetish, but I recently found out one of my closest friends also ‘swings.’ And the other day I met a guy who admitted being a swinger. One can hardly imagine how ecstatic I was when I discovered there were others like me enjoying this secret life. Soon I realized there is a secret society participating in this covert activity. Accepting that a majority of Americans are repressed, and often denying themselves unadulterated pleasure, I was relieved to know that I had found my clandestine clan.

Perhaps, if more people were willing to become swingers and experience its many delights, there would be less road rage, greater world peace, and increased human tolerance. People could also learn more about themselves, realize their limitations and figure out what they find satisfying. Although it may be an unspoken rule that swinging is not socially acceptable, and many think swingers are morally adrift, I have not been one to necessarily follow rules. Moreover, swinging seems to come naturally for me, I feel called to it.

People who think they cannot swing or who are more comfortable watching completely miss out, because being a swinger releases all inhibitions (which should not be underestimated and can not be achieved simply be watching). By swinging, one becomes ever increasingly fearless, reconnects with God, and enjoys a feeling of supreme and total euphoria that only an art like this can produce. The bliss, the high, the excitement is, to quote a fellow swinger, “ the ultimate orgasmic experience.”

I have heard some people – particularly Black men – say they are not swingers. I recall one time proudly explaining my secret to a brother and witnessed his total change of character as he stood in judgment and sharp disapproval. But the more I proselytized, and brothers being brothers, ever the sucker for new, pleasurable experiences, the more he came around. He soon agreed to join a friends and I for a romp. The date was set, and our little novice rendezvous fulfilled. When we finished, he was all smiles, (I have the pictures to prove it!) and is now considered a closeted lifetime member of the Swingers Club.

Many reading this may think this article is too revelatory or risqué. But before jumping to conclusions, it is important to recognize that at one time—even in footloose-and-fancy-free Atlanta—there used to be two predominate definitions of swinging, not just the one associated with swapping sex partners. To some people’s dismay and other’s relief, I am talking about the type of swinging that allows one to feel the air blow through their tresses while moving closer and closer towards the sky. I’m referring to the swinging that sets imaginations free and toes touching treetops.

I recall falling in love with swinging when I was five years old and still living on Marlowe Street in Detroit, Michigan. One spring day my dad surprised me with a fully loaded jungle gym: slide, monkey bars, “see-saw,” and swings. Our backyard was transformed into the local hangout and guaranteed fun palace. A child’s heaven filled the backyard: hoola hoops, jacks, marbles, remote control cars, badminton rackets, croquet balls, and what would quickly and forevermore become my favorite, swings.

At one time, swinging also became my saving grace. Leroy and Ewing—the neighborhood thugs— “wanted to get to know me,” with an infamous game of ‘Boy(s) Chase the Girl.’ I resisted; they persisted. I ran through the park, and with seven-year old ***** hounds (forty-nine in dog years) fast on my trail, I prayed for freedom. To the north, in the distance, I saw my out: a swing set. I darted to the vacant seat and started pumping fast. I went faster and faster, getting higher. The adrenaline rushed through my veins and I thought if they got too close I would kick them, hard! Fortunately, the speed and determination of my movement distracted them long enough to do what most boys want to do: compete. We ended up making up games long enough for them to lose interest in me.

As an adult, being a swinger brings on a different set of adventures. First, you have to figure out how to make a child relinquish their swing. One must survey the terrain to see what other little cherubs are vying for space, and somehow maneuver one’s self into position, unobtrusively, and discreetly; trust me, not an easy task in a playground full of children, parents, nannies and bird feeders.

Once, alas, seated and into swinging position, children always seem confused and concerned when an adult is in the midst. They watch, hoping the steel nuts and bolts will withstand the adult pressure weighted into a child’s playground apparatus. Rarely do they seem to comprehend said “adult’s” fascination with swinging. The surrounding grownups, closeted, inhibited and repressed, also don’t get it. It never registers that swinging is equivalent to boarding a time machine where one is transformed to that innocent age of purity, that fountain of youth they seek but never find; covet but never embrace. They never take their own children’s cues and board, swing, jump off at pendulum’s peak and fly, soar, become free, a child again. If only for a second.

Sincere gratitude to Isoul Harris, Tamera Hill, and Nina Martin for inspiring this article.

Rhea L. Combs is a doctoral student at Emory University, concentrating on Film History and Visual Culture, African American Cultural Production and Gender Studies. Read more of her writing at http://www.rheality.com