How it all began

Me. Manuel.

​

I’d never been so ill-prepared for a date—and yet so damn ready at the same time. Clara stood next to me in the neon-lit nightmare of the outlet mall, where it always smelled like sales, polyester, and Mondays. She waited patiently while the upcoming night played out in my mind’s eye, in choppy scenes that flickered faster than the discount signs on the walls.
She tugged at my sleeve, steering me toward the shoe department. The shelves full of clunky, neon-colored sneakers looked as if someone had painted the rows with highlighters.
“Look, they have your size!”
“I’m not looking for sneakers,“ I mumbled. "But for a suit that won’t make me look like a accountant gone astray at a swinger event.”
The fact that we were standing here was absurd.
Two years ago, we’d met on an adult dating site—a place where “Hy [sic]“ was considered a cover letter and “How’s it going? Great profile” already qualified as a literary masterpiece if it was written halfway without mistakes.
I have no idea what men expected from such messages. Couldn’t they write better with one hand? They should have started a rumor: “As a man’s message goes, so goes his Johnson!” That might have been the only form of quality assurance that would have worked. Although—speaking from personal experience: scientifically, this theory didn’t hold up anyway; otherwise, I’d easily pass for John Holmes today. Because when I wrote to someone, I really went all out! And in most cases, I got replies.
It immediately set you apart from the rest, and that was definitely not a mistake, especially on platforms like that.
I’d sent Clara half a novel, and she liked it so much that she replied with an essay. We figured out pretty quickly that we were compatible not only linguistically but also—at least in theory—in bed.
What started as a sexual encounter with the potential for “friends with benefits” very soon turned into something else: a love neither of us had expected. It was so intense and sexually fulfilling that it surprised even us.
Maybe it was because neither of us was a blank slate anymore. At fifty-one for me and forty-four for Clara, we’d shed enough baggage to feel light again. We felt like a live album by a beloved artist from our youth: the cover has a few scratches and the voice is a shade rougher, but everything is damn well-rehearsed and gets by without a trace of playback.
It was precisely this desire that soon sparked our curiosity for even more. The fantasy wasn’t new; it had accompanied both of us in earlier relationships, but had remained purely theoretical there. With us, it found a foothold. From the very beginning, we couldn’t get it out of our heads. Sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, sometimes hot, sometimes uncomfortable. But always alluring.
It was about sharing. Not at the Italian restaurant around the corner, but in the bedroom. Or rather: at a swingers’ club. Feeling strangers’ bodies. Wild chaos. Hearing desire. Smelling ecstasy. And ideally: right in the middle of it all instead of just watching.
Yes, I wanted to see Clara give herself to another man. Or several. Not as an act of losing control, but as an expression of an old fantasy of mine that finally wanted to come to life.
The premiere was supposed to have taken place three weeks earlier. At a nudist event at a venue in Lower Austria—far enough away from my personal circle to remain anonymous. The website aggressively advertised with superlatives and the square footage of the grounds, but as we all know, when it comes to sex, size doesn’t matter.
What ultimately convinced us was the “couples-only” policy. A filter that lulled us into a false sense of security. Still, the worry remained: Would it be a deluxe orgy, or more like a trainwreck in flip-flops and wifebeaters?
The website’s graphic design—a wild mix of WordArt logos and poorly lit wellness areas—promised more neon lights than the kind of exoticism they were trying to sell there.
Still, we’d signed up. Determined. Open to anything. To other bodies, new experiences, unfamiliar sensations—and yes: even to the possibility that it might be too much. Too real. Too raw. Too close.
Because: fantasy is one thing. Reality is something completely different. But then: COVID-19 hit. Three days before the event. Positive tests, negative vibes. Instead of shameless nudity and loud moaning, there was quarantine, fever, and chicken soup.
No orgasm, but a deep sense of life’s irony. Universe 1: Swinger God 0. A bit of relief, admittedly, was part of it. But no sooner were we healthy again than the itch returned. Not between our legs, but between our ears. The thought of not having at least tried it became unbearable. Almost like a missed opportunity.
So: A fresh start. This time properly. This time with determination.
And above all: This time, for real.