So this chick has her tongue up my ass. I can't believe it's happening, and in front of all these people! Wait. I'm going to roll this flick back to the very beginning. Occasionally I have to remind myself that foreplay is a better way to work towards the good part. Anyway, it is a normal Friday afternoon by all accounts . Birds are chirping, traffic on 95 is at a standstill, and from my office window I can see the cops harassing black kids on the way home from the vocational schools a few blocks east of Wynwood. Then I get a call from a woman named Allissa Huaser. Her voice is a sexy, enticingly weathered rasp, sort of like the broad from the Kills. She lays on the flattery: yeah, she's read my columns in the past and, because of my obsession with sex, she'd love me to judge a booby pageant at her esteemed establishment, Miami Velvet. I assume this is a prank. Shit, an invitation to a swinger's club as a guest of honor? That's too good and potentially gooey to be true. It's no prank. All of a sudden I am now one of three judges deciding which contestant from a group of swathing females is most fuckable (using the term loosely of course). The first thought that shimmies through my mind as I animatedly scream into the phone like a cliché rookie salesman ("Yes! I'll do it!") is that I just secured myself a memorable sexual experience. Truth be told, I have never been to Miami Velvet, so the pornographic fantasy I'm concocting is tempered by the limp skeptic that I bully constantly. Surely it can't just be an all out FUCKFEST. Can it? Well I was going to find out, and because I assume most of you readers have yet to embark on a swinger's club escapade (here is my attempt to sew at least a shred of purpose into this column, besides getting off on my own prurient adventures), this is a window into a netherworld of decadence, debauchery, and, umm, a killer comp buffet. Arriving at Miami Velvet sometime around 10 p.m., two large black males in suits stand guard outside. Joining me is my friend and sometimes-accomplice Rebecca. Our relationship is completely platonic, but I drag her in to gain access to the section of the club where, allegedly, anything goes (women enter the area unescorted, men no such luck). So, yeah, Rebecca is my meal ticket to the Carnal Cafeteria. The entrance to this "lifestyles club" displays a list of disclaimers headlined by a stand-out warning: "If you're offended by sex, please do not enter the premises." It is a decent-enough indication that saucy - no, make that soaking poncho-required shenanigans - are about to ensue. ---- Getting In ---- Unless one is a "Mister Judge," penetrating Miami Velvet is not as simple as the moral rhetorical raised at the main entrance. It tends to include a membership application and a monthly or annual fee. Couples pay $250 a year, while singles usually pay more or less depending on the gender. There is also cover charge icing that ranges from $35 to $75 a night, but hey, you save on booze - that's because the place is BYOB, a safety detail that eliminates the standard liquor license that attracts prude and pesky authorities. "There are many important people who come here and they don't want any trouble," I remember being told over the tele. Approval for membership is at the club's discretion, or rather, Huaser's. I finally meet the dame by grand double doors leading into the club. She's an infectious and fit young woman with wavy blond locks and a spunky attitude that sprays "cheerleader slut" right across her face. "I insist on adding positivity to this liberated environment where people can be themselves," she says, popping and twirling syllables like a total valley girl. Then she tells me that Velvet has no tolerance for prostitution or drugs. "At this point in my life I am going through a detox phase," I assure her, "marijuana and prescription pills only. And my money situation is cool enough that I won't sell my ass tonight." Huaser just stares at me, her sorority chick-smile half wiped off her face. "Okay, don't smoke pot in here," is what she comes up with in response, both fingers pointing at me in physical punctuation. Then she shows me in. ---- Space Congress ---- In all actuality, the Velvet resembles a SoBe hotspot. The first floor of the two-story complex is designed like a typical discotheque - pulsating lights, hanging disco balls and a hardwood floor to dance all over. On the far end, past the do-it-yourself bar, is a room with sofas and porn flickering on big screens, something of a community living room leading to a locker-room on the way to a Jacuzzi area. It's still early, and nothing's going down, besides a bit of tame social mingling right next to the free buffet. There's meat, rice, and veggies, plus key lime pie. Despite the fact that I lied earlier and am actually keyed up, I can't resist the free food. Once I finish gorging, I'm ushered to my seat for the contest. The title 10 females are vying for tonight is original enough: Miss Miami Velvet. Yours truly sits like a fucking king at the head table, facing the dance floor. The other judges include last year's winner and a transsexual, so every gender and half-gender, I'm assuming, is represented, like Space Congress. One by one the women come out and do a basic strip tease, some to a g-string, a few bottomless. The last to go is a brick house of a Brazilian who comes out naked and then gets dressed. How different. In the Q & A round (yep) she answers a question about her hottest fantasy: "To be surrounded by four hard cocks and suck them till they come." I can't help it. Right then and there I jolt upward and yell, "Ten!" She ends up winning. After the contest concludes, the party begins. Unlike a '70s caricature of "The Swinger", the crowd is not entirely made up of old "Three's Company " rejects. The age range spans nubile 20s to nudist colony 50s; body types go from fine to gluttonous; and most people are speaking Spanish (although it should be noted that big and black is beautiful here). Topless women covered in body paint parade casually right by you and a few shirtless fellas with belt lines riding just above their pubes strut their shit. And then there are the rest of us: the fully clothed. We actually outnumber the uninhibited by a handful. The protocol for hooking up involves a lot of cheesy small talk. Hey, how you doing? Where are you from? Are those Bugle Boys? If you're not as talkative or not into feeling skeezie, dancing can be a good intro, especially around the center stage stripper pole where things get free. A birthday girl is announced to the crowd and in an instant three women and a group of guys do a rotating lap dance on her, all at once. Most people say they come to meet other open-minded adults and have fun in a place where women can feel secure and guys don't get tricked into paying for sex, unless you count the entrance charges. Interestingly enough, many of the surrounding regulars attest that they never go upstairs. To reach the upper level, a towel is the requisite attire. The funny thing is that the locker room where you obtain your complimentary towel is on the opposite side of everything. So before working up the energy to walk into an orgy, you have to casually cross the dance floor barefoot in nothing but cheap hotel linen while trying not to get stepped on by waltzing patrons. Well, when my Swatch hits the witching hour, Rebecca and I, in our towels, climb the staircase up to the second floor. I am greeted with a sight I'll be telling my grandkids about. ---- Rubs, Tugs and the Goofy German ---- No porno I have ever jerked to has prepared me for this. A long corridor runs for 30 yards with several rooms stretching down the left. A wider space with unabashed moaning is around the corner to our right. There are black lights and dirty movies on monitors - it's Tim Burton gone to seed. And yes, people are fucking right before our eyes. The scene can be described as very Roman and absolutely consensual. In fact, I never knew people wanted it so bad. On the couch beside me, a man is fucking a woman from the back as she makes out with another woman, who is getting pummeled from behind by another man. People just brush by them, most are watching, some even stand and stare in entranced perv-dom. Rebecca, who says she is there as a spectator and as a favor-ticket for me to possibly get laid, is quickly propositioned. She politely nods no. We check out the main orgy room. King-sized mattresses are doused with what seems like 20 to 30 wrangling bodies fucking. It's difficult to keep tabs because just when you think you've seen every body,   some bitch pops out of the pile. One woman sucks her old husband's cock then makes rubs-and-tugs at some other dude's hard-on while taking a brief breather. I simply cannot believe it. I have an erection I've been fighting so I tell Rebecca to stay put while I take a stroll. I go down to the last room at the end of the hall: The dungeon room. There are beds and a Chinese swing being properly utilized by a couple. A few other couples are having group sex in the corner. In come two shapely women in their late 20s. One is blonde, the other brunette, slightly Euro. They're wearing dental floss and stiletto heels. The blonde tells the brunette to hold on tight to an eight-foot-high whipping station. She spanks her harder and harder, until she rants, "I'm tired of spanking this bitch." I speak up: "I'll get up there." Don't get me wrong, I'm not that cool, but nervous or not, I'm not passing up too many opportunities to live out this fantasy. "Alright, we got a cutey," the girl tells an audience of ten, all of whom have now stopped fucking to watch my ass get beat. So I grab hold and take a few smacks. Then she just starts to caress me. "Oooh, I love the ass." That's when her brunette friend comes around to the front of me and sucks my dick. I turn my head and Rebecca is standing there. She's trying to contain her laughter while hopping up and down on sexual Strattera. I motion my hand violently, "Get out!" So Rebecca runs off. Back to my threesome, where I have a fine brunette with my cock in her mouth and a fine blonde dominatrix tossing salad. Have I mentioned they are with a goofy German guy who's watching one or both of his girlfriends devour me? Finally ass-lover goes over to him. And then the only bit of conversation between me and the brunette occurs. She pulls her face away from my dick, looks up at me innocently and mutters, "Do you have a condom?" I tell her I'll be right back. ---- Like Sunshine on an Escort Advert ---- "I should just quit while I am ahead, this girl is a complete stranger," I frantically babble to Rebecca (my vicarious Freudian ego) as I walk down the hall on the way to the locker room. "Who knows what the fuck I can get into." Leave it to a woman to tell me I'm pussying out (nope, she's my female Id). "If you don't do this you'll be kicking yourself in the ass for the rest of your life," she says. I've never realized how wise Rebecca is. I snag a condom from the locker room and head back to the dungeon, determined as hell. I am surprised to walk in on the brunette sitting there waiting for me. People here are definitely depraved, but they are also courteous. I walk up to her, get blown into shape again, roll on a rubber, and proceed to pile-drive her. The in/out is sweaty. It's hard. It goes on non-stop for 20 minutes. But I never come. My senses are overloaded, I'm not even here. As soon as she says, "Yeeah, fuck yeah baby," I pull away. Her blonde friend and the goofy German guy, who were fucking right next to us the whole time, fall over her. I jog out in a daze. Rebecca wasn't supposed to be watching me (per strict instructions), but I find her at the doorway with an almost proud look on her face. "I have to get home to shower this away," I tell her. "I need to wash away this sin." She just rolls her eyes: "Dude, let go of that Catholic school boy bullshit. You just lived up to your own billing, for once." She was right. After I dropped her off, I thought about it all. I'm so turned on by the time I get back home, I call up an escort. Man, I really do have to stop hitting the cocaine. Artwork by Sven Barth