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At the Convention Center, even the plastic-encased lapel nametags
are coupled off: “Ken and Barbie” on his, “Barbie and Ken” on hers.
Not all the couples are paired off in real lie, though. One person can simply
bring along another—known in swinger circles as a “ticket” for gender
balance—in order to get into the convention. So everybody has entered
two by two, and I feel like a unicorn stowaway on Noah’ s Ark,
surreptitiously balancing on the cusp of love and lust.
There are 3,000 participants at this convention, mostly upper-middle-
class, in their 30s, 40s and 50s. They consider people in the outside world
to be “straight,” even though one would ordinarily consider them
straight. I mean there are suburban soccer moms here, openly celebrating
their secret lifestyle at an oasis of supportiveness. There’ s a man in a suit
with a flesh-colored penis necktie, another wearing a T-shirt declaring
“I’ m Not Going Bald, I’ m Getting More Head,” and another dressed
only in a leather jockstrap, who recognizes me and introduces himself.
“I’ d give you my card,” he says, “but I have no place to keep
them.”
Inside the 100,000 square-foot Convention Center, the Exhibit Hall
has been turned into an “Adult Marketplace,” buzzing with commercial
activity. I overhear one shopper’ s complaint: “But we’ ve already spent

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