Article in las vegas weekly on Tryst and Fling parties in Las Vegas

Tryst

THE NEW SEX

Call them sophisticated. Call them horny. Just don't call Vegas' hottest underground movement a bunch of swingers By Molly Brown.

It's 7 a.m. The sun is rising over Las Vegas Boulevard, blanketing the mega-casinos in flattering golden light as shadows spread across I-15 to the west. We're literally sitting on top of the world----or the closest thing to it in Vegas: A high roller suite, drinking champagne and lying on chaise lounges, giggling profusely. Suddenly, this woman----blond, wearing a purple body-stocking and feather boa----climbs on top of me and starts to lick and kiss my neck and face. I look over to see her partner----some blond guy----sitting on the couch across from me, arms crossed, gazing at us fairly nonchalantly. I begin to feel like a character in a Penthouse letter: "I never thought this would happen to me..." She says nothing, just keeps licking, kissing. I'm not sure what to do. This is, after all, why I'm here----to see what they do, how they act. To see what this kind of sex is all about. To see what this kind of sex is all about.

Behind closed doors

"I just need to see that you're young, hip and attractive, not how big your dong is."

Leslie laughs as she pulls up picture after picture from her office computer database. There are couples posing naked, ridiculously dressed in baseball hats and cheap lingerie. Otherwise God-fearing women are sprawled out like it's a Hustler shoot--one of whom Leslie dubs, "Miss Big Titty Texas," a buxom blond whose husband snapped her naked pic in front of a Christmas tree. There are men who send in shots from the chest down or below the waist. And there are tons of people having sex. One couple sent in two photos: One with their genitals intertwined, the other in a Moral Majority family pose.

"There they are at Disneyland with a handicapped child," says Leslie, and then she laughs some more.

Be amused if you will, but there's more than one shot in Leslie's database of happy couples enjoying the Magical Kingdom--then lying in bed in a way that would make Walt Disney stir in his cryogenic bath.

Leslie's office is full of the photos, because it's part of her job--planning and making sure that all things go smoothly for Fling and Tryst, two businesses operated by her and her husband, Philip. These are exclusive events for couples--and single women--to meet, mingle, dress up, enjoy good conversation and company, and then, perhaps, something else.

And while the parties are extravagant and decadent affairs alone, it's the possibility of the "something else" that makes them so intriguing.

Make no mistake--this ain't your mom and dad's key swap.

How the upper 2 percent lives

After moving here recently from San Francisco, Leslie and Philip came up with their unique business venture after finding Vegas offerings slightly less than enchanting.

The traditional swingers clubs here were a turn-off, strip bars could be fun but they weren't quite right, and the loud, booming nightclubs just aren't that attractive to intelligent professionals older than 30. That "something else" wasn't here, so Leslie and Philip decided to create it.

From their experience as photographers in San Francisco, where they'd been hired to take pictures at sexually risque events--for very elite guests--they came up with a plan to provide a non-threatening environment to attract the sexually curious. Those San Fran parties involved lavishly decorated rooms with rose petals, candles, live models and fashion shows. Locales were kept secret. When they ended, hotel rooms were always cleaned and put back in proper order. And in a short time, Leslie and Philip had created an underground sensation.

And now, they've created Fling--a much larger, five-day event in different cities like LA, San Francisco, Miami and now Vegas. Tryst is Fling's little sister, a monthly party meant for Vegas locals. The concept for both is fairly similar: It's an exclusive club of extraordinary people. But most importantly, it's for people who are open and comfortable with sex--and are curious about exploring other avenues.

Here's what's not allowed: Drugs of any kind, excessive drinking, loutish, aggressive or predatory behavior. And while flirty dancing and playful behavior is OK, actual sexual acts are a no-no. Guests are encouraged to take that back to their rooms--and many do have after-hours parties in their hotel suites.

And most importantly, Tryst and Fling are female-centered parties. The freedom from traditional sexual roles and restraints of practically every other place--clubs, bars, restaurants, strip clubs--simply doesn't exist here. Men can only attend as part of a couple, and then they must be relaxed, confident, and there to enhance their partner's enjoyment.

As Philip says, "It's truly the women's version of Eyes Wide Shut."

Another important aspect of Fling and Tryst is that it's exclusive. Leslie and Philip describe their clientele as those skimmed from the top 2 percent of those who consider themselves swingers.

"We don't pick the people based on what we find attractive, personally," says Philip. "That's strictly taboo. The number one responsibility we have is to keep the integrity of the group. We look at couples on the idea that someone will find them attractive. We've been super careful curating this group."

Adds Leslie, "Occasionally we'll have waves of angst about being exclusionary. But America has 450 traditional swingers clubs--we're not one of them."

We love the nightlife, we love to...

It's June and the Las Vegas Fling has arrived. The itinerary is extravagant. Activities include meet-and-greet cocktail hours, nightclub excursions, strip clubs, fancy meals, fashion shows and a black-tie ball. Five full days have been meticulously planned, the result of about five months planning.

It's at the cocktail party where I first meet Philip and Leslie. She's stunning and well-spoken with long reddish-brown hair and warm brown eyes. He's handsome and articulate, with wavy brown hair and a nice build. In fact, all the couples milling around the bar are attractive and dressed to the nines, casually sipping martinis. There's none of the usual nightclub fare--a mixture of tackiness and taste.

The other major difference is how incredibly friendly everyone is. One nice couple from San Francisco says they tried a club there and were immediately turned off by the surly bouncers, the checking of IDs, the milling cops and the curious onlookers who flocked there "just to watch the perverts."

Everyone here appears to be fairly wealthy and educated, and that helps when you're looking at a Fling membership costing $300-$500 per couple--although single women pay only $20. Many of the people have flown in from Miami, New York City, Chicago and California for a weekend of relaxation and revelry. Roughly half who RSVP'd have also cancelled, casualites of the dot.com collapse.

I meet a recently divorced woman named Jane, an aerospace engineer turned fashion designer. It's the first Fling she's attended without her partner, and she's nervous. "It can be very threatening for a single woman," she admits.

We talk about how jealousy creeps into even the most supposedly open-minded of situations. She says some couples have split after sleeping with others. They simply meet someone else they'd rather be with. Several people ask me if I came alone, and proceed to tell me how brave I am. They seem to think it's easier to delve into fantasy with a partner.

As Leslie and I smoke and drink gin and tonics, she tells stories about people she's had to reject as applicants. The Playboy Channel wanted to bring in cameras: No. Another has-been teen actor-turned-loser adult called Leslie earlier that day, demanding that he, his girlfriend and his bodyguard be comped. Leslie told him he had to pay like everyone else. Fling is a business, after all, and this week's events end up costing around $55,000.

After the lounge, the party heads to a popular strip club for some male dancer action. Not many made it over, but the few who did mostly sit in booths and talk. I can't get over how incredibly friendly and open everyone is--not predatory or shady whatsoever. For anyone who craves intelligent, honest conversation, it's the place to be.

But at this club, the femme-friendly vibe clashes with the aggressiveness of the male dancers. It's the middle of the night, and most of the male strippers are wandering around the room, trying to get people to buy lap dances. One goes so far as to plop down, bitch about not making money and how cheap women are, basically hinting that we're of the same ilk.

"I mean, if you're not here for lap dances, what are you here for?" he spits out.

Very un-Fling like, indeed.

The ugliest woman in the world

Two nights later at the hotel, it's time for the Fling Wild Erotic Party. This is where things heat up. The ballroom's been transformed into a gorgeous, velvet-draped, plush sofa haven. There's a stage taking up one full corner, with several smaller dance platforms scattered throughout. And the crowd is much larger than at the cocktail party. Most people only fly in for the weekend events. Everyone is beautiful--the kind of couples who have their plastic surgeons on speed dial--and decked out in the glamorous, seductive wear of Armani and Versace. The women are tan with teased hair, full make-up, the works. And I realize quickly that I'm the most conservatively dressed woman there--aside from me, breasts are protruding partially or all the way, G-strings are apparent and little skirts barely cover some bottoms.

Most of the men are dressed in sophisticated suits--the '20s style zoot suit or the old mobster look tends to be outfit of choice.

It's also a bit cliquey. People aren't as open with strangers and most know each other from other parties. Aside from a couple I met the night before, and another who asks me if I'm bisexual, hardly anyone talks to me.

I also realize after speaking with a few of the guests that most of them have exceptionally boring, stressful or stiff day jobs. In addition to the techies, there are chemists, engineers, doctors, lawyers...which might explain the need for some excitement.

But who are they, really? That's not easy to discern. Fling is completely confidential--they don't share information with anyone--and no one is supposed to talk about it outside the group. Last names aren't even on guest lists, just in case it gets into the wrong hands. Leslie and Philip know. He can look at the Web database--practically all of the 8,396 names--and identify them by job title. "He's a techie, she's a nurse." Leslie carries a small tape recorder with her and makes notes of behavior.

After the fashion show, and a few too many glasses of wine, I go to the bathroom and try to wedge a spot between some buxom trophy wives to wash my hands. Then I look around the bathroom--my face all red and blotchy--and realize that I'm the most unattractive person in the room.

Too drunk to drive and no money for a room, I do what any self-reliant, tired, blotchy, small-chested gal would do. I grabbed a blanket out of my trunk and sleep in my car. In the parking garage.

It was not a banner-night for my self-esteem.

Time to get it on

Tryst, the monthly get-together, follows the same concept as Fling, but on a much smaller scale. They've had a few Trysts in Vegas so far, the last one being held at a hotel/casino that's popular with the LA-set.

In the rented hotel lounge, away from the din of catcalls and the whistles of young men outside, the room is dimly lit and set up for the event with drapes hanging from the ceiling for privacy, a DJ spinning progressive music and a dance platform set up with two poles.

I later hear Dennis Rodman tried to get in, and was denied because of the kind of attention he would bring.

Many people have flown in from around the country, including a pleasant, attractive couple from San Francisco--Rebecca and Chris. He's a doctor, she's works in human resources. They've been married 10 years and have a daughter.

Chris and Rebecca explain the dynamics of their relationship. When they began experimenting, they went to typical swingers clubs and were horrified by what they saw. They wanted a close-knit community in which they could meet trustworthy people. And they are actually a couple with Leslie and Philip, and don't usually date anyone else. It's a consensual and comfortable situation--they are great friends--and say it's spiced up their sex life tremendously.

The swingers melting pot

Every July, the Lifestyles Convention swoops down on the Tropicana in all its sexual glory. Thousands of swingers and the sexually curious come from all over the country to spend a weekend attending parties, basking poolside and possibly hooking up.

It's nothing like Tryst or Fling, which are relatively low-key and much more exclusive. But Philip, Leslie, Chris and Rebecca are going to the Saturday events, because for Philip and Leslie, it's sort of a recruiting ground. Though they don't like most of what they see, maybe they'll find potential Fling members.

I begin to understand their feelings when, outside the convention hall, I'm given the thorough once-over by practically every guy there and can't sit two minutes for a beer without an extremely annoying and drunken Texan hitting on me.

Finally, we go inside. I sign on with Philip and Leslie, because single women are suspected of being hookers. The ballroom reminds me of a twisted version of a high school prom--balloons, confetti, a band, the works. The only difference? An assortment of lingerie, G-strings, leather, studs, even fake appendages--pepper the room. Breasts and butts are everywhere. And most of it is not pretty.

The Lifestyles crowd varies in appearance, but most tend to be middle-aged couples. And there's nothing unsightly happening--people kiss, dance, do a little friendly caressing. Then again, this isn't where people get down to it. That happens after hours, in personal suites. I have yet to be invited to one of these--until tonight.

When the dance ends, Leslie mentions there's an after-hours at a Strip casino and invites me, but Philip is apprehensive. He doesn't want me mistaking what I'll see at this after-hours for what happens at Fling events. After some convincing, I get to tag along.

The party is in a high-roller suite and is being put on by a couple of guys who own their own version of an adult club. A couple of the women in our party change clothes into even more risque stuff--lacy, see-through lingerie. As we walk through the main casino, we hear someone comment at the blackjack tables "What's up with those people?"

"There's a swingers convention in town," the dealer deadpans.

Waiting for the elevators, we run into a huge group of people who can only be described as high-roller groupies: lots of skimpy outfits, lots of kissing on the cheeks and looking important. Everyone talks about one of the guys who's throwing the party. He suddenly appears and gets on the elevator with us. He's 40-ish, gray haired, dressed in a frumpy, wrinkled shirt and pants, and has a high, disjointed voice. He talks like Crispin Glover playing Andy Warhol. Despite how anyone might feel about him, they all kiss his ass. Not literally--at least, not yet.

Andy Warhol-man has a stack of $5,000 chips in his hand and proclaims, "I'm down $800,000 at the tables." Then he turns to Leslie, whom he's flirting mercilessly with, and tells her he wants to "f--" her.

We arrive at the suite--a beautiful, lavish space filled with equally beautiful people. A security guard watches the door. There's an open bar kept by three casino employees who keep their eyes glued to the floor, seemingly oblivious to what's going on around them.

Leslie and I sit by the floor-to-ceiling windows that show the entire south side of the Strip. The view is tremendous. Andy Warhol suddenly comes over and tells Lesliehe want to lick her.

Then another lady comes over, and he turns to her as he's rubbing her butt and says he wants to lick her somewhere else.

Leslie and I move on to explore the suite.

There are two huge bedrooms, two big bathrooms, a living room and a den area. People are already starting to go at it in the bedrooms. We see mounds of clothed and nude people kissing and writhing, while others just watch.

Then we head back to the den, where there are two sex acts going on--two women on the floor are making out and giving each other oral sex, while two women and a guy are on the couch doing the same. Mostly, though, it's guys just sitting around and watching the women having sex, giving a playful slap on their rumps here and there. Most of the women wear nothing, or practically nothing, while most of the guys are fully clothed. The dynamic is definitely male-dominated, and it seems the women are here more for entertainment than anything else. It's a much different vibe than the Fling or Tryst parties.

We sit in the den and watch--lots of moaning, thrusting of fingers, kissing. It's like being stuck in a porno with an open bar. Most of the sex looks over-dramatized, and no one that I see really appears to genuinely be enjoying it--which I start thinking is kind of sad. It's as if they've gotten bored with sex.

Leslie and I commentate on the action like a couple of sportscasters at a football game.

"That can not feel good."

"She's faking it."

"Come on!"

It all feels very detached and surreal. We're soon bored and start talking about interior decorating--the bad marble, the overuse of heavy, dark wood, how difficult it is to get decent curtains in Vegas. All the while, people are having sex not five feet away.

As the hours creep into morning, many of the people have cleared out of the suite, leaving the hardcores. And they're doing it everywhere--in the hallway, the living room. One bedroom is a writhing mass of naked bodies, only visible by the glow of their skin and the "uh, uh, uh" noises. I feel like I'm in Boogie Nights, walking around, trying not to look, but staring at the same time.

We sit and, like old, hardened porn directors, watch as we drink champagne, completely exhausted, our senses completely overloaded.

"I hate that word, swinger"

Sitting in a restaurant the following week enjoying a quiet dinner with Leslie and Philip, Chris and Rebecca, we talk about the differences between what went down at the Strip casino and what happens at their parties. There are a few groups like Fling and Tryst in the country--Pleasure Zone, Bliss, Skin, Impulse, and Risque, to name a few. But while the others cater to younger, professional, hip couples and singles, Fling and Tryst are the only truly female-oriented ones.

However, Vegas has been a difficult place to get established in, compared to cities like Miami, which welcome their crowd. Leslie and Philip are still searching for a permanent locale to host monthly Tryst events. They have to negotiate bar minimums, taxes, covers and times--no one wants to give up their space on a Saturday night. There's also a lot of confusion about the theme.

"These are not the same people who go to Ra or Utopia. It's really difficult to explain that to club guys," says Leslie. "They say, 'Well, the strippers can't get off on Saturdays.' And, I'm like, 'Sure, they're women, they're welcome, but we're not trying to put together a stripper club.'"

On the flip side, Vegas is an ideal town for what they're trying to do. There are couples who come here and have a good dinner, maybe see a show, but then are bored and wandering the Venetian and Bellagio at midnight looking for something horny and provocative. Leslie and Philip hope to give them that alternative.

As they sit in their office on a typical weekday afternoon, talking computers and databases and appointments and dollars, it's apparent that they are determined to make Tryst a Vegas fixture. As for Fling? The next one's still months away in Miami, and Vegas won't see another one for a year.

Pulling it all together, Philip admits, isn't easy.

"So, the parties are beautiful," he sighs. "But getting there isn't."

What are we doing here?

Back at the high-roller suite on the Strip, the girl in the purple body stocking and feather boa continues to lick my face and neck. I'm finally being hit on--the one thing I've been waiting for--but when it happens, I'm not sure how to react. Should I go with my not-so-wise alter-ego or should I go with my gut?

Laughing, I decide that I'd better go with my instincts. "I'm sorry," I say. "You're very sweet and all, but I'm not interested."

She hops right off. Then mutters something about how I'm a journalist.

"How do you know that?"

"Who else would f--ing dress like this?" she snidely remarks, pointing to my blue dress, which I thought was pretty horny when I put it on. Then again, I was clearly the most overdressed woman in the room.

Minutes later, I'm ready to leave, having one last cigarette in the hallway, waiting for my ride home. The guy who was with the woman walks up.

"What are you going to write about this?" he says. After a brief discussion, he adds. "I hope you treat it right."

And honestly, I don't know how to answer. I'm still confused. If I'm ever married, and have been with the same man for 10 years, is this the kind of thing I'll want to do? I don't even think most of these people understand why they do it. I've asked and asked, and no one's given me a clear-cut answer. But maybe that's the way it should be left.

I take a deep drag of my cigarette, put it out on the floor, and head to the elevator.

(*All names in this story have been changed to protect the identity of participants.)

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