A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE ORGY. It was Tuesday and nothing special had happened that morning unless you count the note from a swinger group in town inviting me to a party I would not go to on a dare from my ex. A swingers group in a small town where everyone knows everything about everyone else? You have to be kidding.

I am not against shagging other men’s wives while they’re doing the same to a housewife down the street, but don’t things have to be issues not to be found on the ten o’clock news ‘things to do around town’ or in the ‘breaking news’ lead story they begin the broadcast with?

Sex with others should not be a community project or block party affair in the neighborhood. If I am going to have intercourse with other people’s spouses I need it to be with people I don’t shop with.

Call me old fashion, but I don’t want to bump into her husband at Home Depot or Walgreens. I won’t want to see comments about the orgy on social media, on Facebook or YouTube. Swinging should be a big city concept, and the participants need to not sit with one another at church. It should be nobody else’s business if you are diddling a housewife from Culver City, and I am totally against formal written invitations sent through the US mail and delivered by postmen on a workday inviting anyone to fuck an other person’s legal significant other.

I am not against people fucking casual friends at social gatherings, and I totally support the right to fuck whoever you chose.

When my current girlfriend picked up the aforementioned envelope and casually asked, in a voice that says, “What the hell have you been up to, you dog.” I could not come up with any answer other than ‘nothing.’ It wasn’t, of course, nothing, and I couldn’t find anyway to get out of the fucked up situation I had fallen innocently into.

How do you explain it just came to you out of the blue, without any personal solicitation or previous involvement?

It doesn’t work to say: I don’t know anything about it. It doesn’t convince her to shrug and maintain innocence, to swear you have no connection to a swinger’s organization in your small, very neighborly, very ‘knowing everyone else’s business’ kind of town.

I have said that nothing very special happened, but that is actually not true. It was special enough to immerse me into the abyss with almost no way to dig myself out without swearing on the Bible that I am not a Wife fucker in small town America.

Things began to sound like a Tom Hanks movie and Meg Ryan was about to swear she couldn’t live another second with a deviant dedicated to debauchery and ungodliness. Without the benefit of actually having Sex with other people’s wives I was failing in the quest to Free myself of the diabolical catch-22 of trying to deny what you haven’t done to someone convinced you have. The more I talked the deeper I got myself.

Can I sue? Can I throw myself on the mercy of the court? I haven’t even shagged one single disparate housewife, but there I was in the middle without being compensated by copulating with a single person of the offending group.

In When Harry Met Sally at least Billy Crystal got to live out the happy ending. I could not see a happy ending coming my way. I simply had picked up my mail, and then I found myself deep in shit without even taking a reckless step off the curb.

“Have you been to a party before?” my girlfriend asked without wanting or accepting any answer. I put my hand on the Bible and took the pledge, swearing total innocence in the matter, holding my hand up and pledging clean hands and righteousness, purity, and supporting the American way. Like Gulliver, I was being tied down by little people.

My advice? Don’t open suspicious mail. If you get email, don’t open anything you can’t verify. If you swing, do it far away from your home, from the Home Depot where you shop, and–perhaps the most important–keep your girlfriend or Wife away from your mail slot.