My First Time At A Sex Club

I didn’t expect the dungeon.

Standing in a dimly lit room, I watch a leather-clad dominatrix spank a woman’s bare ass while Amanda,* our host, demonstrates a sling dangling from the ceiling. She explains how to adjust the strap for different positions, but I strain to hear her over the moans, whip cracks and slaps, along with the cries of pleasure in the playroom.

“Someone’s having some fun,” says Amanda with a sly smile. 

This is my first visit to Oasis Aqualounge, a sex club in downtown Toronto, and I’m more than a few inches out of my element. The mom world I live in revolves around potty training and playdates, not spanking benches and orgies. 

How did I end up here? 

I call it my reclamation. Motherhood robbed me of ownership over my body, starting with a high-risk pregnancy that entailed endless tests and prodding, and ended on a birthing table with a nurse kneading my belly to prevent a hemorrhage as two ob-gyns stitched me up. I might’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much.

A low milk supply made breastfeeding challenging. A parade of professionals grabbed at my jugs, trying to latch a tiny mouth onto a pepperoni-sized nipple. Then came the wild physical changes: weight gain, hair loss, melasma. I swept my thinning hair into a messy bun, rocked Lululemon leggings and avoided mirrors.

“Nothing fits,” I said to my partner. “My hips widened, but my thighs are narrow again. I feel like a Picasso painting.”

My sex drive sank into a slumber. Erotic autonomy? I was lucky to find a minute alone in the bathroom.

“My kid is climbing all over me today, hugging me, banging his head on mine, getting peanut butter on my clothes,” I texted a friend. “I want to scream, ‘No one touch me!’”

But after my son’s sixth birthday, my motherhood load lightened. I could shower with the door closed and wear nice tops without fear of vomit stains. I joined a gym, lost weight and slept better. And suddenly, I felt erotically charged.

Lingerie and sex toys replaced nursing bras and breast pumps. I started putting on mascara, listening to Dan Savage’s sex and relationships podcast, The Savage Lovecast, and more openly discussing my bi-curiosity. A tower of titles—Erotic Integrity, The Ethical Slut, Come Together, Mating in Captivity—teetered on my bedside table. Feeling sexier in my skin, I booked a boudoir photoshoot and texted spicy pics to my partner. 

“WTF I’m at the office!” he wrote back. “Nice boobs though.”

While we didn’t have a dead bedroom, this sudden spark in sexual interest took both of us by surprise. My desire had tanked after giving birth—largely because I was exhausted and didn’t feel attractive. The last thing I wanted were more hands on my body at the end of the day. 

But it wasn’t just me. Like so many parents of young kids, sex started to feel like a chore. Most nights, we collapsed into bed at 10:30 p.m., too drained to do anything but sleep. Occasionally, we’d squeeze in a quickie—less out of passion and more to stay connected.

Long-term relationships are hard. Sexual boredom is real. When to walk away from a sexless marriage and sexless marriage rack up plenty of search engine traffic. There’s even a whole subreddit, r/DeadBedrooms, devoted to the struggle. Some sexperts say a change of scenery—the backseat of a car, a hotel, a sex club, whatever—can shake up the routine and spark desire and curiosity for LTRs.

But now? My libido was wide awake—and ravenous.

“I feel like I’m in my slut era,” I told Danielle,* one of my best mom friends. “But I need a ‘play space’ away from Bluey stuffies.” 

“Have you heard of Oasis Aqualounge?” she asked.

Since Danielle was also curious about the female-founded sex club, we decided to choose a night and make the hour-long trip to Toronto check it out together. Its online calendar is packed with themed events like naked yoga and “Fetish Friday.” We chose a date that fell on “Unicorn Night”—a mixer for couples seeking a third.

But before buying tickets, I talked to my partner. The conversation was rocky; he wasn’t keen on this sexcapade. We never agreed to have a “monogamish” relationship. He also had safety concerns.

“The place could attract sexual predators,” he said. “What if it’s dangerous?”

“Because regular bars and clubs are so safe for women?” I snapped back.

Still, he had a point. A Reddit search of various sex club experiences revealed complaints about “super creepers” and questions about intoxicated encounters. A Brooklyn sex club was even accused of covering up assaults. A close friend confided that she was assaulted at a sex club, and another person advised me to avoid nights with single men (“The bros can get very aggressive”). Not to mention free condoms and lube don’t entirely eliminate STI risks.

Although these factors gave me pause, I still wanted to scratch the itch. I felt reassured knowing Oasis Aqualounge has on-site security and emphasizes consent: “If it’s not a clear yes, it’s a no.”

After multiple talks, my partner and I struck a deal: I’d go with my friend, but for now, “just to look.” 

“I’ll scout out the scene,” I say. “If it’s good, maybe we can go back together.”

***

To prep for our Oasis date, Danielle and I set a “get-me-out-of-here” code word (“Bluey!”) and a buddy system. Our biggest worry: what to wear. Between playdates and snack prep, we experimented with outfits and sent mirror selfies, mentioning “nipple” more times than a lactation consultant. The day before, I settled on a “slutfit”—a see-through skirt with a thigh-high slit and a tight body suit that threatened boob spillage.

My hands tremble as I check into the club, but the smiling staff ease my jitters. I scan my options from the wall of wristbands, each colour signaling a different level of interest: black for couples seeking couples, yellow for those looking for female play partners, orange for male play partners, pink for any gender, red for those not looking to play at all. I choose green—“Friendly,” meaning I’m open to chatting and seeing where things might go. On our tour of the sprawling, three-storey Victorian mansion, Amanda explains the rules.

“There are only four places where you can’t fuck,” she says. “The hot tub, the stairways, the first-floor bathrooms, and the outside smoking deck. Everywhere else is fair game.”

She isn’t joking. On the main floor, a dimly lit bar blends into a dance area, where a throuple is pressed against the wall, hands and mouths roaming. Under fluorescent lights, a 30-something woman in nothing but panties twirls around a pole while a group of naked Boomers watches while munching on Thai food. A middle-aged couple is deep in the act on the neighbouring couch, unfazed by the audience.

We glimpse the communal locker room, sauna, dungeon and playrooms, all wide open for public fornication. My fear of flashing a titty seems laughable now—most people were buck naked or in towels, lingerie or BDSM attire.

“I feel like a nun,” Danielle says, looking down at her lacy top that reveals her bra.

On the third floor, inside a 1970s psychedelic van called the Shaggin’ Wagon, a 40-something woman moans, spread-eagle on black seats, as her younger-looking partner’s hands move between her legs. 

This raw encounter makes my cheeks flush as a tingling heat radiates down below. I’ve watched plenty of porn, but the fakeness—bored-looking men, flimsy or repetitive storylines, and over-the-top screaming—can be more distracting than arousing. But watching real people have live, unscripted sex? Now that’s erotic.

I ask Amanda if it’s okay to watch.

“Sure, but just give them space!” she says as she stands next to the writhing couple, barely batting an eye. “Also, save your socializing for the main floor—loud conversations kill the mood.”

Amanda cuts us loose at the second-floor bar. Danielle orders drinks while I queue for the bathroom. A couple by the sink catch my eye and the woman starts signing. Realizing they’re deaf, I frantically try to communicate, “I’m just here to pee, not play,” in the most polite, non-verbal way possible.

“I wasn’t sure if they wanted sex or paper towels,” I tell Danielle afterward, when she hands me a margarita.

After peeking through the bar’s peepholes into the Red Room (a group sex hot-spot) next door, we head outside. It's a glorious summer evening, with people sprawled on cabana chairs and floating in the pool. Bodies of all shapes, sizes, colours and genders drift in and out of the turquoise water. My heart flutters as an elderly couple, hands tightly clasped, carefully descend the pool steps.

“Hello, beautiful!” the silver-haired man calls, waving. Smiling, I raise my glass.

“My mind is blown,” says Danielle.

“Minds aren’t the only thing being blown here,” I joke, gesturing to the pool loungers. A man gives his partner a blissfully long massage; on the lounger next to them, I see a couple 69ing, their heads bobbing in sync. Friends clink glasses and cheer, as if luxuriating naked poolside is just a casual team-building exercise. Danielle goes inside to top up our drinks, and with the sun setting, I feel more relaxed than I’ve been in ages.

“Are you here alone?” asks a woman, strawberry blonde hair cascading down her bare breasts. “You’re so brave!”

She settles next to me, introducing herself as Amy.* Also a mom, we tongue-wag about our kids, the upcoming school year and her sex club experiences.

“Steve* and I drive into the city twice a year for an Oasis night,” she says. “One time, we met another woman and the three of us had a blast. Right, honey?”

The husband appears with drinks. Like Amy, he’s in the buff. We chat like new acquaintances at a dinner party, except Amy is gently stroking Steve’s thigh. I can’t help but notice his excitement. 

I ask them for tips on making the most of my visit. “I might hit the icebreaker session later, but what else should I do?” I’ve heard that the nightly 10 p.m. sexy activities led by a host to help everyone mix and mingle. 

Steve grins. “How about us?”

I laugh, but his serious gaze makes my pulse quicken. They’re both eyeing me like I’m a tasty treat. It’s thrilling to be desired. I’m tempted, but my promise to my partner pulls me back. 

For now. “Maybe next time?” 

We leave around midnight, heading to a nearby (clothed) bar to rehash everything over nachos. Still buzzing, Danielle and I crash hard at our hotel, a little drunk on the night (and tequila). When I get home the next day, it’s back to reality—folding tiny socks, scraping gunk off the table, reminding my kid again to take a pee break.

But that night, after the bedtime battles are over and the house is quiet, my partner and I sink into the couch, a glass of wine between us. I unpack everything—the dungeon, the Shaggin’ Wagon, Amy and Steve.

“So…did you do anything?” he asks, teasing but also serious.

“Nope. Just looked. But it was a definitely an experience.”

We talk late into the night. He’s still unsure how he feels about it all—but that’s okay. Couples don’t have to be perfectly aligned on everything. What matters is that we’re talking, openly and honestly.

And me? I feel electrified, like I’ve unlocked a long-dormant part of myself without knowing I even had the key.

Next time, maybe I’ll be ready to pick a different coloured bracelet.

*All names have been changed to protect privacy