I wrote this chapter and never added it to the book. Well you're in luck, you can read it here.
We were cruising down the Lodge Freeway when another memory bubbled up.
“James,” Shannon said, turning slightly in her seat, “remember when you took me to that weird, secluded party on Woodward Avenue?”
“You mean the secret couples party?”
“Yes. The one you could only get into with a private email.”
She gave me that look—the one that asked Why in the hell did you ever take me there?
“Well,” I said, “you were curious. You kept asking what that kind of nightlife was like, so I figured, why not show you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But how did you find out about it?”
That part was easy. “Before I met you, I was getting into DJ’ing a bit. I built up a music collection and played a few of their events. So I already knew what went on at those parties. I had the inside scoop.”
I leaned back, half-laughing, half-cringing as the whole wild night started to come back to me. Shannon had always been curious about that world. Not because she wanted to join it—but because she wanted to understand it. Especially the idea of people trading sexual partners like it was no big deal.
The secret society. What a memory.
We pulled across the street from an old building that used to be a café years ago—at least that’s what the faded paint on the bricks claimed. You couldn’t park directly in front. The party organizers didn’t want to attract the attention of the police. I was always amazed that these secret events happened right down the street from Orchestra Hall and across from the Detroit Medical Center.
We rang the bell. A security guy opened the door.
At the top of the stairs sat a woman—completely nude—with a clipboard. Shannon froze.
“James, I know you’re playing the music tonight,” the woman said, “but I still need to check off your email.”
Then she turned to Shannon. “And who’s this lovely lady?”
“This is my wife,” I said.
She looked Shannon up and down, slowly. “Nice to meet you, pretty lady. Will you be participating tonight?”
“Participating in what?” Shannon asked, wide-eyed.
“She won’t be,” I cut in quickly.
“She’ll be at the bar having cocktails while I’m working.”
People were now filing in behind us, checking in and purchasing color-coded wristbands. Red bands for couples: $20 entry and one free drink. Yellow bands for singles: $30, also with one drink. Everyone had to show that invite email to even get inside.
Behind the bar stood another woman, fully nude, serving drinks like it was just another Tuesday—except the place didn’t have a liquor license to be doing any of that.
“James,” Shannon whispered, “where the fuck did you bring me? Why is everybody naked?”
I told her to calm down. It was a swingers party. She didn’t have to do anything—just relax.
We walked through the space, and I have to admit, it was spotless. Floors waxed, white linen draped over tables and railings. To the left of the dance floor was a stairwell leading up to what they called The Sex Rooms. Six of them in total, each with a king-sized bed and a red light overhead.
On the other side of the room was the Toy Room. Condoms. Every sex toy you could imagine. And an instructor showing people how to use them. Meanwhile, back in the lounge, people danced under dim lighting while pornographic films played on a loop across the back wall.
Shannon stuck to me like glue. A few drinks in, she joined me in the DJ booth—no way she was staying at that bar alone. The place filled up. Most wore white. A lot of flirting, drinking, kissing. The nude woman from the staircase kept trying to mouth “we should fuck tonight” toward me. I looked away fast.
This was getting uncomfortable. Not just because of the party—but because my wife clearly wanted to leave.
A few hours passed. Couples started switching partners in full view. One woman on the couch was using a vibrating bullet from the toy room, putting on a show. The air smelled like sweat and sex. People were going at it on tables, chairs, the floor—even the bathroom stalls.
Then the host waved me over.
“James,” he said, “come into the office real quick.”
I hit autoplay on my playlist and followed him to the small office near the bar. Once inside, he closed the door and showed me a small TV monitor.
Hidden cameras. Surveillance footage from the upstairs rooms.
“You put cameras in the sex rooms?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said proudly. “In old cigarette cartons, on the window ledges. Behind the drapes.”
Then he asked me the unthinkable.
“You wanna swap wives tonight?”
I stood up fast. “No fuckin’ way.”
That was the end of it for me. After another hour I finished up the set, got my equipment together, packed up and vowed never to DJ one of those events again.
Driving back down the freeway, I changed the subject fast. But to my surprise, Shannon was glad she got to see it—even if the experience was shocking and vulgar. She still couldn’t believe that kind of secret society even existed in the heart of Detroit.
And honestly, neither could I.