Unexpected Life Lessons From A Summer At A Swingers’ Village

'Once I got over my school-girl embarrassment, it started to feel incredibly inspiring'

swingers village

by grazia |
Updated on

‘So, what do you think?’ said my grinning boyfriend. ‘Fancy a couple of nights there?’ The ‘there’ he was referring to was Cap D’Agde, AKA the world’s biggest naturist and ‘lifestyle’ resort and village situated in the South of France. It might be important to note that in this context 'lifestyle' absolutely does not mean statement vase shopping suggestions and recipes for table-scaped dinner parties. Here 'lifestyle' is a catch-all (pun not intended - safe sex is de rigeur) euphemism for what the French would loftily refer to as being 'a libertine' and we’d call the less melodic 'swinger'.

To rewind somewhat, we were part way through a month long impromptu European road trip that was an escape from London after a tough few months of family illness and bereavement and the end of a claustrophobic lockdown. Making it up as we went along, we’d driven through Holland, Italy, Switzerland, and France staying a few nights when and where we fancied before ending up in Nice, wondering where to go next. As we sat in a French service station googling nearby resorts, Cap D’Agde came up and buoyed by the escapist feel of the trip we thought we’d stop by for two nights.

Originally created for the non-sexual purpose of naturism, it still boasted family-friendly sans swimsuit beaches and leave-your-layers-at-home bars and shops, but in latter years the swinging and fetish community had arrived and it had, to the dismay of many ‘proper’ naturists, become the kind of place about which Channel 4 would make one of their sex documentaries (dick-umentaries?). You know, the ones where they hide identities by using an actor that was last heard providing the voice for Gerry Adams in the early 90s and only showing the side of someone’s nose or popping an animal mask on them? I’d never heard of it before, but I love those documentaries and my boyfriend has a laissez faire attitude to being clothed and spends a week a year pretty much starkers at Burning Man, so we thought ‘What the hell’, booked a few nights in a swanky looking hotel on site and set off. If nothing else I could pretend I was Louis Theroux, right?

An hour or so into the drive there and my bravado was diminishing. I couldn’t quite get my head round the logistics of a naked village. Did you strip on entry? Were you made to surrender your clothes at some kind of barrier and get them back when you left? What strength SPF did you need on your bits? Would I have to sit on a chair recently occupied by a stranger’s sweating scrotum? Would everyone be merrily playing naked volleyball, throwing caution - and genitalia - to the wind? If you’re curious btw the answer to most of these is no, with the odd ‘maybe sometimes’ and always Factor 50.

As we pulled up to the gates, a disappointingly mundane NCP manned car park-esque affair, I kept my eyes peeled like you do for the first spot of the sea for my first fully naked person. ‘AGHHH that’s got to hurt’, I squealed as my boyfriend rolled up the car windows lest the nude couple cycling past on very narrow saddled bikes heard me. Countless unclothed tourist sightings and a couple of minutes’ drive later and we arrived at our hotel. It looked like pretty much every other €350 a night European boutique affair: hanging billowy drapes, jasmine scented lobby, lightly flirtatious reception staff. So far, so normal. Until along with the Wi-Fi password and request for passports I heard: ‘We do ask that guests are dressed for breakfast but in the spa, rooftop and pool, nudity is compulsory. You are also forbidden from wearing swimwear on the beaches’. Yep, definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Our room was what I’d describe as porn-you-pay-for-chic. Stylish, luxe, sexy and thank god scrupulously clean, but if something could be fashioned from leather it was, and there were enough mirrors to make you feel like there were at least 15 of you in the four-poster bed. Which I imagine at various points there had been.

The village itself is roughly one square mile and has everything you’d expect or need from a French holiday resort; boulangerie, patisserie, hairdresser, cinema, bars, clubs and restaurants, clothes shops, bucket and spade stores, selection of bestial-themed latex gimp masks. Your usual vacation needs.

The first day and night was what I imagine acclimatising at Everest base camp feels like. Getting used to the fact that everything can be and is done naked didn’t actually take too long. When you’ve seen 50 penises on your walk to breakfast, the 51st doesn’t feel like a big deal. But just as I’d got used to making eye contact with nipples and making sure the person before me at the café table had been sat on a towel, night fell and the village transformed.

By day, everything is quite PG with families and couples wandering around doing fairly pedestrian holiday things. Come darkness and the switch from naturist to ‘lifestyle’ happens. As the bars and clubs open, the harbourside promenade resembles a fantasy catwalk with fetish finery of all types. Trying not to be prudishly British and splutter into my Aperol as I witnessed a man be led along by a leash connected to a sort of testicle dog collar or a woman wearing a cut out detail skirt which solely focused on heroing the vagina, was a challenge. But as I got over my schoolgirl embarrassment (a second and third Aperol helped) it started to feel incredibly inspiring. Here was a place where everyone was just being exactly who they wanted to, and no one cared.

Officially sex is banned in public areas with a hefty fine and on the whole people stick to that. Although whether a balcony in front of a packed bar constitutes 'publiC' is up for debate. At clubs and parties it’s anything goes but that’s actually the part I found least sexy - worrying about when the hot tub water was last changed or if that woman could actually breathe in that position.

A couple of days in and the sense of freedom and lack of judgement was almost euphoric and completely intoxicating. Whether you chose to participate, observe or ignore everything going on around you, experiencing this unique community was like stepping into an alternate world and it was one neither of us were in a hurry to leave. We ended up staying the best part of three weeks. Am I now a confirmed naked person or treasurer of my local swingers club? No and no. Would I go back? Absolutely. Here’s why…

  1. Everybody is someone’s fantasy, and more importantly their own.

It’s easy to think that sexual fantasies come in a one size fits all package. Glamorous, groomed, gorgeous, perfect looking people. Sure there’s a fair few of them here, this is the South of France after all, but for every diamante-thonged ingenue there’s endless ‘normal’ people living and wearing their fantasy and being admired because of that. An unusual type of contagious confidence it’s impossible not to feel swept up.

2. There’s a unique sense of power in choosing to be looked at.

Back in the UK it’s easy to associate sexual attention with being leered at in a bar or delivered from the scaffolding of a building site. But what about when you choose to be looked at? When it’s solicited and you’re in control? After a few nights I wasn’t quite ready for the out-there outfits of some of the women but a shopping trip to a luxury store stocked with Aubade and Maison Close resulted in something Samantha-Jones-and-the-marabou-slipper-scene (the ‘I want an outfit that makes a man come in his pants’ moment) adjacent. And in all honesty, when wearing it out that night, I’ve never felt or looked sexier.

3. Sexuality is ageless

Sex over 50 or even 40 is still somewhat shrouded. It’s all euphemistic erectile dysfunction adverts or GP pamphlets on intimacy and the menopause. On this trip I saw people in their 70s and beyond dressed up and celebrating their relationships. The glamorously soignee grandmother-aged beauty in her see-through Pucci kaftan and D ring pierced nipples will be my forever ageing inspo.

4. When sex is everywhere, so is respect.

I’ve experienced way more hassle walking down a UK street fully clothed. Unless you clearly send out a signal wanting to be approached, people leave you alone and in my experience were polite and gracious if you didn’t want to chat. A quick ‘desole, Anglaise’, was all that was needed.

5. It’s the ultimate stealth wealth.

No clothes, means no labels, means no clear and obvious demarcations of status and this in itself is freeing too.

6. The more bodies you see the more accepting you are of your own

Medical devices, mastectomies, lumps, bumps, scars, all shapes, and sizes. How often do we see the whole spectrum of what a body can and does look like?

7. Not having to sit in a soggy swimsuit is heavenly.

A dry bum seconds after getting out of the sea and no hanging around making your lounger soggy? Worth going back for alone.

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