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I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? June 22, Teenagers are rough, let me tell ya. My eyes glazed over. Did I just hear what I thought I heard?
I mean, I know there are swingers here. But I guess I just thought you could identify them. Like, the women all wear synthetic blond wigs and the men all have chest hair. And medallions.
You know that swingers club downtown? As a public service to my readers. I could tell that, secretly, Hubs was just as interested in seeing who would show up at the swingers club as I was. We were about to crack this wide open. We parked and we waited. Feeling detectivey, I busied myself making mental notes on the cars outside. One Ford Expedition. One red convertible sports car.
One Infiniti. Definitely nicer than the junky El Caminos and compact cars you see in most strip club parking lots. Suddenly, there was movement. A well-dressed man exited the building and got in his SUV. A few minutes later, a car drove up. And then another. And I was forced to draw some startling conclusions. I read the website before we went. It was full of specific instructions on the art of swinging. Swinging eh? Swingers—I was recruited almost when I was in Vegas.