Of Silver Springs, Tulip Fields, and Upside-Down Pineapples
As a proud bisexual, I thought joining the swinging community was the answer to my desires. But it turned out to be more toxic than I ever could have imagined.
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One of my earliest memories of love—and the heartbreak that comes with it—was in 1995. I sat in the passenger seat of my dad’s red truck when “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac played on a cassette. My dad sobbed in the driver’s seat as blue-green lyrics danced through my mind.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Through tears, he said, “Mommy doesn’t love me anymore.”
The song played on: “Time casts a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.” He cried harder. I was so little, I didn’t know what romantic love was, but my heart ached. That feeling of sadness sat in the pit of my stomach, and a tear sunk down my cheek. I felt his pain. But what did he mean by, “Mommy doesn’t love me anymore?”
We all have our first loves. I remember mine vividly. He was the only straight boy in my high school’s theater program. I was a freshman, and he was a junior. We spent a summer of love together, going down to the lake, going to the movies, listening to the Beatles while kissing in the back of his mom’s minivan. I wrote him love letters and sang him songs. Until I felt him start to pull away. The late-night phone calls started to fade. The special dates on the boardwalk at the lake became less frequent. I remember the day he broke up with me: a churn in my stomach that felt like hunger and fullness at the same time. That feeling came back when he told me he didn’t love me anymore. He said I was too clingy and needed space. In truth, he felt guilty for cheating on me with a 4-foot-11 cheerleader named Jessica.
I felt that heartbreak again years later, the night my first husband left me. I loved him more deeply than I thought was possible. When he discovered I’d cheated years earlier with a tall, handsome soldier named Sam while we were stationed in Germany, he told me he couldn’t forgive me.
Looking back, I can see how lost I was in my own emotions, tangled up in a web of feelings I didn’t yet understand. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, nor was I trying to destroy our marriage. It just always felt like there was something missing in our marriage. I was searching for something I couldn’t name. The idea that you could love more than one person, or be sexually attracted to more than one person seemed impossible. I thought I was broken, like something was wrong with me. But deep down, I knew my heart was pulling me in two directions, and I didn’t know how to avoid the feelings or cope with them. I kept my feelings buried, a secret I hoped would never surface. But secrets have a way of coming to light, and when they do the fallout can be devastating.
At 23, I was confused by the idea of loving two people at once—which, in fact, I did at the time. This was long before I’d heard of polyamory or consensual non-monogamy, and I certainly didn’t have the language to express how I felt. I kept it a secret because I didn’t understand it. How can you love two people at once? How can sex be so good outside of a marriage? I never wanted him to learn, but he did by finding some old emails I’d written. As I sobbed on the floor, begging him to stay, he looked at me and said, “I never want to see you again.” The pain was pure agony. I thought, This is how Johnny Cash must have felt when June died. I’ll probably die of a broken heart, too.
After that, I decided to try being a lesbian. For a lot of bisexual women, it feels like a rite of passage. It felt like a desperate attempt to swear off men, as if heartache could somehow be blamed on gender. Just so you know: it can’t.
I thought maybe being in a relationship with a woman and cutting men out of my life would somehow make things simpler. But it didn’t. Heartache doesn’t know gender. Bisexuality is strange like that; it doesn’t let you choose a side. It pulls you in two directions at once, leaving you wondering where you truly belong. Being bisexual made me question if I could ever fully be in love, because, for me, there was always this nagging ache that something, or someone, was missing.
Of course, I believed I could be a lesbian because of Tabitha and the love I once felt for her. You know how people say, “The one that got away?” Well, that was Tabitha for me. When I think about her, I still ache. She was the first woman I ever really loved. She was the first woman I ever kissed and the first woman I ever shared my body with.
I’ll never forget our shopping trips to the mall, laughing as we tried on clothes we’d never actually buy, or blasting Taylor Swift with the windows down, singing every word like the world belonged to us. There was something so pure and innocent about it, like we were creating our own little bubble where nothing else mattered.
And the sex? It felt like magic, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. With her, I wasn’t just trying to feel something, I actually felt it. I loved her in a way I hadn’t let myself admit at the time.
Looking back, I see now that bisexuality has always been a core part of me. When I met Tabitha, in some ways, she was my first real love. I loved her deeper than I’d ever loved a boy before, and when she broke things off with me, it left a scar that never faded. I was never sure why she broke things off either, she just stopped returning my calls. I figured she was probably feeling the same confusion I was feeling about her own sexuality, and she didn’t have the emotional intelligence to handle the complex emotions she was feeling.
For me, it made sense to search for that kind of love again, though I wasn’t always sure where to find it. I tried dating apps, lesbian bars, and even Craigslist. I kept chasing that feeling, hoping one of those connections would stick. But the truth is, none of them made me feel the way Tabitha did.
After each date, I’d laugh at myself, thinking, What am I even doing? It started to feel exhausting. So, I swore off the idea of dating another woman. It wasn’t that I stopped being attracted to women—I just stopped chasing that one great love I thought I’d find if I kept looking. Instead, I decided to embrace my bisexuality for what it was: a messy, complicated, beautiful truth. It wasn’t something I needed to fix or hide. It was just who I was, and I accepted that.
Then I met Brad. He was tall, soft-spoken, and kind, but Brad didn’t seem to care about my insecurities. He was very persistent. By the end of the night at that local dive bar, he asked me out, and I was completely caught off guard. On the drive home, I felt like I was running through a field of tulips in Austria, held by a summer cloud. Is this what love feels like? I wondered.
The night I met Brad, I felt higher than I’d ever felt before. Maybe it was the alcohol but then it hit me, I hadn’t had anything to drink. It wasn’t the booze; it was Brad. He was everything I thought I wanted in a man. Handsome, sweet, vulnerable and a solid 210 pounds, Brad made me feel safe in a new way. It felt like I’d hit the jackpot. He had a good job, a nice car, and he was generous and thoughtful in ways that I hadn’t felt in previous relationships.
During one of our early conversations, he opened up to me about his three-year-old daughter who had just gone into remission from an aggressive form of childhood cancer. He spoke softly about her treatments, about the nights he stayed awake worrying, about the helplessness he felt as a parent watching his child suffer. I could see the pain behind his eyes, but there was something else, too. He had such strength, this quiet resilience that made me want to hold him and never let go.
That vulnerability hit me harder than I expected. I hadn’t experienced that kind of openness from a man before. Most men I’d known would try to brush past their pain or cover it, never really talking about their feelings. But not Brad. He let himself be seen in his darkest moments, and it made me feel like I could be vulnerable as well.
On our first date, I decided to be completely open with Brad. I knew if I wanted this to be real, I had to open up like he had with me and not hide parts of myself. Underneath the warm night sky, I looked him in the eyes and said it out loud.
“I’m bisexual, and I won’t hide it. If this moves forward, I need to know it’s OK to have sex with women—whether it’s just me or both of us.”
Brad paused. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. I braced myself for that familiar sting of rejection, for him to tell me it was too much or that he couldn’t handle it. Instead, Brad smiled, then he quietly leaned in and said, “I want you to be yourself and I’m glad you feel like you can be yourself around me.”
In that moment, everything shifted. No more secrets. No more pretending. If Brad couldn’t handle my truth, it wasn’t going to work. I’d already decided I wouldn’t make myself small again to fit someone else’s expectations. And with Brad, for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to.
Then he grinned and added: “I thought women like you were a myth. You’re absolutely perfect.”
For a long time, I carried those words with me. Really those words felt very validating, like there wasn’t anything wrong with me. Brad saw me, the real me, and still thought I was perfect.
Years later, after too-many nights scrolling through Tinder together in search of the perfect third for a threesome, Brad suggested we venture into the swinger world. He had learned about it through a friend, and while I wasn’t sure at first, the idea interested me. The term swinger often comes with these very outdated connotations. People think of it as some wild, wife-swapping scene straight out of a cheesy 1970s movie.
For those unfamiliar, swinging typically involves couples consensually exploring sexual experiences with other people, either together or separately, depending on boundaries and comfort levels. Swinging, at its core, is about community and friendships.
Honestly, I had my own biases at first. I thought swinging was just about random sex with strangers, and I worried it might jeopardize our relationship. I quickly learned it was more about us and it wasn’t just about sex.
When we finally decided to check out a swinger club during the Covid pandemic, it certainly wasn’t a spur of the moment gesture. It came after many late-night talks about our desires, fantasies, and what we both wanted to explore together. We were curious and extremely excited. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t also really nervous about going to a sex club for the first time.
Our first experience felt electric, like those tulip fields again or the euphoria of standing front row at a concert for your favorite reggae band. We went to our local club on a freezing winter night in January of 2021. I remember sitting at the bar, my heart racing. Terrified, yet excited.
Brad and I sat together in silence, just taking it all in. The dim lighting, the music, the couples mingling and laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world. I gripped my drink a little tighter, trying to play it cool, but inside, I was buzzing.
The bartender glanced at us and smirked. “I’ve never seen you two before,” she said. “You know, if you want to be swingers, you actually have to go talk to people.”
Her words broke our tension, and we both laughed nervously. And so we did. We started small, introducing ourselves to other couples. One couple we met explained that they came to the club to socialize, and that they are very picky about the couples they play with. I was confused when they told us this and couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that these couples were at this club just socializing. It wasn’t like the movies or the exaggerated stories people tell; it was a mix of nerves, excitement, and connection.
The night was a blur of laughter, conversation, and touches that felt like a mix of fire and ice on my skin. I still remember the way Brad looked at me when Amy and Allison invited us into the couple’s playroom for an all-girl orgy. His eyes sparkled with something between awe and excitement.
“I’ve never seen you like this; you seem so excited,” he said softly, holding my hand as we walked through the double doors into the playroom.
My heart pounded from pure adrenaline, a rush of freedom that was new and welcome. I felt seen in a way I never had before, fully and completely myself, without apology.
Driving home that night, this buzz lingered in the air—like static electricity clinging to my skin. I glanced at Brad, a smile spreading across my face before I even realized it.
“These are our people!” I said. The words flew out of me. “I never realized this is who I always wanted to be.”
And I meant it. For once, I wasn’t just pretending to fit in. I wasn’t chasing validation or trying to shrink myself to meet someone else’s expectations. I felt like I was finally in a space in which I belonged. The feeling was similar to what I feel when I’m performing onstage in a theater production.
Swinging brought us closer, and for a bit, it felt like I’d found what I’d been searching for. I wanted to absorb every part of the lifestyle. The incredible people, the new language, the symbols—including the upside-down pineapple.
At first, the pineapple seemed like this silly little secret. The upside down pineapple is this subtle nod, a signal that someone is part of the lifestyle, saying, Hey, we see you, do you see us too? There’s something exciting about recognizing those symbols out in the world, like you’re part of a hidden club that only certain people understand.
The symbolism of the upside-down pineapple, like much of the lifestyle, is about connection. It represents openness, hospitality, and warmth, at least, that’s what I wanted to believe. For me, it became more than a fun little symbol. It became a part of my identity, something that made me feel like I finally belonged to a community that embraced all parts of me.
In a way, it helped me feel like I could embrace all parts of myself too—especially when I wore one or spotted one in public. Seeing an upside-down pineapple on a shirt, a bracelet, or even a tattoo feels like a quiet nod of acceptance, a little reminder that I’m not alone in the world. It's like a bat symbol that says, You’re seen. You’re understood. You’re one of us.
Beneath all the upside down pineapples and excitement, there was a shadow I couldn’t ignore. Something unspoken, a quiet tension in certain rooms, a feeling that I didn’t fully belong. At first, I pushed it aside, convincing myself it was just in my head. I’d worked so hard to find this space, to carve out my place, that I didn’t want to admit something felt off.
Then came the sting of rejection, the ache of exclusion, and finally, the sharp pain of realizing that the community I’d poured my soul into didn’t love me back. I remember the first time they treated me like an outcast, and it wasn’t the last.
I’ll never forget the night I was left out of the sexy lingerie photoshoot. They claimed one of the girls was uncomfortable with me, which left me in a tailspin of confusion. What had I done to make her feel that way? I replayed every conversation in my head, searching for a reason, but I came up with nothing. And even if someone had felt uncomfortable, it wasn’t about the lingerie. It didn’t have to be sexy. But instead of fighting for inclusion, my friends chose to exclude me.
I remember standing in the hotel hallway in Atlanta, tears pouring down my face. How could they exclude me like that? I would never do that to them. The betrayal hit me harder than I expected. I thought we were friends who looked out for each other. People who thought about each other's feelings, and created moments where everyone felt included.
My friend’s husband tried to brush it off. “Not everyone will be able to be in the same pictures or videos,” he said. “You just have to learn to be OK with that.” He shrugged, as if that was supposed to comfort me.
Of course, I know how swinging works. There must be a mutual attraction, four-way connections, and chemistry between all parties. But for me and them, it was never really about the sex. It was about the way I felt when I was with them, this fleeting sense of belonging, like I had finally found my place. Yet, I suppose I knew deep down that I wasn’t in the right place.
The overwhelming sense of not being good enough started to poison me, dragging me back to the cruelty of my childhood, my flaws on display for all to see. I remember vividly how they sent pictures of me in their group chat with the caption: “Nobody wants to fuck gray tooth.” As if navigating this world wasn’t hard enough, now I was reliving high school, surrounded by a clique of mean girls laughing behind my back.
When I’d been in swinger spaces with her, I felt free and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. We had shared intimate moments, like the time I held her hand when I squirted for the first time. I trusted her in those spaces, not just with my body, but with my heart. So each time she stabbed me in the back, it hurt worse than the girls who bullied me in middle school. The heartache was real.
And just like that, I started to feel this shift. She began leaving me out of important conversations, decisions I should have been part of. And when I brought up uncomfortable topics, things that mattered deeply to me, she would brush them off or make me feel like I was the problem.
“Don’t get too political,” she’d say, or “Don’t get too sensitive,” as if my voice and experiences were something to be minimized, something to keep quiet for the sake of keeping the peace. At first, I second-guessed myself. Maybe I am too much? But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
I confronted her, hoping for some explanation, maybe even an apology. I wanted to believe that there was a misunderstanding, that we could work through it. But instead of hearing me out, she made me feel, once again, like I was too much. She didn’t take any accountability for her actions. Instead, she flipped it back on me, claiming I was being ungrateful for everything she had done for me.
“You don’t appreciate me,” she said, her tone laced with frustration. “I’ve done so much for you, and you’re acting selfish.”
That’s the moment I realized I wasn’t going to get closure. No explanation. No apology. Just more of the same dismissal I’d been feeling for years. Instead of a conversation, I got a reminder that she never really saw me the way I thought she did.
The desperation to be included by them nearly consumed me. Their cruel words became my motivation. Maybe if I get popular on social media, they’ll finally see me. Maybe they’ll think I’m good enough, I thought to myself. For a while, it worked, at least it felt like it did. I became their version of "enough," burying who I really was under layers of what they wanted me to be. And just like that, with every perceived step forward, I lost pieces of myself. My voice, once loud and unapologetic, was drowned out by the version of me they demanded. The more I tried, the less I existed to them.
It wasn’t until later in October 2023 that I screamed “Silver Springs” in my car until my throat burned. “You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you...”
My tears blurred the road ahead. I knew it was time for me to walk away from them. I knew it was time to go into new spaces where I would be celebrated in my wholeness, and not feel the need to bury who I was, so I could fit into the mold that they wanted me to be. I finally mustered up the courage to tell them I’d no longer be attending events with them, and it was time for me to walk away.
It felt like a breakup. Like losing the love of my life. Luckily, I still had Brad.
I sobbed into my pillow while my husband held me, his arms steady, as I laid next to him feeling like a shattered piece of glass. Walking away hurt more than I could’ve imagined. But strangely, it felt as though I’d been handed the antidote to the poison. I had given myself a chance to heal rather than let it consume me any longer.
It still felt like they had abandoned me. Just like my mom abandoned my dad. Just like my first love. Just like my first husband. Just like Tabitha. And in giving so much of myself to them, I’d abandoned me.
This love wasn’t romantic. It was the kind of love you reserve for community or for a deep friendship. It was a love affair with the idea of being seen, being valued, being enough. And when I walked away, I closed a chapter I had written with my own tears.
For me, the swinging community—once a space where I felt like I could be myself and explore the depths of my sexuality—began to become dark. It wasn't just one group; there were many like them. Pockets of communities consumed by vanity and external validations, the connections I once thought were genuine usually turned out to be transactional, which felt very dehumanizing for me. Beneath the façade of freedom and acceptance, I found cliques driven by appearances and egos.
Once the illusion faded, and I started to see those cliques and groups for who they really were, I found something far more valuable. I was finally able to live in my truth and create my own magic. I was able to sit with myself and ask: “What do I want out of this experience?” That's when I discovered what love truly means to me: Love is about acceptance and authenticity. Love is about showing up for others as you are; and they accept you despite all of your flaws.
Like my husband Brad did that night, holding me as my tears soaked the pillow.
Real love doesn’t ask you to disappear. It allow you to be seen.
The greatest love I’ve ever known wasn’t with a person or a community. It’s the love I’ve found for myself. The love that gives me the strength to stand up from the floor, wipe my tears, look in the mirror and live my truth. No matter how many times I have to blast “Silver Springs” to get there.
Each week, The Queer Love Project publishes an original essay. If you want to submit your essay, you can find our submission guidelines and more here. We are committed to keeping all our words free, but we do compensate our contributors so any amount you pledge for a subscription is used to grow this community and continue to collect and share stories.
Interested in answering the QLP Questionnaire? Email us at queerloveprojectsub@gmail.com.
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