When Consent Isn’t Respected: What Happened to Me at a Swingers Club

Last night, I went to a swingers club with my partner. I’m writing about this because I need to process what happened, but also because I believe these conversations matter. Too often, we’re told that certain environments — whether it’s a bedroom, a bar, or a sex club — blur the rules of consent. I want to be absolutely clear: they don’t.

What Happened

Early in the evening, I consented to have sex with a man. It was mutual, and afterward, we went our separate ways. About two hours later, I ended up in the hot tub with a group of people, my partner included.

Out of nowhere, the same man grabbed my hand and placed it on his genitals.

I pulled my hand back and said, “No.” He looked at me, confused, and actually asked, “No?”

“Yes,” I told him. “You didn’t ask for consent. You can’t just grab someone’s hand and do that without checking it’s okay.”

He said sorry. But then, instead of stopping, he kept touching me — my arm, my thigh — despite my clear boundary. I moved away.

The group of people in the hot tub stayed silent. No one said anything. And then he turned to them and said, “Now she’s in a mood with me.”

That was it for me. I got out and left.

How It Made Me Feel

I felt a storm of emotions all at once. Pride, anger, shame, confusion, guilt.

Part of me is proud of myself for speaking up. In the past, I’ve frozen or fawned in situations like this. This time, I didn’t. I said no. I confronted him. I walked away. That matters.

But another part of me has been blaming myself. I did have sex with him earlier in the night. I can hear the voice of self-blame saying, “Well, you consented before. Maybe he thought it was fine.” But logically I know — and I want anyone reading this to know — that consent isn’t a one-time ticket. It can’t be assumed. Every encounter is its own thing, and you can always say no.

Another layer: my partner was in the hot tub with me. He’s partially deaf, so he didn’t hear what was going on. He had no idea. When I told him later, he believed me instantly. He didn’t question me. He didn’t downplay it. He just supported me and helped me leave. But part of me still feels a sting of betrayal that he couldn’t step in — even though I know it wasn’t his fault.

And then there’s the guilt. I didn’t report the man to management. Now I’m worried he’ll do it again to someone else. I feel responsible, like I should have protected others. But in that moment, I was focused on protecting myself. Survival mode doesn’t leave much space for activism.

The Weight of Old Wounds

What made this harder was the way it stirred up old trauma. When I was 14, I was raped. Later, at 22, my ex secretly recorded us having sex. Both of those experiences taught my body to be on high alert, to associate sex with violation and betrayal.

So when that man grabbed my hand without consent, it wasn’t just about that single moment in a hot tub. It hit every old wound I carry. That’s why my reaction has felt so big. Trauma doesn’t vanish. It lingers in your body, and moments like this can drag it all back up.

The Need For Consent Doesn’t Expire

If you take one thing from my story, let it be this: consent doesn’t carry over from one encounter to the next. It doesn’t last all night. It doesn’t apply again just because it was given once.

If you want to touch someone — especially in a sexual way — you ask. Every time.

It doesn’t matter if you’re in a swingers club, if you’ve had sex before, if you’re in a relationship, or if you’re married. Consent is never implied. It’s given, freely and clearly, in the moment. Anything else is crossing a line.

Learning from Other Women’s Courage

I’ve also been thinking about Rebecca Goodwin, a well-known OnlyFans creator who’s been in the news recently. She was sexually assaulted, and she recorded it. Seven minutes of footage. When the police didn’t take her seriously, she shared her story publicly with her massive social media following.

I can’t describe how proud I feel of her. She risked everything by going public — the backlash, the judgment, the cruelty that often gets thrown at sex workers who speak out. And she still did it.

Part of me has been comparing myself to her. I left quietly. I didn’t report the man. I didn’t speak up in the room. And yet, here she is, sharing her truth with the world.

But I keep reminding myself: bravery looks different for everyone. Rebecca’s courage doesn’t make my response smaller. She used her platform to fight back. I used my voice in the moment and then protected myself by leaving. Both are valid. Both are survival.

Moving From Shame to Purpose

Writing this is my way of transforming shame into purpose. Shame says I should have done more. Purpose says I did what I could, and now I can share so others don’t feel alone.

I want anyone reading this — especially women, especially those in sexual or alternative lifestyle spaces — to know:

You never owe anyone ongoing access to your body.

Saying no, moving away, or leaving is enough. You don’t have to fight harder to prove your boundaries.

If others stay silent, that’s on them, not you. Your voice still matters.

Not reporting doesn’t mean you’re responsible if someone else gets hurt. The blame always stays with the person who crosses the line.

Why I’m Sharing

Because silence protects perpetrators, not survivors. Because people still misunderstand consent. Because women — whether in nightclubs, bedrooms, or swingers clubs — are too often left to defend their own boundaries alone.

I share this because I don’t want what happened to me to be brushed off as “just a misunderstanding.” It wasn’t. It was a violation. And I know I’m not the only one who’s been there.

Closing Thoughts

I wish I could tie this up neatly, but the truth is, I’m still processing. I’m still proud, still angry, still ashamed, still relieved, still everything all at once. Healing isn’t linear, and this won’t be the last time my past collides with my present.

But here’s what I do know:

• I said no.
• I stood up for myself.
• I walked away.

And tonight, I’m turning that experience into words — because words are power, and I refuse to stay quiet.