The Secret Meaning of Pineapples

Same week — Summer 2018

I’d once seen an episode of That 70s Show where the parents, Red and Kitty, mistakenly attend a key party. The host explains that the pairings are random, or as he says, “fair,” and uses phrases like “wife swapping.” When Red and Kitty realize who they’re dealing with, they immediately leave the party, and Red warns another friend on the way out. “They’re swingers,” he practically spits. 

And that’s the extent that I knew of swinging. Retro middle aged weirdos doing the dirty with random strangers, a remnant of the polyester pantsuit-clad past. Ew, right?

Except, as I discovered, it isn’t like that at all. Or rather, it doesn’t have to be, but if you wanted it that way, well, you do you. 

I thought that we were risque just playing naked pool volleyball and making new friends in the nude. Jack had to perpetually focus on keeping a stiffy at bay, but the nude pool wasn’t so sexual that anyone seemed to be advertising their interest.

Though, I suppose that’s not entirely accurate. Actually, I just didn’t know the signs.

It all started in the pool, Sunset Beach’s designated party spot.

I was quite chatty that week. Here’s a conversation that stands out in my mind. We were talking with a couple who had met in the Navy. They were exotic to us; after having traveled the world together, they shunned society’s expectations of marriage and children. Instead, they declared their love for each other with matching tattoos.

“So, why a pineapple?” I remember asking, pointing back and forth between their twin bicep art.
The woman exchanged a glance with her partner. They laughed, then, lifting her arm in the air so that the pineapple was upside down, she said, “It’s kinda like a safe word…” She giggled and leaned in to whisper in my face, “You know what I mean, right?” She may have also winked.

Jack and I thought we got the joke. We knew of safewords in the context of BDSM — red, yellow, or green to indicate if you want to stop, slow down, or keep going with kinky sex. We thought that she was saying the word “pineapple” was their safe word for “red.” And it was funny because, say, what if our special safeword was penguins and we had penguin tattoos? Cute and kinda naughty, right? See, it’s funny. Not as funny as how clueless I was back then, but funny to me at the time.

Maybe you already know. Maybe you’re shaking your head at me now, wondering how I could be so dense. Didn’t everyone who used the Internet to search up all things sexual know the meaning of pineapples? Nope, not me. I had spent much of the previous years pinning house projects and trying to figure out how to make babies sleep through the night.

Dare I embarrass myself further by admitting how sexually savvy we thought we were for knowing what a safeword was? It’s true, Jack and I both thought we were oh-so-kinky. And while we had quite the repertoire together, we did not understand the full spectrum of how other adults organized their sex lives.

Nor did we realize, at that point, the expanse of possibilities that still lay ahead for us. We were young and arrogant, but we had promise, and the friends that we made over our week at the nude beach were patient with us.

The nude pool was filled with surprisingly relatable people, people that we actually had more in common with than most of our friends back home. People were open, speaking about not just family and jobs but also their relationships and sex. We formed a group amongst ourselves for that week, about eight couples in total that bonded and made plans to meet up in the pool every afternoon. 

We hit it off best with Ryan and Lauren. 

When we weren’t chatting all together, I’d often catch Ryan and Lauren looking in our direction. I realized that I had no qualms about their eyes lingering on my body; in fact, I returned the gaze. And I have no doubt that they’d caught Jack’s eyes on Lauren’s tits. I even caught Ryan “helicoptering” his penis just before he jumped into the pool once, and I found this behavior delightful. I’ve always had fun with people who can be both open and silly about sex. 

I was really in my element at those afternoon pool parties.

Ryan and Lauren were scheduled to leave in the middle of our week at the resort, and we promised that we’d get together at least once before their departure to share a bowl of ganja. On their last night, we caught up with them after dinner.

We were dressed in our resortwear, and it was dark as we sat on lounge chairs next to one of the main pools. We passed the bowl several times, enjoying the easy, open attitude that the weed brought on.

Ryan and Lauren seemed just as familiar to us as our high school friends, and yet there was something in the air. A tension, a flirtation, an aura of sensuality and intimacy from spending fun times with this couple in the buff?

Jack doesn’t like sitting still, so he suggested we go dance where there was a DJ cranking out music, steps away. I didn’t feel like dancing, so Ryan and I hung back and commented on the dance moves of our spouses, who were sloppily but happily hitting up the dance floor together. I’ve never been the jealous type; it doesn’t bother me when Jack whips out his dance moves with other women. When the music changed, I watched as their dancing slowed and they leaned their heads in towards each other to talk.

Ryan lightly put his hand on the small of my back, as if to guide me. It gave me tingles, in a way that felt good. I exchanged a quick glance with Jack across the room. He’s not the jealous type, either. I used to get back massages from his fraternity brothers quite often, and he was always totally cool with it. I could see in his eyes that he didn’t feel bothered by Ryan’s hand on my back, so long as I wasn’t bothered.

Ryan leaned in, and whispered in my ear in his Southern drawl, “Why don’t we get those two and go over there by the restaurant? We can talk where it’s quieter.” His breath against my neck was warm and it tickled. My legs suddenly felt strange. Was I just a little too high, imagining something that wasn’t there?

I’ll admit it. I liked the tension. And I am always happy to leave loud music for chill conversation, so I obliged. The four of us drifted across the lawn to a table on the porch of an open-air restaurant, now empty except for a few waitstaff folding napkins in a corner.

“Just sitting and talking — just drinking water!” Ryan loudly announced. The staff rolled their eyes and gave us a wave. I don’t think it was what he said that caused all four of us to erupt into giggles. It was the ganja, and that tension. It had followed us to the restaurant. Was it just my imagination, or was it stronger now?

We spent another hour or so in what can be best described as a That 70s Show pot circle. I’ve never laughed so hard; Lauren and I kept having to sprint to the bathroom to avoid wetting ourselves. Whenever the conversation trailed off and our laughter momentarily relented, our eyes would lock over the table in a sort of four-way stare, unasked questions lingering in the thick, tropical night air as we examined each other’s faces for clues.

“So,” Ryan finally started, “would you guys like to go somewhere, like, uh…maybe go take a dip or go in the sauna…?” 

Just as Jack and I started to make eyes at each other, we were interrupted by the rest of our vacation friend group. They were running towards us from across the lawn, shouting, “We’re going skinny dipping in the mineral pool! Come on! We’re invading! Let’s go!” 

Part of me felt saved. I wasn’t sure exactly what Ryan was in the midst of proposing, but I surmised that it involved something more sexual than skinny dipping with friends. 

I was aroused as fuck, and it was thrilling, but perhaps also dangerous. What did I want here? I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to talk to Jack, alone. I wanted to know if I was just high as a kite, tripping into paranoia. I wanted to know if my arousal at this entire situation hurt Jack in any way. Maybe he was as aroused as I was. Maybe we should go fuck again…or…what was it exactly that Ryan thought might happen in the sauna?

So while I felt saved by our other friends, there was a part of me that was disappointed. I wanted to see what was going to happen next; I was intrigued by Ryan and Lauren and this aura of arousal that still lingered in the air, surely thick enough that our other friends sensed it, too. 

Jack took the lead. He chose the friend group, and we all followed. We skinny dipped with our friends, no biggie, and after an hour or so the party started to break up. Shocker — Ryan, Lauren, Jack, and I were the last ones left. We were sober now, and I wondered if I had felt too much under the influence of the ganja. 

And then Ryan suggested the sauna again.

I wasn’t ready. I was tempted, but Jack and I hadn’t talked. What was Jack thinking? I didn’t know what I wanted; I didn’t know what was possible.

Jack is the spokesperson for our family. He affably turned down their offer with a smile and suggested that we hang out again the next day, their last day. We all hugged goodnight, and then Jack and I nearly sprinted back up the hill to our room, breathless and talking in hushed tones until we finally barged through our door. 

We proceed to stay up for hours more, recapping the night as foreplay.

I asked Jack, “Are they hitting on us?” and he laughed. Jack was positive they had been hitting on us, but I pushed back. No one I knew acted like that anymore. That was just something people did when they were young and dating around, in college, like we did, right?

Jack wasn’t entirely sure what they’d been suggesting, but he knew it was something. We’d already seen each other naked, so did they want to touch? Kiss? Girls only, or wife swapping like on That 70s Show? Full out sex? No way…

We were blown away trying to parse it out. We didn’t know anyone who did anything like this. We couldn’t do this, no sir. I mean, not again. Before, that was college, and now, we were adults. We were married, and therefore monogamous — bound to each other and only each other. 

I didn’t know that I — we — had any other options. We just assumed this was how things were after saying our vows in a Church of God. We’d never seen another way in the media or among our friends or family. Marriage meant monogamy. Right?

Thing is, I liked the feelings that had crept back into my body that night. I liked that excitement that was growing in my gut, the tingly feelings in my arms and legs, the warmth in my vulva. I felt desired, stimulated. This was different from just walking around a pool naked. Now, my heart was beating fast and my brain was fleeting through thoughts.

I was confused. Overwhelmed. I knew that I loved Jack and I wanted him forever, so why was I suddenly feeling this rush of excitement from — or was it for — other people? Wasn’t this that old feeling I used to get when I dated in my teens, or when we would mess around in college with other people? What was this — attraction, lust, chemistry? How could I be sure? And what was I supposed to do with it?

We weren’t going to do anything, we quickly decided. Well, not with anyone else — we had amazing sex with each other that night, though, our desire suddenly increased tenfold. What had already been a surprisingly erotic vacation had just been taken up a notch.

That week at Couples, we had sex about two or three times a day on average, quite the uptick from our average three to four times a week at home. I felt constantly aroused, and Jack loves sex with me to the point where he simply does not have the willpower to turn it down whenever I offer.

And now, with Ryan and Lauren hitting on us? Our sex sessions grew longer and more intense. Jack started griping about his back aching and his penis getting raw.

We parted with Ryan and Lauren on the best terms. Before they left the resort on the morning of their departure, they sought us out one more time and found us devouring smoothies at the mineral pool. We hugged and exchanged contact information. They told us that they really liked us, enjoyed our company, and would love to meet up again in the future.

Perhaps it wasn’t just about sex, I realized. I had genuinely enjoyed my time with them, too, and I was sorry that they had to leave. 

Earlier in the week, we’d also met Mark and Melissa. Jack complimented Mark’s black wedding band, and moments later, Melissa directed my attention to her personalized water bottle. “Look,” she’d said, “I had this pineapple printed on my cup, but they printed it upside down!” I reassured her that it was still cute. 

A couple hours after Ryan and Lauren left, Mark and Melissa pulled us aside. They must have sensed that we desperately needed guidance — they filled us in on almost all of the details that we had missed. 

The CliffNotes version of what they said would be: Yes, Ryan and Lauren were hitting on you. Yes, there are swingers at this resort, and a whole lotta other places, too. In fact, we’re swingers, and it’s a whole lotta fun for us. And you know what? You two would make great swingers. You guys have that vibe about you — you’re close with each other, you communicate well, you’re fun and obviously you have a ton of sexual energy. We’d totally be game if you want to fool around, but we get it if you’re not there. No worries either way, but you’re wonderful people, let’s keep in touch!

All this from a sweet, respectful couple from Ohio with two kids, several rescue dogs, and a penchant for home renovations. A sweet couple who fucked other people and, after getting to know me over the course of a week, genuinely thought that I would also enjoy an alternative sexual arrangement with my spouse. 

We were no more ready to swing than we had been the day before. We were still shaking our heads, waking up with the realization that there were swingers — now plural — and they seemed…likable. Relatable. Normal. Like…us? But Jack and I were on the same page, and we politely turned them down, explaining that we were only interested in sex with each other.

The week went on. A new couple joined us at the pool the day after our encounter with Mark and Melissa. They had just arrived from a week at Hedonism II, that infamous swinger’s resort across the island in Negril. Were they swingers, too? 

No, they were exhibitionists. 

The woman, a stunning beauty who resembled Halle Berry, unabashedly explained that she enjoyed having other people watch them have sex. Her husband, an oncologist who spent most of his days doling out death sentences to his patients, shrugged his shoulders and said that he needed a little bit of fun in his life. It was their “thing.” 

A crowd of us gathered around the Halle Berry Double as she sat perched on the side of the pool, regaling us all with stories of Hedo. “It’s not as beautiful as this place,” she said, “but it’s got a sexual atmosphere and freedom that’s amazing.” I found myself getting aroused as she detailed how some women would take turns positioning their bodies on a fountain, in public, letting the water caress them between the legs until they reached orgasm. I could never do that, but…why did it turn me on?

We met another couple, coincidentally from our same metropolitan area back home and also parents to four kids, though theirs were now grown. This couple also had insights to share.  “You’ve got to try Hedo at least once,” they said. “It’s not for everybody, but it’s an experience. Don’t miss it.”

On our last full day at the pool, we were chatting it up with another couple; he was a teacher, she was a veterinarian. They had two kids and were from a flyover state. The guy made a flippant comment about how many swingers were at this resort, and I pressed for more information. “You know, pineapples everywhere,” he said. Say what? 

Apparently, I needed someone to mansplain this to me, and a Flyover State Teacher was just the man for the job. “Upside down pineapples are the most common symbol for swingers, but there are others, too,” he said. He rattled off a list — black rings, white rocks or garden gnomes in your landscaping. He shrugged. “We tried messing around with some friends once, but it wasn’t really our scene. How about you guys?”

Surely I could have used that information a week prior, but would it have mattered? Would I have altered my course? If anything, I probably would have closed myself off from all of these people. I wouldn’t have given them a chance. 

Instead, I’d spent that week enjoying the company of others more than I had since…college, perhaps? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun, felt so free, felt so much like myself and yet so happy to be social.

No, we didn’t become swingers that week. Jack and I talked about all of these people and their sex lives nonstop, but we assured each other that we were satisfied keeping the coitus an in-house thing. We still believed that being monogamous was some sort of moral high ground. We talked about STIs, about possible relationship troubles, about the values of people who did “that.”

No, we couldn’t be swingers, we said. Not us. And yet, with that seed planted, our sex life began to blossom.