What do I wear to a gig now I'm no longer a teenager?
What do I wear to a gig now I'm not a teenager any more?
There is, of course, no age limit on going to see your favourite band, whether it's Oasis, Cub Sport or Taylor Swift. The great divide begins inside the venue when you realise that you've timed out of the crop tops, sequinned miniskirts and pink, glitter cowboy hats dominating the mosh pit. Find safety in stylishly remixing all the going-out classics: fun T-shirts, cool denim, statement accessories and shoes that won't give you blisters from dancing and walking to the car park after the concert.
You might be a mum, but leave the mom jeans at home on this occasion and demonstrate your familiarity with trends by stepping into a pair of figure-flattering flares or boot-cut jeans (if you really want to push the envelope, iron a seam down the front). Flares tap into the easy-going chic of Kate Hudson as Penny Lane in the 2000 movie Almost Famous, but without the groupie connotations. If everyone at the gig is too young to get the Almost Famous reference, they'll definitely remember Kendrick Lamar's Super Bowl half-time performance back in February in those trend-sparking Celine bootleg jeans.
If you can't find any vintage band tees from your younger days and would prefer to leave your One Direction relic in the bottom drawer, have some fun with a statement tee that expresses your values as well as a sense of humour. Then just swap your office blazer for a bomber jacket that can discreetly house a pair of earplugs as well as delivering a style encore at brunch on the weekend.
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I can smell the antiseptic aroma of the complimentary lubricant and condoms (safety first), and I can hear groans and grunts, squelches and sighs, and later, a group of women on the dance floor singing the words 'Give me give me give me a man after midnight', just after midnight. I also remind myself – as I need to do throughout my reporting on this topic – not to yuck someone else's yum because, well, you do you, boo. After all, there's plenty of people here just dancing and prancing. Just socialising. Just having a drink and feeling utterly themselves. Most of us long for such comfort in our own skin, let alone while showing so much skin. You see, you have to 'dress down' to enter this party (and others), so that everyone feels equally vulnerable. Many women in The Lifestyle adore the erotic anticipation that builds while planning their skimpy costumes, but what's a paunchy middle-aged bloke to do? The theme tonight is 'cowboys and aliens', so my wife is wearing all-black boots, stockings, pleather shorts and a lace bra – plus a pink bandana with matching cowgirl hat. She's here because most events only allow couples or solo women ('unicorns') inside, and she's willing to take one for Team Journalism, so I can absorb the spectacle. She looks amazing. I do not. Many women in The Lifestyle adore the erotic anticipation that builds while planning their skimpy costumes for nights such as this one, but what's a paunchy middle-aged bloke to do? I wanted to cover my belly with a sleeveless denim shirt, for modesty's sake, but the cloakroom lady was staunch, albeit sympathetic. 'Sorry, mate. That'll have to come off.' I can keep my boxer briefs, apparently, but not my dignity, so there I stand in Blundstones, Akubra and neckerchief – nothing but black undies on a pasty dadbod. This is the price of admission into a world most people don't realise still exists – but is, in fact, creeping back into fashion. Tumbling taboos The history of swinging is probably older than Exodus ('Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife', anyone?), but its beginnings as a modern movement are more sketchy. Some say it started in America in the 1940s with US Air Force pilots during WWII, whose families bonded emotionally – and sexually – the theory being that if one died at war, another could meet (all) the needs of his family. The practice next hit suburbia there in a secretive 1950s trickle, flourished in the free-love 1960s and the aptly named 'Swinging '70s' – people living the sexual revolution at music festivals and hippy communes and, eventually, middle-class key parties. At this time, at least in Australia, The Lifestyle was largely hidden, swingers connecting mostly through 'contacts magazines' distributed in adult shops, as well as left-wing newspapers like Nation Review, which had very, shall we say, 'liberal' classifieds. In that analogue age, people would mail an explicit photo with a note ('Married couple looking for a third'), and hope their personal advertisement would prompt replies to a PO box. In the 1990s came gatherings like the Hellfire Club in Melbourne and Sydney, as well as mass party events, which is when the aforementioned Saints & Sinners was born. 'It was very underground, as was swinging itself,' says Di, who just turned 60 and runs the business these days. She went to her first party in 1999, when she was in her 30s and just coming out of a marriage with four kids. Having lived a shy and sheltered life until then, Di was stunned but invigorated. She started helping out in her 'naughty 40s', and never stopped. 'I've got adult children now – very straight and prudish and conservative – but they come and help me run the events,' she says. 'Technically, it's a family business.' Existing in a legal grey area, erotic performers were allowed under an explicit adult entertainment licence, and as for the 'SOP' (sex on premises) issue, the sex wasn't in exchange for money, so it was policed like any tryst in a nightclub bathroom – which is to say, not at all. 'The cops used to come in all the time,' says Di. 'We were just accepted as a dance club where maybe some people were having sex.' More mass events followed suit, emerging on the scene in the noughties, turbocharged by the internet. Private house parties multiplied, too, and new dating sites catering to nontraditional open encounters scrambled to meet demand. 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That's the driving ethos behind Sydney institution Our Secret Spot, which seems like any other bar on Parramatta Road until I sit down on a Chesterfield couch and hear the origin story from founder Jess Cattelly. She grew up in the inner west as a sporty teen ballerina, then retail operations manager, but this is her full-time job. The 32-year-old mother of a 'terrible two' has been swinging since she was 20 and is currently 'monogamish'. Cattelly had never been to a swingers club when she opened this one in 2014 with her former partner. 'There were older, seedier, grungier places – but we wanted somewhere with female energy, where consent was everything, and you could walk around in your lingerie feeling sexy.' Entry costs $169 for a couple, $90 for a single female, and $105 for a single male, capped at five guys per event. (Cattelly learnt early that too many single men scare away the primary customer: couples.) They also faced a territorial backlash from established gatekeepers in The Lifestyle, then external mainstream attacks as 'horrible people destroying marriages and ruining lives and spreading disease' (as she puts it) after appearing on The Morning Show in 2019. 'But I didn't mind putting myself in the firing line and being this ball that got bounced around by everyone to use and abuse,' says Cattelly, 'because I believe in what we're doing.' We take a tour, and she shows me 'the orgy room' (multiple beds), a 'voyeur room' (two-way mirror for viewers), plus private rooms and a BDSM space. Staff change sheets and towels throughout the night, and restock dispensers for condoms (regular, large and extra large) and lube. People arrive clothed, then dress down to go upstairs or downstairs to play. Their typical guests would be a couple in their 30s. 'Well-educated. Financially comfortable. Emotionally mature,' she says. 'People who've been together a couple of years and want to explore their sexuality.' Events started with about 20 people. Now they welcome 150 per night, four nights a week. The past two years have seen more queer, kink and young people entering the space, too. 'They ease into it without issues,' Cattelly says of those arrivals. 'We're seeing a lot more fluid humans coming through the door.' Cattelly also coaxes more trepidatious couples into the scene through 'mingles' held at local pubs, inviting the curious to drink and chat and interact in a neutral setting. They might start with a game of 'sexy bingo', for instance, where people have to ask others a few risqué questions such as 'Have you ever given a rim job?' to get them out of their comfort zone. Toe-dipping events of this sort are increasingly popular. There's even a monthly 'social swinging' party in Melbourne named MINGLE, run by married couple 'CC and B', who in their 'vanilla' (mainstream) life are government workers with kids. They met in high school and, emerging from the pandemic, felt they might regret never having had any other sexual experiences. They joined an app and started by introducing another man – meaning B watching CC have sex. 'It was a cuckold experience, but not humiliating,' says B. 'It was a fantasy of mine – watching her get pleasured.' The greater revelation was the thriving community of people who want to connect more deeply before diving into bed. Since 2023, they've held 22 'fun and flirty' gatherings for between 150-250 people, with a simple premise: 'We take the sex out of a sex party.' It's not the only measure being taken to make people more comfortable. Many event organisers now invite volunteer 'consent angels' such as Carly Taylor, 43, to make sure patrons feel safe, seen and supported. She wears a lanyard and illuminated angel wings as a recognisable helper for others, though she's not a trained counsellor or security guard. 'If someone doesn't feel right,' says Taylor, 'or needs a water, or a friend to talk to, or a quiet place, we're that friendly face.' 'I've had clients whose lives have been derailed in these settings. Derailed.' Chantelle Otten Taylor found her way to the role through a bad experience at her first event – a kink and BDSM party – when someone took advantage of her and tried to put his penis in her mouth. 'Going into this new world I didn't know what happens, and I froze in the moment,' she says. 'I was very much violated. I'm glad I gave the scene another chance.' It's worth discussing the dark side of The Lifestyle because, like any community, it has one. 'You can screen and vet, but can you see through everyone's motivations?' asks Chantelle Otten. 'Absolutely not. I've had clients whose lives have been derailed in these settings. Derailed.' Isadora Van Camp, 48, understands. She organises one of the biggest parties in Melbourne, called PURR, with her former partner. 'Back in the day, you had to know someone who knew us,' she says. 'It was like a secret society.' Now she's a middle-aged mum and joins me after the school run with her toy cavoodle Rosie for a morning wander through their takeover venue, Chasers nightclub in South Yarra. 'As the night progresses, you might see a bottom or a splash of boobs. Everything's really beautiful in that pulsing light.' Isadora Van Camp 'I really like to dance and feel sexy – with not a lot of clothes on – with my girlfriends, but you don't get to be overly sensual in a straight scene, so we took that and put it into PURR,' Van Camp says. 'As the night progresses, you might see a bottom or a splash of boobs. Everything's really beautiful in that pulsing light.' Entry is by invitation only, after joining the online 'Kitty Kat Club' – a way for Van Camp to record people's details in case something goes wrong – or they do something wrong. Van Camp once helped take testimonies about a person since ostracised by the community, known for unwanted persistence and insistence, but also alleged coercion and worse. One woman reported being drugged, then raped while unconscious. 'This is in no way the norm,' assures Van Camp, 'but in any community, people have mental health problems and substance-abuse issues. If you add sex and relationships to that, some people just completely implode.' Still, the scene is relatively self-policing, with bad actors quickly identified and shunned. And guests at mass party events enjoy a certain safety in numbers –including the chance to be anonymous wallflowers, feeling the energy of the room and then leaving undetected. Yet for others – in particular Gen Z newcomers to the scene – smaller, private, house parties are becoming preferable. I meet one such couple – Charlotte and Troy (not their real names), a pair of attractive, well-dressed 20-somethings – at a Port Melbourne pub. 'The issue for us was that you get the confidence to go upstairs at a big event, but it's not a bedroom with eight people,' says Charlotte. 'All of a sudden you're in a nightclub room with 200 people, and they're all playing. That's cool, but it's not exactly 'easing in'.' They were lying in bed one night after her shift in healthcare and his day on the road in industrial sales, and wondered if they could throw their own parties. Troy came up with a name: Behind Closed Doors. 'I couldn't shake the idea,' says Charlotte, 'so I stayed up way too late and created a website, got the Instagram handle and then sat on it while we brainstormed.' Loading Their guest list is unashamedly 'very selective', limited to 30 per party, no single males, everyone under 40, and they vet for emotional intelligence through a detailed application form. 'If someone writes, 'Me and the misso just love sex,' we know those aren't the right people,' says Troy. 'We want people to be able to enter the room and click and converse, and you can't have that if you invite some guy that just really wants to f---.' The age of entry to the scene is shifting, too. Zoomers and Millennials experiencing 'app fatigue' while trying to hook up can now find sex in a more transparent way. HarderFaster – a luxe party held in a private mansion for under-45s, with champagne and charcuterie on arrival – bluntly states their preferences: women under size 14, and men with a slim or athletic build. Setting aesthetic standards is more kindness than cruelty. 'We want everyone to have a good time – and to feel included – and that can mean curating guests so that no one gets left out,' says Rebecca, one of the event's new owners. 'There are so many Lifestyle parties out there that are quite diverse, but we're an option catering to a particular niche: luxurious and led by the female gaze.' Cheaper than a room Out of the 55 female case studies gathered by journalist Alyx Gorman for her book on the pursuit of pleasure, All Women Want, a dozen of them had been to sex parties. Many were post-divorce, or on a journey of self-discovery with their husband after years of child-rearing. Gen X mums are a massive new demographic in the scene, too, and sex parties are a legitimate logistical convenience for parents with teenagers at home. 'Someone else has done the hard work of finding other people who are interested in group sex for you,' Gorman notes, 'and it's significantly cheaper to go to a sex party than it is to book a hotel room for a night. A couple might pay $140 for a sex party, and you cannot get a nice hotel room in Sydney for $140.' Like me, Gorman herself went along as a reporter to an event – Killing Kittens in London – in which femmes make the first move. 'It was a white party and a masquerade. It's known for sometimes having celebrities and being 'the very fancy orgy',' she says. 'It was Eyes Wide Shut as hell.' Of course, not all parties are glamorous affairs with a masked and tuxedoed Tom Cruise walking through a country estate filled with statuesque semi-naked beauties. Gorman can't shake the sobering cautionary words of one of the women she interviewed: 'You know how people are just generally awkward? They're awkward at sex parties, too.' That can, however, be part of the appeal. Many women report a huge boost in body positivity and 'erotic self-focus', says Gorman, after being surrounded by so many everyday, normal, naked bodies. Their insecurities – about the way they're ageing, or being plus-sized – dissipate within the menagerie. 'A couple might pay $140 for a sex party, and you cannot get a nice hotel room in Sydney for $140.' Alyx Gorman Women are firmly in charge at Between Friends Wine Bar in Melbourne, according to its owner, Matt Chandler. 'It's a matriarchal community,' he says, 'and I love that. Women drive most of the conversations – and the decisions.' It helps that Chandler walks all newcomers through a specific spiel: 'We are a wine bar, first and foremost,' he tells them. 'You can come in and socialise and have a great time, and yet, you are under no expectation to do anything that you do not feel comfortable doing. Period.' (He pauses to hammer that final point home.) Chandler got into The Lifestyle 15 years ago when it was confined largely to secretive house parties, a few club events and occasional swingers' nights held in gay saunas. He thought a wine bar might be a better way, but kept dismissing that nagging earworm – 'If it was a good idea,' he kept thinking, 'someone would have done it by now' – until a SWOT analysis during the pandemic was too promising to ignore. 'Everyone had their little pet project during COVID lockdowns,' he tells me. 'Some people baked sourdough. Some people learnt a second language. I built a wine bar for swingers.' This side hustle to his main hospitality businesses (cafes and bars) proved incredibly popular, so much so that he has another venue soon to open on the northern fringe of the city and plans for a third. He describes the market in terms of three rings: a small inner ring of people already in The Lifestyle and a larger outer ring of people who would recoil in horror without even considering the idea. 'But there's another ring in the middle – of people who are interested or maybe afraid to broach it,' he says, 'and that ring is big and getting bigger.' Loading He's not the only one who thinks so. On a recent Friday morning, I walk through the debris of a former travel-agency call centre in South Melbourne – surrounded by jackhammers and exposed plumbing (insert bawdy sex joke here) – with Emanuel Cachia, 45, the owner of what is shortly to become Pineapples Lifestyle Bar. Cachia and his wife of 22 years, Vicky, own a board-game cafe in Melbourne's west as well as a property renovation business, and joined The Lifestyle three years ago after many tantalising COVID-19 conversations – pillow talk made manifest. Their establishment – opening in a matter of weeks – will have its own ambience, they hope: one that's safe, fun, clean and welcoming. Vicky is in a wheelchair much of the time with primary progressive multiple sclerosis, so the venue is also a direct response to the question: 'What do you want to do while you're still walking?' For them, it's about playing together in a group setting – but not with others – feeding their exhibitionist streak. 'We do our own thing,' says Cachia, 'and that little bit of sexiness is more than enough to keep the passion alive. If you want to hook up with as many people as possible, there's other places for that,' he continues. 'We're entry-level. We'll have a burlesque or vaudeville show or dancing downstairs – and then if you want to, you can play upstairs. Either way, you're gonna have an experience you wouldn't at the movies.' Still, there was opposition from locals, including an unsuccessful appeal of their licence through the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal, although Cachia says most neighbours came to understand that the new after-hours nightspot won't have much impact on the fairly industrial street. 'All the nearby businesses are closed when we will be open,' he says, 'except the pub, the brothel, the massage parlour and the service station.' All this growth doesn't come without growing pains. The Lifestyle can be territorial, political and dramatic. One failed event recently led to an online skirmish between operators, with back-and-forth allegations of intellectual-property theft and intimidation. Di from Saints & Sinners says it sometimes feels like there's a new party launched every weekend, and wonders if the community is big enough yet to sustain the competition – and the egos. 'There's been a lot of infighting and bad behaviour. It can get really toxic,' she says. 'But I guess that happens in every community. It could be in the bowls club.' There's also a big, wide world to go around. Chandler points out that his guests don't just come from suburban Melbourne but regional Victoria – as well as Adelaide, Canberra, Perth and Tasmania. South-east Queensland has the highest concentration of clubs in Australia not just because The Lifestyle is exploding up there, but because people from the south will travel to swing where they're less likely to run into someone they know. 'It's that school-gate philosophy,' says Chandler. 'You're afraid of meeting someone here, then bumping into them on Monday morning at drop-off. Although I guess technically you're both safe through mutually assured destruction.' Of course, swinging isn't just interstate but international, too, through lavish Lifestyle cruises and package holidays. Cate, 40, started swinging 11 years ago in Sydney with her husband Darrell. They now live in the Netherlands, running Libertine Events and a dozen multi-day parties around the world each year – entire hotel takeovers in Miami and Montreal, France and Jamaica. The average day starts with a coffee mingle and maybe a noon, clothing-optional, pool party with DJs and dildo giveaways. It's also like a conference – with seminars on how to Magic Mike dance, or classes in boudoir photography – before parties at night. Loading The cross-cultural differences are often vast. For instance, Cate has to remind her US and UK clients about consent norms in continental Europe, where you can freely touch someone and it's the responsibility of the receiver to say yes or no. 'It's an adjustment,' she says. 'You can't bring your Australian protocols and expectations to the south of France, and then get aggressive at them for what's standard operating procedure.' There's no shortage of advice online for anyone curious about The Lifestyle. Although when 'Jack and Jill' (not their real names) started swinging 18 months ago, they had to fumble and feel their way through, which is why they just launched a podcast – The Lifestyle Lounge – in the hope that their journey might help others. I meet them in the city, where they're bleary-eyed from attending a party the night prior. Both formerly married with kids, they now have their own 'Brady Bunch' in regional Victoria. Lifestyle parties are their night away from that household – and from his job in logistics and hers as a kindergarten teacher. 'My close friends live through me,' says Jill, laughing. ' 'What did you do on the weekend? Tell us everything!' ' Top tips? If you're too scared to ask your partner, says Jack, you're not ready. Also, if it takes you six months to ask, you might have to wait six months for an answer. And for those people on Reddit asking how to convince their partner to swing, the response is clear: 'If you have to try to convince them,' Jack says, 'it's not for you.' This kind of experimentation, adds Jill, cannot come from a place of rupture. 'You have to be strong in your relationship already, because if you're having issues, it'll wreck it,' she says. 'We're not filling in any cracks. This is the cherry on top.' Communication is key – they have constant conversations about what they want to do and with whom, and both hold veto rights over every player and scenario. Equally important is 'aftercare' – talking with one another following their fun, in an ongoing, non-negotiable debauchery debrief. 'The biggest thing? Practise your 'no'. It might sound silly, but say it to yourself in the mirror.' Professional dominatrix Bella 'Valkyrie' 'It's complicated stuff,' says Chantelle Otten. 'You have to understand how to give and receive, offer and decline. But you make the rules. You can dip your toe in and then out. You can step fully in – and step fully out.' The final piece of advice comes from a couple in the Victorian kink community, professional dominatrix Bella 'Valkyrie', 32, and her partner Tony 'The Bruise Factory', 35, who builds crosses and benches and paddles in their northern suburbs home. There's an increasing overlap between the kink and Lifestyle communities, and they work often with parties and events, sharing their expertise. For example, people frequently use the wrong candles for 'wax play'. Paraffin and soy are good, advises Tony, but beeswax is wrong because you can't regulate the temperature at which it melts, and people get burned. 'The biggest thing? Practise your 'no',' says Bella. 'It might sound silly, but say it to yourself in the mirror. Group sexual dynamics are complicated, so if it gets uncomfortable, it's important to know your 'no'.' 'And don't jump in too quick,' adds Tony. 'Pace yourself. You can get swallowed up.' I'm not worried about that, but to round out the story I speak to Kate, a nurse in her mid-30s who wanted a prettier party than what was already out there – something more open, but with little pockets of privacy – and in 2023, hosted her first event under the Virtue & Vice banner. Held at the Melbourne Pavilion – usually rented for weddings and fashion shows – 300 people came to the first party, but the latest one drew 1200 souls. Including me. The atmosphere is warm, with textile finishings. In one corner there's a performer demonstrating 'shibari' (Japanese rope bondage), and in another, a group of naked women having hot wax (hopefully paraffin or soy – I don't ask) dripped all over them. Curious tourists such as myself are actually welcome. Most of the people here don't play at all, not until one night when this sort of scene no longer startles but becomes their norm. 'The way you were operating disappears,' Kate explains. 'You reach this place where it's like, 'We're all going to be a bit naked together and not judging one another, and it's going to be fine, it's going to be fun.' ' Loading There's a point in the evening when my mind goes there, too, when I've seen everything I need to see, and it's time to clock off, but instead of going immediately home I lead my wife to the dance floor. I'm in my trusty black undies, and she's in a baby doll with white stockings. She looks amazing, again. And yet again, I do not. But we're dancing because we have nowhere else to be and nothing we need to do. We look right, out to the far edge of the dance floor, where a man is industriously thrusting into his partner. And we look left, where a woman is diligently going down on a guy through a glory hole. We know we don't want to play out there, on those edges, so we stay in the centre for just a song, surrounded by sexy people, who are smiling and kissing and laughing and touching, who are enjoying this lifestyle, and I think I understand why.
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- Sydney Morning Herald
Conquering Tinseltown: The next generation of Nicoles, Russells and Cates
This story is part of the August 2 edition of Good Weekend. See all 14 stories. The bright young stars at tomorrow night's Logie Awards could only hope to emulate the Hollywood success of Nicole Kidman. Yet it was a 21-year-old Kidman who told 60 Minutes reporter Mike Munro back in 1989 that she was wary of fame and would rather be a 'hermit'. No such luck. For years, the names Nicole, Russell, Cate and Hugh needed no surnames when it came to Australians conquering Tinseltown. Today, while Milly Alcock, Jacob Elordi and Kodi Smith-McPhee have garnered star attention back home, plenty of others haven't – despite making a splash internationally. Like Sydney's Jess Bush (pictured). She has her own doll, thanks to playing nurse Christine Chapel on Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts (WAAPA) graduate Harry Richardson's breakout global role was in Poldark; he now plays wealthy New York heir Larry Russell in the lavish The Gilded Age, showing on Paramount+. Cody Fern, recipient of the 2014 Heath Ledger Scholarship, appears in the mega-budget AppleTV+ sci-fi series, Foundation. Loading 'Thanks to the internet, actors can audition anywhere,' says casting director Dave Newman. 'Many are now skipping the traditional route of 'overnight success' after spending years on a local soapie. They compete in a small pond here, which makes them resilient and creates a strong work ethic that's recognised internationally.' Take 2023 NIDA graduate Jack Patten, who's landed the lead in the upcoming, mega-budget TV series Robin Hood. Similarly, 20-year-old Sydneysider Joseph Zada has been cast in the next Hunger Games movie. Australia's acting exports are also starting to reflect our diverse ethnic make-up. For example, 27-year-old Korean-Australian Yerin Ha is set to play the female lead in the next season of Netflix's hit Bridgerton. Anglo-Sri Lankan actor Josh Heuston, 28, hails from Sydney's Baulkham Hills and got his start on Heartbreak High but is best known as the dashing warrior Constantine Corrino on Dune: Prophecy. Melbourne's Christopher Chung, 37, is of Irish-Chinese Malaysian ancestry. He was nominated for a 2025 BAFTA for his role in the AppleTV+ series Slow Horses and will soon play Harry Beecham in Netflix's remake of My Brilliant Career. Fellow Aussie and Sydney-born WAAPA graduate Hoa Xuande hails from a Vietnamese background. He played the lead in The Sympathizer, a 2024 big-budget HBO series opposite Robert Downey jnr. Aussies are everywhere in Hollywood, it seems – if you know where to look.
