This article originally appeared on VICE UK.
Perhaps inevitably, Club 487—London’s last remaining porn cinema—was raided by the Metropolitan Police and by Lewisham Council officials last week.
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They burst into South London’s temple of the sin at 1:30 PM on Thursday, with Sergeant Mark Alger of Lewisham tweeting that “the premises are believed to be a pornographic cinema. A number of middle-aged males found inside and removed. LFB [London Fire Brigade] conducting safety checks. Licensing enquiries also taking place.”
The hapless wankers inside were allowed to leave with no arrests made, and 487 remains open for business. The club’s line is that the incident took place after unfounded reports of drug and alcohol sales were made. The police, finding no evidence of anything of the sort, went away happy.
“Two of the coppers who raided us even said good morning to me yesterday when they were walking past,” said Danny, the manager, when I asked him about the incident.
No hard feelings, then. Certainly, if the cinema is able to evade further interference from the boys in blue then it will be a blessing for members of London’s swinging demimonde—like Vern, a polite guy in his late 40s who wears glasses and a homely blue pullover. I chatted to him in the bowels of the 487 the week before the raid, although it’s kinda hard making polite conversation when you’re talking to a man while watching a bunch of other guys bang his wife.
“Wave it over there, mate—not in his face,” his wife, Melissa, gasps. “What if it goes off?”
She is lying on the floor in one of two private cubicles the venue offers. Lit only by a wank-flick called Uniform Fantasies, which plays on the small HD screen above, she is at the center of three blokes, members primed and ready, waiting to receive her oral attention. Another has sex with her, grunting and groaning the whole time. He finishes abruptly, then stands and buttons up his jeans.
“Wooah, that was good,” he says. He’s tall, with Latin good looks.
“Melissa’s a great fuck,” Vern says. “She’s a good girl. Thank you, mate.”
“No—thank you,” the guy says.
He seems pretty sincere.
This is a far cry from the glam swinging scene of Killing Kittens and Fever Parties, which cater to sexy young couples and single girls. Using online forums, Melissa and Vern advertise their presence at a variety of venues around London at short notice, inviting lone guys and couples to come down and have fun with them. Club 487, with its gloomy corridors and anonymous vibe, is just their kind of place. They’ve traveled here tonight all the way from Acton, after Vern finished his last job of the day on the garage forecourt where he works.
“We like it seedy,” says Vern. “This gaff is great for us. You know it’s gonna be all guys coming down. And Melissa likes to go through a lot of guys.”
And does Vern have sex with other women?
“No—I don’t need to,” he says quickly.
“You’re better off going as a couple, not a single guy, otherwise you’ll look like a lemon on the first night.”
Melissa, when not enjoying the attention of guys who aren’t her husband, is a jovial, ebullient lady, her peroxide-blond hair luminous in the dark. She runs around in lingerie and black boots, a glass of whiskey in hand, yelling at anyone who will listen that it’s a crying shame that venues like this are being closed down across London. Vern is quieter and more reflective, choosing to enhance his enjoyment of his wife’s shenanigans with the occasional sniff of amyl nitrate.
Melissa and Vern have been married for 22 years and swinging for 15. Vern seems to be enjoying the action, even shouting encouragement at his wife’s various paramours, but I wonder whether he’s really happy.
“We’re careful. We get tested and everything. When you’re swinging, you’ve got to. Even if you use a condom you still need to make sure everyone’s safe,” he says.
But how does he feel watching random guys playing hide-the-sausage with his missus? Is it a turn-on?
“It was tough at first, no doubt,” he says. “First time she done it there was a bit of an argument—lot of jealousy.”
How did he get through it?
“Maybe it was the wrong situation. The wrong guy. We done it with another guy and it was perfect. Nice guy, down-to-earth, spoke to us—you know. And we liked him, so it was all right. It was a turn-on.”
And you’re into it now?
“Yeah, completely. We’ve been doing it 15 years now, so we must like it, mustn’t we?”
I guess, in the end, there’s no need for jealousy because you’re going home with that person?
“Exactly. I think that’s why it was hard the first time. What if she enjoys the sex better and fucks off with another guy? But it gets easier.”
Do they go to other swingers venues?
“Paradise in Dagenham is OK. But you take your chances. You’re better off going as a couple, not a single guy, otherwise you’ll look like a lemon on the first night. And if you don’t know no one, you’re not going to get nothing, like. When you go with a woman, everyone speaks to each other and breaks the ice.”
Right.
“‘Cause we know guys who go down Paradise and they get nothing. We ask, ‘Do you speak to the other couples?’ And they say no. So no wonder. It’s communication. There’s couples that look for single guys, and couples that look for couples. You don’t know that until you break the ice. And it’s down to the single guy to break the ice, ’cause he’ll get the pleasure of fucking someone else’s wife.”
“She squirts a lot, too. I was with her half an hour ago and my sleeve’s still soaking.”
Just then another couple pass us in the gloom—an attractive young brunette in her 20s and her partner, a robust-looking guy with a shaved head. They walk into the main cinema room.
“That’s Angelina. Nice girl. Melissa had her earlier.”
She’s certainly prolific.
“She loves sex. She’s a good girl.”
I follow Angelina and her boyfriend. They’re in the back row with another guy. Angelina lies horizontally across them, ministering to them both. On screen, a new movie plays, Twin Cheeks. Melissa, having finished up outside, wanders in to watch with Vern.
“She’s going too quick,” she shouts. “Slow down a bit!”
It’s like this is a live porno and she’s the director.
“She knows what she’s doing. She’s been through a lot of guys in 15 years,” Vern remarks.
“She squirts a lot, too,” says another bloke. “I was with her half an hour ago and my sleeve’s still soaking.”
Vern looks proudly at his wife, smiling and nodding slowly as though someone has complimented her on her sporting prowess.
“She’s a good girl,” he repeats.
“I’ve had them all,” Melissa says. “Footballers—even a [Member of Parliament] once.”
It’s certainly an impressive résumé. Shortly, Angelina and her friends finish up and the night is over. Everyone shakes hands and promises to meet up again soon.
“Great fuck, mate,” says one guy, bumping fists with Vern and then lowering his head to give Melissa a kiss on the cheek.
Serial cuckolding may not be for everyone, but for the denizens of Club 487 it’s all in a night’s work.
“We’d better be off,” says Vern. “It’s gonna take ages to get home, and I’ve got to sort out my sprockets in the morning.”
Now Vern and Melissa must make the drive back home across London. It may be a long way, but for them it’s a godsend that venues like Club 487 still exist.
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Thumbnail photo by Guillermo Cervera, from his series Sex Club
