Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go it's one of the best.

Oh lord, here we are back at Theme Thursday again. It just keeps coming in quicker and quicker...

Above, you can see two blokes happily eating Vegemite sandwiches, checking out the local talent, and no doubt amusing each other with snippets of Foucault’s Discipline and Punish. All the while, the gently SWING in gentle Hobartian breeze.

Of course, a normal person would leave it at that. I had a manageable theme – SWING – I had an appropriate photograph, but no, that won’t do. You see, this week I saw the topic and one thing leaped immediately to mind. What that says about my mind is another matter, as it reveals a sort of degeneracy and perversion that I hope you have come to expect from me by now.

I didn’t think “toddlers in playgrounds”, “the graceful arc of the cricket bat” or indeed “dancers moving in rhythm to the band”.

No, I thought about SWINGING. SWINGERS and the filthy, grubby SWINGING LIFESTYLE.

Now, for the non-swingers out there, SWINGING refers to "non-monogamous sexual activity, treated much like any other social activity, that can be experienced as a couple." Think of it as “Dick and Jane enjoy many things together: long walks on the beach; ornithology; a romantic meal, followed by the latest Meg Ryan film; engaging in sexual relations in the immediate vicinity of others; engaging in sexual relations with other people while watching; or indeed, engaging in sexual relations with friends, strangers, couples, the homeless and who knows what else”.

Of course, the phenomenon of swinging often associated with the sexual revolution of late-1960s and early-1970s, which occurred after the upsurge in sexual activity that appeared possible by the ready availability of safer sex practices. People became more explorative, inquisitive and broad-minded. Or, to look at in another way, they lost their sense of shame, dignity and devotion.

One of the two anyway.

Now, I’m not one to judge, but I am reasonably certain that the swinging lifestyle is not for me. I am far too jealous committed. My distaste is not rooted [ooh err missus] in any moral or philosophical objections against the notion of swinging itself. Whatever gets you through the night is the extent of my philosophy. That said, I reserve the right to be grossed out by my neighbours, that is the beauty of freedom and democracy.

Let me share with you a tale that expands upon my distaste somewhat. Don’t worry, it isn’t explicit.

A particular esteemed [former] colleague of mine – who also happens to be and occasional [and spiteful] commenter on this very blog – once elbowed me in the ribs in the middle of some interminable training event some years ago and nodded to another participant in the training, and confided to me that she herself (and her husband), were active in Hobart’s vibrant swinging scene. At first I assumed her comment a cruel and malicious yarn, our forte.

However, she insisted that it was indeed true, and that her reasons for conveying this information to me were wholly honourable. She feared that – as fresh meat – I may be vulnerable to her vile and wicked web of debauchery,

Worsening this predicament, the individual in question was known to us by the unkind moniker of “Robber’s Dog” – as she was regrettably equipped with a head that resembled that of a robber’s dog.

That is the thing, you see, SWINGING seems to be the domain of many flabby, greasy, wholly unattractive middle-aged people.

I still see this woman about in a professional capacity, as she has progressed through the ranks.

I shudder every time.

And reject any invitation to dinner.