Sex Clubs and Swingers’ Clubs in Spain: Keep the Casa, Pass the Paco!

Michel Does Spain Solo explores Spanish nightlife, marital maintenance and the conversation that left the British end of the table choking on its olives. No Teddy, no Gracie—and definitely no custard creams.

Living in Spain teaches you many things. Never assume an appointment means that particular time. Never ask a Spanish family a simple question unless you have the afternoon available. And never assume a building marked CLUB is somewhere you can play bridge. Although somebody may well leave having lost their shirt.

Spain’s roadside sex clubs—and the very different world of swingers’ clubs—recently became the subject of a lively discussion among my Spanish and foreign friends. What began as a conversation about those unmistakable neon signs turned into a debate about marriage, affairs and what different people consider betrayal.

Their wine. My Red Bull Light—causing an overdose of already far too much adrenaline. They were getting relaxed. I was getting ready to chair the debate, open the women’s club and apply for the licence before midnight.

“Michel, tranquila.” Calm down, Michel. Darling, I’m on my second can. We’re opening a franchise.

Spain’s Roadside CLUB Signs: Not the Local Bridge Society

You know the places. Beside the road. Windows blacked out. Pink lights blazing. A sign visible from the International Space Station. Discretion, apparently, means parking round the back.

“Aquí no me conoce nadie.” Nobody knows me here. Paco, your cousin fitted the air conditioning, your neighbour delivers the drinks and your wife’s hairdresser can identify your car by the sound of its dodgy fan belt. This is Andalucía. Somebody’s aunt knows.

These establishments provoke considerable interest among certain visiting gentlemen. Stag parties. Golfers. Men who announce they are “going to explore”. Normally, getting them to explore a cathedral requires three reminders and the promise of lunch. Suddenly they are Christopher Columbus with an Uber account.

“Vamos a conocer la cultura local.” Let’s experience the local culture. Of course, darling. I am sure the girl on reception will explain the Reconquista.

Now, before anyone splutters into their tea, I am not opening a club for women. Although the proposition has been discussed.

Ours would feature flattering lighting and men offering genuinely exotic services: “I’ve made the bed.” “I’ve called the plumber.” “Tell me the whole story. Start before the bit you think is relevant.”

In the VIP room, a man would fold a fitted sheet while admitting his mother had been unreasonable. We would have coaches arriving from Torremolinos. ¡Eso sí que pone! Now THAT is a turn-on.

Teddy and Gracie would not be admitted. And there would be no custard creams. Crumbs in those circumstances hardly bear thinking about.

Spanish and British Attitudes to Marriage: The Dinner-Table Divide

Some of my Spanish friends were explaining why, in their view, an agreed visit to a club could be preferable to a husband having an affair. The British end of the table practically inhaled the olives.

“¿Cómo?” What? “Pues claro.” Well, obviously. Obviously?

Nothing causes greater alarm than discovering that something you consider a marital emergency is being discussed by somebody else with the calm usually reserved for choosing tomatoes.

María’s argument was straightforward. She did not want a girlfriend in her marriage. No secret Telegram messages. No stolen weekends. No family confidences whispered into somebody else’s ear. And absolutely no woman who began by saying, “I don’t want anything from him,” before developing an interest in the deeds.

“Una aventura no puede llevarse toda una vida.” An adventure should not take away a whole lifetime.

Mary’s position was equally clear. “If John went anywhere near one of those places, he’d come home to find his clothes in the street.”

María’s imagined response? “¿Lavadas o sin lavar?” Washed or unwashed? Because even during a marital crisis, somebody needs to establish how much work is involved.

Mary pictured another woman touching her husband. María pictured another woman asking whether the villa was mortgage-free. Mary wanted to know what happened in the bedroom. María wanted to know what had been discussed afterwards.

“Que no le cuente nuestra vida.” He is not to tell her about our life.

Among the friends arguing this case, the distinction was emphatic. Sex, they suggested, could be a contained event. An affair had a tendency to develop a calendar: birthdays, anniversaries, weekends away and the terrible administrative burden of remembering which woman had been told which lie.

Frankly, some men cannot manage two shopping requests without a photograph. Running two relationships seems wildly ambitious.

Paco, María and the Marital Maintenance Budget

Now consider Paco. Paco still regards himself as a passionate Mediterranean man. María regards him as a man who asks where the cheese is while looking directly at the cheese.

“En la nevera, Paco.” In the fridge, Paco. “No lo veo.” I can’t see it. A man who hopes to discover new erotic horizons but cannot discover cheddar.

María has elderly parents to organise, grandchildren to collect and a family WhatsApp group producing enough voice notes to qualify as a radio station.

Her mother needs a prescription. Her daughter needs a favour. Somebody needs collecting at six. Paco needs attention.

“Cariño, ¿y si esta noche…?” Darling, what if tonight…?

“¿Y si esta noche recoges la cocina?” What if tonight you tidy the kitchen?

An unexpected counteroffer. Negotiations stall.

Once upon a time, perhaps María greeted his suggestions with enthusiasm. Now, when he whispers, “Shall we try a new position?”, she suggests he try standing at the ironing board.

“Ponte ahí y mueve la mano. Eso es.” Stand there and move your hand. That’s it. At last, a repetitive activity with a useful result.

And becoming an abuela does not mean surrendering your sexuality at the town hall. There is no form.

“Buenos días. Vengo a entregar mi ropa interior provocativa.” Good morning. I’ve come to hand in my provocative underwear.

“Le falta una fotocopia.” You’re missing a photocopy.

This is Spain. Even imaginary procedures require paperwork.

Plenty of grandmothers have flourishing sex lives. Some would like more passion. Some would simply like a partner who recognises that foreplay might begin with taking something off her to-do list.

But the friends making the case for clubs were talking about desires they no longer shared—or particular requests they had absolutely no intention of accommodating.

“Eso no entra en el servicio, cariño.” That is not included in the service, darling.

And no, being agreeable on your honeymoon does not constitute a lifetime subscription.

You cannot wave a memory from a hotel in Benidorm and demand renewal on the original terms.

“Has cambiado.” You’ve changed. Yes, Paco. So has your waistline. Yet here we both are.

In the arrangement these women were describing, a club visit could be agreed, limited and understood. No girlfriend. No parallel household. No “she really listens to me”.

Of course she listens, darling. She has not yet heard the story about your difficult boss seventeen times.

The distinction, they argued, was between paying for an encounter and financing an entire romantic production. One had an agreed price. The other came with surprise extras.

“Como las reformas.” Like building work. It starts with something small. Then somebody mentions an extension and suddenly you are discussing the house.

There was even talk of including a club allowance in the monthly budget.

Water. Electricity. Car insurance. Paco.

I pictured María studying the accounts. “Este mes te has pasado.” You’ve gone over budget this month.

“Pero, María…” No, Paco. If you want another visit, cancel the sports channels.

Mary, meanwhile, would be on the telephone asking her friend what “hospitality services” meant on a bank statement.

Her friend would know. British friends always know. They begin with “I don’t want to get involved” and finish with the postcode.

Underneath the jokes was a serious difference in how the women at our table understood security.

Some Spanish friends saw a possible way of protecting the family from an affair. Some foreign friends saw conduct that would itself destroy their marriage.

Naturally, the tidy arrangement is only a theory unless everyone freely agrees.

Paying guarantees neither emotional simplicity nor freedom from harm or exploitation. And the woman working there is a person with her own life, not a spare part for Paco’s marriage.

Nor does “mi mujer lo entiende”— my wife understands—count if his wife has never been asked.

Swingers’ Clubs in Spain: A Different Conversation Altogether

Then somebody mentioned swingers’ clubs. Silencio.

A brief silence, followed by the noise of several women trying to ask a question without sounding too interested in the answer.

The operative word is agreeing.

“Lo hemos hablado.” We have discussed it. Very different from “Te lo iba a decir.” I was going to tell you.

That second sentence has never improved anything.

For some couples, swinging works. Around our table, however, the imagined practicalities caused chaos.

What if you fancy her husband but she doesn’t fancy yours? Do you apologise? Do you offer to bring something next time?

“No te preocupes, cariño. Hace una paella estupenda.” Don’t worry, darling. He makes a lovely paella.

What if your husband receives less interest than you expected? You spend years telling him he is irresistible, then have to stand beside him while the room quietly disagrees.

“Es que hoy están todos muy cansados, Paco.” Everyone is just very tired tonight, Paco.

And what if you recognise somebody? I imagined looking across the room and finding the president of the community.

“¡Hombre, Antonio! Ya que estás aquí, ¿qué pasa con la piscina?”

Antonio! While you’re here, what’s happening with the swimming pool?

There is no level of undress that prevents a resident asking about the community fees.

Personally, I already find introducing people at dinner stressful.

“This is… oh, you know… we met at… darling, remind me.”

Remove everyone’s clothes and you also remove my main identification system. I know her by her lovely red jacket. Without the jacket, we are back to square one.

Then there are the ordinary indignities. Where do you put your reading glasses? At what point do you mention the dodgy hip?

And does “vamos poco a poco”— let’s take it slowly—refer to seduction or getting up the stairs?

At our age, “Are you comfortable?” can be a genuinely structural question.

Is the Internet Making Swingers’ Clubs More Visible?

Naturally, we consulted AI. Artificial Intelligence—or, as one of my grandchildren called it, Ancient Intelligence.

I decided not to investigate whether that referred to the computer or me.

The internet makes these communities easier to find, but visibility is not the same as proof of growth.

Research on sex clubs does not establish that widespread pornography is causing the number of swingers’ clubs in Spain to increase.

Our table’s giggling certainly did not constitute a national survey, either. Although by then we had enough opinions to launch a small government.

Divorce After 65: When the Joke Meets the Household Accounts

Could any of these arrangements save marriages? That was the provocative question behind the laughter— particularly when divorce after sixty-five can mean dismantling the retirement you spent years building.

American research found the divorce rate among people aged 65 and older more than tripled between 1990 and 2019.

Those are US figures, not a measurement of British expatriates in Spain, but they show a substantial long-term rise in later-life divorce.

You thought you would be splitting a pudding. Suddenly you are splitting the house.

“¿Y ahora qué?” And now what? Two households. Two sets of bills. And the discovery that your pension had been planning to live with somebody.

There is no evidence that clubs are a cure. But listening to my friends, I could understand the reasoning behind their preference for an agreed boundary over a secret relationship.

Mary’s boundary began at the club door. Our imaginary María’s began at emotional involvement and the family home.

Neither could imagine being comfortable with the other’s arrangement. Both were absolutely certain they were the sensible one.

Which is, of course, how you know you are having an excellent dinner with women.

Michel Does Spain Solo: Does Your Wife Actually Agree?

As for me, I came away with no business plan, several new Spanish expressions and a powerful desire never to recognise anybody’s car outside one of those buildings.

I have enough information already.

But should Paco be considering any adventurous reinterpretation of his marriage vows, I suggest one question before he leaves:

And if the answer is, “She doesn’t know,” perhaps he should turn the car around.

“Vuelve a casa, valiente. Y recoge la cocina.”

Go home, brave boy. And tidy the kitchen. He might be astonished by the response.

Teddy. Gracie. We’re leaving. No, this is not the club with the biscuits.