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A huge bowl of Dum-Dum lollipops set me straight. They sat at the check-in desk, a sight so familiar to me from my sons' pediatrician appointments and dry cleaner visits. How odd they were here, I thought. This gave me some strange level of comfort to continue on.

The outgoing owners, Vicki and Rick, looked like people I might run into at a health club or local take-out joint. They greeted me warmly and introduced me and first-time member couples to our "tour guides." A nice, friendly couple happily approached us and calmly began the tour as if we were checking out a model home or tourist attraction. When they suggested we start downstairs, the newbies and I followed them down a well-lit but long and narrow stairway full of fear. I imagined what sights I would see at the end. Some kind of orgy? Group sex rooms in full force? Whips and chains? Some scene out of a movie?

Not quite yet. It was still early—10:45pm, and the tour began with trips to every "room." Theme rooms, swing rooms, voyeur rooms—you name it, there they were. Red lights above each doorway indicated what was free, and you had to schedule with the hostess—no reserving too far ahead of time (I watched several groups of women trying to sweet talk the scheduler around 11 p.m. for post-midnight bookings, but to no avail).

From round beds that people outside the window could rotate by pushing a button for an optimal view to a structured system that involved staffers scheduling rooms and changing sheets, I was surprised at how smoothly things operated. (From a business perspective, I was impressed.) Our guides also joked around as we walked into each empty room, trying to put the newbies at ease. When they suggested we head to the group room, I tried to feel gusty. Sneaking up on a group of people actually having sex? Peering in, I saw all the beds were empty at this point. Later, I was told, things would heat up. Couples of all ages and races gathered on the sofas near the "observation rooms" drinking and chatting. Many greeted each other warmly, like old home week. I was told about seventy percent of club members meet up on popular swingers' Web sites such as Club Voodoo.

Back upstairs, at first glance, the sprawling bar could have been a regular bar anywhere. The club's policy was BYOB, and the moment you walked in the bartender smoothly took your bottles, asked your membership number, and put them on ice. When people wanted a drink, all they had to do was give their number and one instantly appeared. Nice service, I thought. But looking a little more closely, I could see signs this was no ordinary bar. One woman who looked like she could have been a parent volunteer at my son's preschool suddenly thanked the female bartender with a passionate kiss instead of a dollar tip. A bartender took his shirt off and accepted five dollar bills down the front of his pants from virtual strangers.