'I thought my neighbourhood was boring. Then I discovered it was a secret swinger town.'

I should start by saying I never really wanted to be a Facebook moderator. It wasn't something I volunteered for with enthusiasm. A neighbour set up the community page years ago and put out a call for moderators.

She's one of those very capable people who can organise anything, and I agreed mostly out of politeness. It felt easier to say yes than to explain that I didn't actually have the time or interest.

Luckily for me, the call-out worked. Too well, in fact. Within days there were more moderators than the page could possibly need. People took it seriously. They debated rules, approved posts, and wrote long comments about neighbourhood etiquette.

Watch Jess Catterly on advice for newbie swingers, on No Filter. Post continues below.

I realised early on that I could quietly sit at the back of the room, so to speak, and no one would notice.

And that's exactly what I did. For years.

For years I barely touched the group. If I say I interacted occasionally, I mean occasionally. Once every few months if I accidentally approved something while scrolling with a biscuit in my hand.

I was a ghost moderator. A myth. A rumour whispered through the algorithm. The moderator role was so far from my mind it may as well have been on another planet.

Until the waxing incident.

I had to find a new waxing lady after mine moved interstate. I booked into a place nearby, expecting nothing more than the usual slightly awkward small talk while someone with hot wax got far too familiar with my personal geography. Instead, I found myself with a beauty therapist who could hold a masterclass in gossip.

She'd asked which suburb I lived in and, when I told her, she didn't even try to hide her reaction. She said our area was known for being full of swingers, like it was common knowledge I'd somehow missed.

According to her, plenty of clients talked about their weekends while she waxed them, and quite a few mentioned finding each other throughFacebook. Anonymous posts. Certain emojis. Specific phrases. Once she said it, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

That night I opened the community group. I wasn't expecting to see anything out of the ordinary. At first, it was the usual run of small town chatter and neighbour complaints about kids on e-bikes. Then I saw an anonymous post that used a pineapple emoji. Before the waxer, I would have skimmed past it. Now I paused.

I scrolled back further. Every post that fit the pattern was anonymous. All of them. Nothing obvious. Nothing dramatic. Just little hints. A pineapple here. A vague "looking for like minded friends" there. A question about meeting "social couples" in the area. Hidden in plain sight, but only recognisable once you knew what to look for.

They weren't frequent. Not a flood. More like the occasional reminder that something else was going on underneath the usual chatter. I noticed they tended to appear toward the end of the week, which made sense once I realised what they actually were. Thursday nights.

Fridays. The lead up to the weekend. I started checking the group more deliberately. It became a quiet habit. On weekends especially, I'd scroll thinking maybe this would be the weekend a new one appeared.

The part that really shifted everything was the anonymity. People seem to think anonymous posting means invisible. Moderators, though, can see the names behind every anonymous post. Full profiles. Everything.

The first time I clicked on one and recognised who it was, I felt my stomach drop. It wasn't someone expected. It was a person I'd chatted with at school pick up. Someone I'd sat next to at a kids' birthday party. A very normal, very everyday person who apparently had a whole other side to their life I'd never imagined.

Then I checked the next one. And the next. Enough familiar names that I had a moment where I thought, completely unhelpfully, so no one has ever approached my husband or me? Not that we would have said yes, but still. My pride had a quick, quiet bruise.

After that, it became something else: a strange fascination. A little weekend ritual where I'd scroll to see if anyone had posted. Who was talking to who. Which anonymous user kept showing up. Which couples suddenly went quiet, then posted cheerful family updates like nothing had happened.

New guilty pleasure unlocked.

I never comment. I never intervene. I don't shame anyone. Adults are allowed to live however they want. But knowing the truth changed how I looked at my suburb. All these seemingly straightforward people living their public lives in the day, then posting pineapple-coded questions at night. It made everything feel more layered. More human, in a way.

I still barely moderate. I'll probably always be the least active mod in the group. But now, when I check the page on a Thursday evening or a Saturday morning, I pay attention. I wonder if this will be the weekend another post appears.

Most weekends, nothing happens. Just the usual lost dogs and someone asking about a weird noise near the oval. But every so often, there it is. Another anonymous post. Familiar in a way only I can recognise. A reminder that people's lives are always bigger and stranger and more private than they look from across the school carpark.

Listen to the entire episode of No Filter, here. Post continues below.

I don't say anything. I don't step in. I don't repeat a word. These aren't my stories to tell. But watching them play out has made one thing very clear. Anonymity is limited. You are not ever "anonymous, anonymous". Someone always knows who you are.

And sometimes that someone is your neighbour, at home in her pyjamas and a sheet mask, eating the chocolate she hid from the kids.

Feature Image: Getty (Stock image for illustrative purposes).