Adventures in Three
It’s curious to think of all the human beings who live out their whole lives without feeling the need to make the slightest comment, the slightest objection, the slightest remark. Not that these comments, these objections, these remarks are addressed to anyone in particular, or intended to have any sort of meaning; but, even so, it seems to me to be better, in the end, that they be made.
Michel Houellebecq, Platform
Time’s moving slow again, like it did when I was a kid, when the summers seemed to go on endlessly and the year between one Christmas and the next felt like an eternity. The season’s rolling in softly this year, a pleasant counterpoint to the frenzy of recent months. Entries mark the passage of time, transitions between mental states, lessons learned. It’s thrilling, in a quiet way. I look back at July and appreciate, not without some satisfaction, that it feels like it must have been ages ago.
Friday night brought us to a cozy little speakeasy in funky Chinatown. “It’s practically my living room,” Babs told me. A living room it was: comfortable, well-worn, unassuming. People sat around and smoked, talked, flipped through magazines. A gaggle of Chinese folks sat at the back end of the bar, chatting with the owner and rattling dice around in plastic containers. Their faces, worn by a lifetime of quotidian worries, were soft somehow, friendly, resigned to accepting life as it comes. I’m getting there.
Eventually one of the tellys switched over to a karaoke feed, pleading for a song selection. When a song was played the monitor would display the lyrics atop seemingly random background visuals. At the end of each song the performance was graded. YOU BEST SINGER!, the television would flash if you scored a perfect 100. Derek kicked off the festivities with Madonna, Boy George, stuff like that. Babs took the mic as well, and Lili too when she showed up. The owner was gregarious, beaming. This was Derek’s birthday party. The owner had made sandwiches for us. He belted out a few tunes and I noted, with pleasant surprise, that he had a great singing voice.
“I don’t want to be immortalized as a pale hipster chick with a frizzy mop-top,” Babs complained to me. I promised that from that point on I’d refer to her as a ravishing beauty with big tits.
Emma goaded me into singing. I warned her that once I start I find it hard to stop. Flipping through the song book, I lamented the conspicuous absence of the Circle Jerks. And no Roxy Music—alas, there’d be no Bill Murray moment for me. I warmed up with “Come Together,” tripping over some of the lyrics, clearing out the pipes. Later on, cigarette in one hand, I followed up with Radiohead’s “Creep,” a song the chicks seem to dig. It sent Emma into a minor tizzy.
Nat Cole I can do. I could cruise all night on Nat Cole selections. I settled on “Unforgettable,” looking into Leslie’s eyes as she melted before me. She may as well have been the only other person in the room, my girl from Ipanema. YOU BEST SINGER!, the television informed me. “YOU BEST SINGER!” I shouted. The owner wanted me to come back and sing on New Year’s Eve.
Later on, the night wound down. I wouldn’t let anyone leave without one last song. On a whim I picked Fernando and the remaining crew sang along. Emma, Derek and Lili went uptown to drink some more. Les and I went home.
Leslie had a date the next night, with a girl. She called me a couple times to tell me how it was going. “Oh, you’re already making out? That’s good,” I said when she called me the second time. By the third call Les said they were heading over to Open and I was to join them. I grunted at the prospect, loathe to set down a novel, but I realized it would be nice to socialize with someone new and have a drink or two. We tried to call some people out but everyone was out of town. It was just as well.
I found the girls in a distant corner of the bar, chatting as if they had known each other for years. Leslie’s date, Liz, was thin, sharp-nosed, dirty blonde hair falling over her shoulders. I sat down, unsure as to whether I was an intruder or a welcome addition to their party of two. Liz is a writer; she knew what the fuck I was talking about when I mentioned Houellebecq. She used to strip at the same club Leslie used to strip at. She kept placing her hand on Leslie’s leg and leaning in to whisper in her ear. These are all good things.
Leslie stepped out for a smoke, leaving me with Liz. “She’s incredible,” Liz confided. “She’s so thoughtful and sweet… and beautiful.” I smiled and nodded in agreement. “You two seem to get along well,” I said. Liz peppered me with questions, teasing out my story. Latino? No, half-black half-German. I didn’t know how much Leslie had said about the two of us. I told her we’re open, that we both enjoy having other people in our lives.
After Leslie came back I took my turn to have a smoke, braving the sharp wind by the piers. When I came back the girls were locked into an embrace, kissing each other. “Don’t let me interrupt anything,” I said. It’s odd, I’ve been in this situation before but I still don’t quite know what to do with myself other than sit there sipping my drink. People were eyeing us. Women were smiling at me. It occurred to me that when I’ve been out on the town I’ve never witnessed other people in the beginning stages of a threesome, at least not when I didn’t already know the people involved.
We discussed the joys of sexual exploration. Liz said she had been worried she might be too adventurous for Leslie. We all laughed at this. Liz said her ex-boyfriend had been insanely jealous—too jealous, even, to try having a threesome with a hot friend of hers. In the midst of the conversation she put her hand on my leg. “You’re cute,” she said.
Our cocktail waitress, Lola, came by to tell us she was finishing up for the night. Lola appeals to me in that Suicide Girl way: pale skin contrasting with dark hair, dark eyes, dark outfits. “I’ve known you for two years,” I said to Lola, “and I still haven’t seen you outside this bar.”
“Let me give you my number,” she responded. I wondered why I hadn’t had this conversation with her a long time ago.
“Isn’t she cute?” I asked Liz.
“Yeah, you could be up all night fucking her and reading her poetry,” she sighed.
Les and Liz were now on top of each other, fondling and kissing without a care in the world. I sat back, surveying the bar, noticing this place boasted an unusually high number of attractive women. Soon Leslie told me to finish my drink. We were going home. As I stood before our door fiddling with the keys Liz said, “I didn’t expect a threesome tonight. I can’t believe I’m doing this? Is this real?” Oh, but it was. Sex doesn’t make any sense. It’s best not to over-think it. Liz is allergic to cats so I corralled the poor creatures into my room and dosed Liz with antihistamines just in case.
I enjoy the unhurried pacing of the menage a trois. Girls partake of each other with abandon, without any sense of needing to get somewhere. They are a civilizing influence. My plumbing comes into play when it’s required. On the couch, Liz writhed atop Leslie. When Liz turned around and arched her back her shirt rose to reveal a smooth, flat abdomen; her ribs poked out ever so slightly. It was a stripper’s body, a perfect specimen of the undernourished American ideal. The girls doffed their tops and lapped at each other’s nipples. I watched for a while, admiring the curvature of Liz’s soft, delicate, perky breasts and I then moved to take one into my mouth. It was light, as if filled with down. The nipple was tiny, hard, sensitive. Liz took shuddering breaths as Les and I ran our tongues along the length of her narrow torso.
I felt Liz’s tongue and hot breath against my ear and it sent spasmodic sine-waves down my spine. She grabbed my head and brought my mouth to hers, sweeping her tongue across mine. I reached down the front of her jeans and felt the light hairs of her trimmed bush. “Oh, um, I have my period, by the way. I’m telling you for your own protection. I’m sorry.” I told her not to worry about it, that there’d be another time. I perched on the arm of the couch, with Liz’s head in my lap and my cock straining against my pants. She must have felt it against her head because she brought her hand back to squeeze the bulge. I stood up, unzipping my fly to release my swollen penis from its denim prison, and Leslie took me into her soft, inviting mouth as she straddled Liz. I noticed our guest gazing upward, watching the blowjob intently.
Leslie settled on the couch and I returned the favor, lapping at her tight, wet little muff. Liz joined me down there and then took over, her tongue darting deftly over Leslie’s clitoris, her flaxen hair falling over Leslie’s brown thighs. I would have fucked Leslie at that moment but I didn’t want our guest to feel left out, so I knelt behind Liz and ground into her, dry humping. She pushed her ass against me as I reached down the back of her jeans and felt the crack of her ass. With my other hand I grasped the top of her left hip and pushed downward, thrusting against her. I visualized the light flesh of her firm, round buttocks, her anus a puckered dot in the center. I pictured the delicate pink folds of her cunt straining against my cock—she was so tiny, I imagined, that I could fill her up. I nearly felt the hotness, the wetness of it. Thinking about it all was almost as good as having it.
Later we all sat on the couch talking; it was as if we had fucked already. Liz made noises about wanting to go home but she spent another two hours with us, lazily reclining as I massaged her feet. Liz again lamented her period.
“It’s honestly not a big deal,” I said. “We can enjoy just sitting here and relaxing all night. Getting there is half the fun.”
“I’ve never been the third before. I’m just trying to digest all of this.”
“You don’t have to feel like a third with us,” Leslie said.
“Yeah, heh, we play well with others,” I added. “To me, it’s three independent relationships. I guess we just have a different way of looking at things than most people do.”
“But you guys don’t get jealous?”
“Not really, no,” I said. “I don’t mind Leslie being with a woman, or even seeing her alone sometimes, as long as we can all share.”
Liz smiled, “This is just so cool, what the two of you have. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“You’re cool too baby,” Les said.
She ran off to the bathroom, leaving me with Liz. I held the girl’s cheek in the palm of my hand. “You are a beautiful woman,” I said.
“You are a handsome man,” Liz responded.
The night came to a close. I walked up behind Liz as she was putting her shirt on. I cupped her breasts and pressed against her. “Hmmm, put on some heels and I could fuck you standing up,” I said. As soon as we parted company I pulled Leslie into the bedroom for an aggressive fuck. I pinned her beneath me and pounded her from behind. It was a blur and soon we were both coming.
Leslie calls me today from work. The arc of the conversation is predictable. You see, most humans don’t like to share. Other humans want to share too much. It’s all about finding the right balance. Liz wants to see Leslie again, of course, but she’s unsure of the threesome dynamic. Saturday night was an “in the moment” thing for her. So it seems we’re lost in translation again. It was fun, but I’m a little tired of the back-and-forth. An unqualified “yes” would be hot for once.
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