I was having a conversation with Smudgebox yesterday about our threesome bucket lists- we don’t want frat boys who want to DP (look it up, I had to), we want bi guys who are lovely and romantic and want to pleasure the boys as well as the girls. Free love, y’all.
Anyhoo, it reminded me of the threesomes I almost had. The boxer dude I dated from NH who had a buddy come down and hang out with us in Boston; after a long night of drinking (I vaguely recall passing out and drooling on one of their shoulders on the cab ride home – such a lady) we all ended up back at my place, a tiny studio with just my bed and no couch. We all crawled into bed at my insistence; no one was going to sleep on the floor, nor was I about to pass up the chance to be in-between two six packs, four large biceps and eight hours of nocturnal emissions. Nothing happened; all three of us passed out within seconds but I had a permanent grin plastered to my mug and my dreams were the stuff of Nancy Friday.
Other almost-tri’s usually involved a guy, a girl, a lot of alcohol, blurred boundaries, and a third party’s confusion of their sexual orientation. But again, aside from a few sloppy kisses and groping, nothing came to fruition. One encounter stands out from all the rest – the night of a friend’s wedding.
I had gone solo and felt about as sexy as a potato bug after a recent horrific breakup. Nevertheless I got dressed up and went, expecting nothing but hugs from the bride and groom and collapsing in my $99 room at the Hamilton Inn afterwards. Now, the movie Wedding Crashers would have you believe that because of the visual and emotional onslaught of happy nuptial bliss, single ladies driven mad by their single-ness throw themselves at the nearest penis in a tux. I beg to differ. It’s the goddamn MARRIED couples you really have to watch out for. I became the target for one such couple that night. They were insanely good looking; I remember looking at them with a mixture of envy and admiration as I checked into my double queen and they asked about their king with an ocean view.
Later on at the bar, trying to avoid the lecherous advances of the frat-boy groomsmen (who had obviously seen Wedding Crashers one too many times), I fell into conversation with the wife. We talked about where we lived, where we grew up, her 2-year old son at home with his grandma, sports, music, you name it. We became fast friends, laughing and joking and having a blast. Her husband hovered nearby, shielding us from the rest of the crowd lest we get interrupted.
It was when we went to go pee that she told me she was bi. We shared the handicapped stall and I was squatting on the toilet, my stiff scratchy sequin dress pulled up above my thighs, my Spanx shoved down to my ankles. Not a pretty sight, and mighty awkward to boot. She asked if I had ever been with a woman. “Uh, no,” I said sheepishly as I struggled to pull up my Spanx without falling into the toilet. She proceeded to tell me how she met and fell in love with her husband, how she loved their sex life but missed being with women, and wanted to somehow incorporate that into her married life. “Have you ever tried…swinging?” I asked, still attempting innocent cluelessness, despite the fact that her gorgeous hazel eyes now fixed their gaze on my breasts.
“I don’t need another man to fuck me. I just want pussy.”
Back at the bar, her husband now tightening his orbit, she told me how beautiful I was, how sexy and amazing I was, how she and I could have so much fun together, she would give anything to spend a night between my luscious thighs. I was flabbergasted and nervously drinking anything within arm’s reach, to distract myself from this insane conversation and the fact that this woman had re-ignited a spark inside of me dulled and diminished by too many fights and emotional neglect. “I’m–I’m so sorry, but I’m not…attracted to women–” I almost whispered, almost wishing I was. My drink sloshed and soaked my cupped hand. Without breaking her intense stare, she grabbed my hand and ever-so-casually flicked her tongue over my palm. “That’s OK,” she smiled. “You can just fuck my husband while I watch.”
I should have stood up right then and there and made my regrets, wished everyone a good night and stumbled off to the Hamilton Inn. But I was hypnotized, under the spell of alcohol and soft pretty lights and this crazy sexy woman and her insanely hot husband who was now running his fingers along the small of my back. I was like a little deer in the grass, nibbling on the dew while the lion and lioness watched through the tall grass, eyes gleaming, claws extending.
We shared a cab back to the hotel, then an elevator, and just as the doors were about to close on floor 7 and just as they were about to close in with their eyes and hands and lips and tongues I panicked, broke free and made a mad dash for the exit. I shouted apologies and begged for forgiveness as the doors closed. I couldn’t do it. Maybe because it was my friend’s wedding. Maybe because I was still getting over the breakup and was an emotional basket case. Or maybe because I’m a big fucking chicken shit.