Threesomes: For Couples Who Want to Know More (2 page)

Sabrina made me coffee the next morning and asked me if I’d slept well. She never asked about the two of us sharing a foreign stud for the rest of the trip. Sabrina was always sharp that way.

When I was 25, I was infatuated with a tall, stocky political protestor of sorts. He had a face like a lion, with a mane of sandy hair to match. But despite his feminist leanings, Paul was kind of a jerk and seemed to enjoy yanking the chain of my emotions in his passive-aggressive ways. During our relationship, I befriended his best friends, an attractive, creative, good-looking couple who were both a bit older than me but a lot nicer and more fun than Paul was.

Linda was in her mid-thirties, an actress who looked like a pint-sized version of myself and favored black clothes and platforms, just like me. We shared a Spanish heritage and gabbed in corners during Paul’s otherwise boring political get-togethers, smoking by the window and getting buzzed on cheap beer. Linda’s husband, L.R., was a professor who could wear leather pants without looking the least bit cheesy. He had a lustrous head of brown hair that was cut in a sort of Dutch Boy page that only a lanky, boyishly handsome man could pull off. He was a Southern gentleman and would cater to the two of us and give us joints to help us get through these miserable gatherings.

They both liked me a whole lot and thought Paul was an absolute ass for not appreciating the splendor that is me. It was all very seductive, but again, I didn’t realize anything right away.

That is, until I hung out with them one Christmas Eve. Paul had discarded me for some political convention yet again, so they invited me to go to a happening party with them in Brooklyn. First we partied at their Manhattan apartment, smoking, drinking, and doing shots.

I caught Susan looking at me from the terrace, and then she walked over to say, “You’re an absolute goddess. We don’t know what Paul’s problem is, but screw him, he’s a very troubled person and not deserving of you.” That felt pretty good to my wounded ego. Then when we were waiting for the train to take us to Brooklyn, I somehow kept catching eyes with L.R., and we’d both break out laughing. “Merry Christmas, Lainie,” he would then say, and I would answer, “Yes, Merry Christmas, L.R.” They were such a giving and warm couple.

The party was everything they said it would be, with a good live band performing in the living room. A few times the three of us went outside together for a smoke and some air, as it was very hot and crowded inside.

During one of these breaks, Linda took my hand and said, “I just wish you the best of everything. You’re such a great person who deserves the best that life has to offer.” I blushed and said thank you, and then she put my hand in L.R.’s hand and said, “Oooh baby, you have to feel her hand, she’s got such soft, beautiful skin.” L.R. listened to his wife, took my hand, caressed it, and kissed it. He said, “If this gets too late, you know you can always crash at our place. We have plenty of room.”

And back up the stairs to the party we went. Truth be told, as lovely as Linda was, I wasn’t the least bit attracted to her that way, more than anything because she treated me like her kid sister and because people said that I could pass for her sister. But I did find L.R. attractive; he was so confident and funny and smart without any kind of arrogance or sleaze. And he could dance. He danced with both of us, fast and furious like the aging punker he was.

I was getting seduced for sure, but mainly by him, and a lot of Jack Daniels shots from the pint he kept in his leather jacket. At some point, he and I took a rest while Linda, ever the little spitfire, kept shaking her shimmy right front and center to the band of young, floppy haired men.

L.R. and I observed this, and then he said, “Merry Christmas to you.” And I said, “Merry Christmas L.R.” Then he leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed him back. It was surprisingly soft and skilled on both our parts, considering all we had consumed. And then Linda stopped it. She didn’t yell, she didn’t cry, she didn’t punch me, but she did slur, “My friend is kissing my husband, how nice.” And I ended up sparing the three of us any public drama, left the party, and went all the way back to New Jersey alone.

But I learned my first lesson in the ways of ménage à trois: Don’t make any unsupervised moves. It’s simply bad manners.

I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t know any better, and what can I say, your husband was pretty fine. I imagine if Linda and L.R. are still married that they, too, have learned a lesson and that is to make your rules heard loud and clear: Do not kiss, touch, or do anything with my husband when I am not present and actively joining in.

Then there was the time at Tex Mex, a trendy but cheap bar and eatery near my apartment in New Jersey at the time. I was there with my cute cousin Loli and her friend Bridgette, who were visiting from France. The bar at Tex Mex is
the
scene, especially on Friday nights, when assorted young professionals let loose from their week of hard work on Wall Street.

While we waited for a table, I caught the eye of a Jewish Rob Lowe look-alike. He zoomed right in on me, flirting and asking me whether I was a designer because my look was so fashionable to him. It was a line, yes, but a line any woman can appreciate; after all, he didn’t say “nice tits,” he said “great outfit.” His name—okay I can’t remember his name. There is a three-margarita limit at Tex Mex, and they make them so tasty and so strong that I went through my limit pretty quickly that evening.

Loli, Bridgette, and I were seated at our table, and he and his Wall Street friends at theirs, conveniently nearby. Both parties spent the evening mingling, but my cousin and her friend were tired from jet lag, so the two of them went back to my place early, and I stayed on.

By the time the place was closing at midnight, I was sitting on Jewish Rob Lowe’s lap and having a fine time. He had a lot of coworkers with him, but one younger man, perhaps his protégé, stood out. He seemed sweet and liked the same kind of music I did, so what the hell, the three of us decided to continue the party at my place.

But the fun, flirty, mild tone to our threesome totally changed in my living room. There was a nervous vibe coming from two people who had probably conspired back at the restaurant during one of my many trips to the bathroom. I felt this tone most from the protégé.

“This is a nice place … I like that painting,” he said, gesturing at an abstract over the couch. “I bet you painted that, huh?” said Jewish Rob Lowe, taking off his blazer with too much confidence. Actually, I hadn’t painted it, it was a gift from my friend Anthony, but I was getting nervous and said, “Uh yeah, that’s mine.”

I decided to take control of the situation by playing hostess, fussing over making drinks, getting ashtrays, and pouring over my expansive CD collection for the right tunes, saying, “Any requests? I have everything.” I chose a mellow but hip band, Stereolab, and joined my guests, who were getting comfortable on my couch. They had a little spot waiting for me between them.

“You okay?” asked Jewish Rob Lowe, smoking one of my cigarettes. “You seem different than before, more uptight.” I was more uptight, he was right, but he seemed changed, too. Shrewd and calculating for starters, and his protégé seemed strangely pressured by him as well.

The protégé got up to use my bathroom, and in his absence, his older, more experienced coworker made his move, and we started kissing. He was a good kisser, and my apprehension melted away, my hand comfortably rested on his rock-hard bulge, and he pulled out my breast and played with it. Then I noticed him look up and past me. I sat up and saw his young friend watching us, sweating with near-virginal fright. “Sit down, bro!” his partner in crime invited. He obediently sat back down with us and started stroking my back.

And it felt all wrong in so many ways. It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined a setup for a threesome with two young, good-looking men should be. His friend wasn’t sure whether he wanted to do it, or possibly out of anxiety, even
could
do it, and the ringleader was a bit too bossy
and self-assured. Clearly, he was the one who was going to dominate and call the shots, but I don’t like being bossed around.

He had told me at Tex Mex that I was pretty, and that he knew what pretty was, having three older sisters. He said he had a lot of respect for women, but time had taught me that many men who make such claims feel the exact opposite, and perhaps he was even angry about growing up the youngest in a house full of women. I didn’t trust him at all, and I didn’t trust his protégé, who clearly did not have a mind of his own.

By this point, I had sobered up and realized it would be rude to get it on with two strange men in my living room while I had two houseguests sleeping in the back room of my apartment that I use as an office. One of them would undoubtedly get up to use the bathroom and wander into the front room to the call of dirty talk and moaning. These guys were strangers, and if I were going to put myself at risk, that was my own business, but what would my mother say if she knew I put her youngest brother’s youngest child at risk, too?

It was then that I learned something else about the art of ménage à trois: You have to trust the people you’re with entirely and set the scene to be safe. And it’s smart if the three of you are the only people in the house/apartment/hotel room, too.

I leapt to my feet and hustled them out with a forceful energy that was so sudden, so strong, that the two of them actually complied. The protégé was clearly relieved and grateful, but Jewish Rob Lowe’s ego was bruised—and so might have been his blue balls—but again I was a good hostess and said that the bars wouldn’t close for another three hours, giving him more than ample time to find another young pretty girl to satisfy his needs. He left me his business card, which I promptly threw out in the wastebasket of my bathroom while taking off my makeup.