I have never had much luck with threesomes.
My first was pre-Japan, back in San Francisco. Sean and Mark were good friends of mine, a clean-cut and stable couple with a house in the suburbs and an adopted four-year-old daughter. John, twelve years my senior, was a lawyer on the verge of being made partner, while Sean (just a year older than me) was a personal trainer and nutritionist. With their matching, no-nonsense haircuts I used to joke that they looked like a pair of Mormons. Neither of them had anything to do with the gay "scene," and were always pushing me to find a nice boy to settle down with. Of course, this never stopped them from inviting me over to sing for my supper with lurid tales of sexual misadventure.
Anna, their daughter, had retired upstairs to bed one evening as we sat up talking over a few glasses of wine. As usual, they pressed for details of my recent encounters, and I told them about an art student I had been seeing. After I finished, we sat sipping our drinks for a few moments. That was when Sean cleared his throat.
"Have you ever had a threesome?"
I raised an eyebrow. "No, actually never." I confessed.
The two looked at each other in a way that completely telegraphed what was coming next. "We've been wondering," Mark chimed in, "if maybe you would like to try one with us."
For a moment, I thought they were putting me on. The idea of either Sean or Mark propositioning me was roughly as inconceivable as Mother Theresa pole-dancing topless in a strip club. But they were, in fact, serious.
"Our tenth anniversary is coming up," Sean said, "and you know neither of us have ever done anything like that before. We were thinking it might be fun to try, just once. And when we thought about who to ask, both of us immediately thought of you."
I wasn't sure how to take that. Part of me--the kid who was always the last guy picked for the dodge ball team way back in my junior high P.E. class--was touched. The other part wondered if they just thought I was the most likely of their friends to agree.
"I mean, we both think you are hot," Mark added, as if reading my mind. "And we know you and trust you."
"Nice save," I replied, and I promised to think about it.
In the end, of course, I said "yes." It was something I had not tried yet, and on some bizarre level that bothered me. I prided myself on being adventurous, and to say "no" would have been to have missed a golden opportunity. So I figured I had nothing to lose. After all, Mark and Sean were safe, known qualities, and responsible people, the safest people I could possibly experiment with. In fact, before we "did it," we went out together to get HIV tests (at their insistence). Then the date was set. Anna would be away for the night and the house would be theirs.
At the time, I was renting a beautiful old Victorian in Oakland, California with two housemates; Maggie--a beautiful half-Chinese girl--and Denise, a firebrand from Kentucky. We had no secrets. I remembered changing my clothes several times as I got ready for the event, and Maggie asking me, "hot date?" Without missing a beat I looked at her. "Threesome." "You don't live a life like the rest of us, do you," Maggie laughed.
But it didn't matter, in the end, what I wore. By the time I showed up at their house, both Sean and Mark had dipped into the liquor cabinet to "loosen" up. Bear in mind these were not drinkers. Clearly they were nervous. And thus the night began.
My recollection of the evening is chiefly this; in porn, it always looks so easy. But as events began to unfold, I found myself wishing we had a lighting crew and a director. It was like playing "Twister" without the little spinner thing. No one had any idea to put what where. I kept wanting to look off stage to find where my mark was. Between all the jockeying for positions and confusion over what our roles were, the evening degenerated rapidly into laughter and affectionate cuddling. Hot, it was not.
Then came the Cook and the Swede.
It was several years later. I was in Tokyo in Nichome, and I met a cute Japanese chef. We started dancing, and things got hot and heavy. Later in the evening, after a number of Singapore Slings, he had yanked up his shirt so I could see and feel his washboard abs. "I have a boyfriend," he suddenly blurted. This was the source of some confusion because his hand was on an area of my jeans one did not normally associate with boyfriendom. "He's hot and he's Swedish, you know, like ABBA?"
"And meatballs," I replied.
The Cook laughed. "He keeps begging me for a threesome. How about it?"
The Swede it turned out was a banker, and a well-off one at that. The Cook lived with him in a fashionable Tokyo address. The Cook had called ahead to announce he was bringing me back, and when I arrived I found a fairly attractive European hunk waiting. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, his square-jawed head demanded a beard, horned helmet, and mead cup. But he was more than a little drunk when we arrived, and as we talked, he continued to drink.
As events moved to the bedroom, it was clear the Swede was already entering that drunken zone where the demand for passing out supersedes the desire for sex. There was a bit of promising foreplay all around before he finally collapsed.
"Thank God," the Cook replied. "He is always too drunk to fuck. God, I am starved. Let's have sex. He won't wake up."
It occurred to me that this wasn't so much a threesome as the Cook cheating on his boyfriend literally right beside him. But the idea of screwing a guy a few inches away from the passed out form of the guy he was living with was a low even I could not sink to. I told the Cook as much as I excused myself to find my discarded underwear.
"Oh fine!" Said the Cook. "Two guys who can't get it up!"
Realizing I was in the midst of something larger than me, I excused myself to go. Despite my escape, the Cook continued to call for several weeks, begging to meet up somewhere when his boyfriend was not around.
Needless to say, I have yet to try another threesome.
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