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I’ve always said that having your bread buttered on both sides only leaves you with butter fingers.
I met a very sweet couple at a bar the other night. Harry and Tom were their names. Without any agenda (from my side at least) we got to talking about relationships. The vino was flowing, and so were the compliments. “Love the shoes, love the hair, love everything.” “You guys make a pretty cute couple.” (I said with a certain hope that, one day, I might find happiness with a fellow too – being single is not for sissies!) The “what do you do for a living? Who’s the top and who’s the bottom?” questions were soon out of the way and we got to talking about more serious topics. Not religion, noooo… Nor politics… But rather, the big G.A.Y. So there we were, mulling around the reasons for what sets us aside from the straights.
Somewhere in between “us gays are unbelievable/ we adapt so well/ can suck a lemon through a straw”, I felt a strange warm sensation on my left leg. Kind of like the time when I wet my pants in pre-school. Just before I could identify this overbearing tingle, it crossed over to my right leg. My first instinct told me that I drank too much and will now have to slump my way to the bathroom to splash my freshly face-peeled face with cold water. However, I was mistaken. What I was feeling was Tom and Harry’s hands. All over my legs. Rubbing. Caressing. Fondling! I was so shocked, I almost started singing the gay anthem – but it changes so often I couldn’t remember which one was the current favourite. So I just croaked, stomped my foot on the ground and very calmly, very sternly said “What on earth is going on here?!” Or at least that’s how it happened in my head. I’m way too much of a pussy to stomp my leg in polite conversation. Instead, all I could muster up were a few girly giggles and an “ooohh, I’m a little ticklish.” Needless to say, they picked up that I wasn’t keen on their advances and soon stopped the leg-logging. Perplexed, they asked me why I wasn’t interested. I took a deep breath and explained that I have, in fact, been in a threesome once before and that I didn’t enjoy it and that I don’t quite see myself between a rock and a hard place again in the near future.
As soon as I’d finished my little scene, I saw a flickering of understanding in Tom’s eyes. Something surfaced and I knew he kind of felt the same. He gave Harry a penetrating look and the subtext dripped off the walls like the cheese on a quattro formaggio.
“We were hoping to spice things up” said Harry. (Drip)
“It was his idea.” (Drip)
“We’re kind of in a rut, honey.” (Drip)
“He’s always… We’ve always wondered what it would be like with another person.” (Drip, drip, drip…)
I understood. Two lovers, both alike in dignity, wondering what it would be like to introduce a third party into their relationship. We’ve all seen Shortbus and know how it was for the two Jamie’s – they looked happy (well, at least the one who didn’t try to kill himself did) and carried on like a healthy triple. Needless to say Shortbus is a movie, and in the end three became two again. The risk Tom and Harry would run by introducing Dick into the equation would seem too big to take. A threesome has the tendency to leave you with more than just eggs on your face. What seems like a wild and probable fantasy is not always the case in real life. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying there’s no place in this world for healthy triples, or threesomes, but consider the output of the situation before you go poking in unknown territory. Often, the idea of something sounds more romantic in theory, but in practice you realise that it’s not that easy. It’s virtually impossible for two people to sit in the same bath tub together and get sexy with each other. There simply isn’t enough space – trust me, I’ve tried it once and my partner ended up on the rim (cough) freezing his ass off whilst I lay lavishly in the tub, playing with the foam (among other things…) That didn’t work so we tried the cream-on-body fantasy… Well, I’ll tell you… Gobbling up a whole can of cream, and then having to bring sexy back… It doesn’t work! I was filled to the brim with calorie-induced gunk, and for the life of me couldn’t see how any monkey antics could spark the flame of passion that was clearly missing from the fantasy.
After careful consideration for the situation with Tom and Harry I felt it appropriate to mention my failed fantasies and the fundamental problem therewith. I suggested to the duo that they try having a little ménage-à-trois with a blow-up doll first. Harry’s balls dropped to the floor in horror and I swear I could hear Tom’s silent scream of disbelief, but they composed themselves just as quickly. “Yes”, I reiterated “ didn’t you know – plastic is the new fantastic! Give him a name – something strong and powerful.”
“Like Benjamin?” said Tom.
“Or what about Lenny?” chirped Harry.
“Great”, I said quickly, “let’s call him Benjamin Lenny.”
We talked a little more about the ins and outs of a sex doll; who gets to go first and where everything goes, etc., but I could see that they were very anxious to go and find the closest twenty-four-hour sex shop in the hope of purchasing Benjamin Lenny. With any luck their fifth wheel will bring them closer to each other before they go for the real wheel… errr… deal. Who knows – maybe they’ll realise that all they really needed was a bit of kink in their closet; something to spruce up the juices of an old flame.
[Published in The Gay Pages June 2009]