When gifted with a threesome, could our sexual kamikaze really have cause for pause?

 

Even though I quite enjoyed my time at school, I have no interest in going back to a reunion. The main reason for this is that I’m sure all my classmates have done better than me since leaving. How could they fail to? I’m unmarried, poorly paid, with no pension or prospects. The idea of watching them drive up in their flashy cars, with beautiful wives on their arms, fills me with me dread.

However, I recently bumped into a guy who I’d sat next to in History for five years. We were both in a pub near the British Musuem, so there was no real choice but to pretend how great it was to see each other again and to share a pint. Inevitably, the conversation turned to our contemporaries. He told me that one of them had dated Salma Hayek. I felt a stab of jealousy. Another had bought a yacht. The bastard! And a third, the dramatist Peter Morgan, had been showered with awards for writing his latest film, Frost/Nixon.

I remembered Morgan. He’d had long hair and a doleful expression. His nickname was Fritz. And now he was going to the Oscars. It was all very depressing. “God,” I said, trying to make it sound like a joke, “can’t you give me some bad news about someone for a change?” His face grew serious. “Well, actually, yes. Do you remember X? He’s killed himself.” “Fuck,” I said. I was shocked. But of course part of me was secretly fascinated. “How did he do it?” “Gassed himself in his garage. A hose from the exhaust pipe. Awful.” “Money worries?” I guessed. “No, that’s the strangest thing. He was doing great. He’d just moved to a new job in Australia and he had a gorgeous girlfriend. In fact he left a note saying, ‘I’m doing this because I know I will never be this happy again.’ Weird, huh?”

I thought about X’s death for the rest of the day. Even though it was obviously a sad, selfish, even crazy thing to do, the incident struck a chord with me. It was spookily similar to a self-destructive moment in my own life. Admittedly, the only thing that got harmed on that occasion was my sexual wellbeing, but it was done for very much the same reasons.

Let me explain. As a young man it was always my dream to have a threesome. Almost as soon as I started going out with a girl, I’d be eying up her friends and dropping heavy hints about adding to the line up at bedtime. Understandably, the usual effect of this was to get me dumped, but I kept trying. The stakes seemed worth it. Two girls!

What I didn’t know then, of course, is that you can’t really plan these things. Unless you’re stepping out with someone who likes going to swinging parties, threesomes only happen by accident. For years you get no joy, and then suddenly – for one freakish astrological moment – your lucky stars are lined up in the right order. A window of opportunity opens. But you have to strike fast before it slams shut on your fingers.

For me, it began quite normally. I’d been set up on a blind date with a 20-year-old called Andrea. Having being assured, in triplicate and after the taking of hostages, that she was physically attractive, I’d agreed to meet her in a Pizza Express. My thinking? Not too pricey and I could get out within 45 minutes if she turned out to be boring. I needn’t have worried. She was a slim little fox with a bum like a peach. Perfect. A bottle of Montepulciano eased the conversation along, and we were soon co-ordinating our flirty talk with a bit of footsie.

Short of barfing into my fettucine, there was nothing I could do to mess the situation up. When I paid the bill and suggested a nightcap back at her place, she readily agreed. I pulled her close to me as we exited the restaurant and she proved to be a great kisser. Warm, soft, inventive. As we walked to the cab office, I sent the launch codes to my testicles. One minor irritation was that she lived miles away in north London, and the quote for the journey was £35. Having exaggerated my salary during the mating dance over dinner, there was no way I could suggest taking a bus instead without looking cheap. “No problem,” I said through gritted teeth to the villainous, unshaven Afghan in his booth.

Mind you, any grumbles I had about the expense evaporated as soon as we were in the back seat. Her tongue and lips were amazing.

For ten minutes, I clung to them with my own. But then a bad thing happened. Her mobile rang. I only heard her side of the conversation, but as it went, “Oh no… poor you… the wanker… where are you?” I knew my evening was about to go awry. Sure enough, when the call ended Andrea sat back and broke it to me. Her best friend had just had a row with her boyfriend, he’d locked her out of their flat, would it be alright if we made a detour to pick her up… Inside I was fuming. Essentially, I had gone from being on a promise of sexual bliss to forking out for an even more ruinous cab ride. And, then, of course, I’d have to get another taxi home as soon as I’d dropped them off. There was clearly no role for me in the Gloria Gaynor scenario that lay ahead.

We picked up her pal, a weepy-looking college student called Steph, and I squeezed along the back seat of the pungent Vectra. For the next 30 minutes, I said virtually nothing as my date consoled her. However, one upside of her misery was that Andrea opened a bottle of vodka as soon as we got into her flat, and they began knocking it back like thirsty Cossacks. With little to contribute, I contented myself with having a nose around the flat, hoping to sugar the pill of my disastrous evening by finding some interesting sex toys or silky lingerie.

When I came back to the front room, I saw that Andrea and Steph had folded out the sofa bed. Steph was tucked under the duvet. “Get in,” she said. “We’re going to watch some crap film on TV.” With nothing to lose, I slid in beside her. Our hips brushed against each other. Wordlessly, she put her hand on my crotch. Andrea was still chatting away from behind the breakfast bar, crushing ice and mixing drinks. I tensed. My throat went dry. What was going on? Was Steph drunk? Did she want revenge sex on her rowdy boyfriend? Or was this some sort of test, and I’d blow my chances with Andrea if I didn’t immediately jump up protesting?

As ever, my penis made the decision. It stiffened under her caresses and she undid my belt buckle. Easing into my underpants, she began to stroke me, flesh to flesh. At this point, Andrea came round to my side of the bed and got in. As she snuggled up, she immediately sensed what was happening. My breath stopped… and then she said, excitedly, “I’ve always wanted this to happen!” I enjoyed one moment of perfect bliss when, like a Buddhist who has attained the fourth level of enlightenment, I was entirely free of worry or stress. I was about to be taken to heaven by two girls almost half my age.

But then Andrea climbed over me – actually hurdled over me is closer to the mark – and began to kiss Steph. Their clothes came off. Their busy hands sought each other. And me, I was stuck on the cold edge of the sofa bed, completely left out of the action. For five embarassing minutes, they completely ignored me. Annoyingly, even the view wasn’t very good, as Andrea’s back was right in my eyeline. I considered sitting up like a meerkat to peer over her shoulder, but decided this would appear gauche.

Luckily my patience was rewarded, as Steph finally stretched an arm under her friend’s body and resumed her earlier endeavours. As if noticing me for the first time, Andrea turned and joined in. Although swollen even more than usual, my penis soon disappeared entirely somewhere in that swarm of twenty fingers. One minute I could see my erection, the next I could only see their busy, blurring hands. This foreplay continued for 30 glorious minutes, each of us taking turns to be the willing victim. I held my orgasm back as long as possible, but finally let loose with the sort of gusher that keeps the tourists flooding back to Yellowstone Park. A real ‘ten roper’. It seemed to happen in slow motion. As I arched backwards and closed my eyes, the last thing I saw was Andrea lapping the results off Steph’s breasts.

It was more than glorious. It was the best ever. My whole body was vibrating like a well-struck gong. To quote Kurt Vonnegut, every cell in my body felt like it had been taken out and polished. And this is where things began to resemble the unhappy death of X. Although both the girls were up for an all night session, and even though I’d seen plenty of condoms in the bathroom when I done my recce of the flat, I suddenly felt there was no point staying. Even if we managed every position in the Kama Sutra, I knew there was no way I could manage a climax so perfect again. Nothing could top that first one, so why insult its memory by carrying on?

And so, despite their protests – at one stage, one of them actually said the words “please stay and fuck us” – I made the retarded decision to go home. I called a cab, cooking up some excuse about having to get into work early the next day. A measure of my temporary insanity is that part of me figured they’d think I was ‘cool’ for walking out, and I’d get even more slavish devotion next time. But, of course, there was no ‘next time’. Steph got back with her boyfriend. Andrea turned out to be far more sexually wild than I could handle, so our relationship fizzled out within a month. Looking back at it now, I think two things, and I imagine X would think them, too, if only he was still breathing. Firstly, what a gigantic twat I am. And secondly, what a gigantic twat I am.