My First Threesome by Sharon Goldberg

Ines Vuckovic (c) 2016

 

We teased about a threesome, my sometimes lover Nathan and I, and his best friend was coming to LA.  It was 1982. I was a struggling young actress, masquerading by day as a market researcher. Nathan was a bounty hunter and would-be actor; tall, muscled, scary when he didn’t smile, warm as melted butter when he did. He was living with his girlfriend but neither of us cared. After acting class, we’d sip wine at the House of Blues and then drive to my place awash in lust and anticipation. Our sex was luscious.

I’d flirted with the idea of a ménage à trois before but never acted on it. In my fantasy, two men devoted themselves solely to me and my pleasure. I imagined two pairs of lips kissing me. Two tongues licking me. Four hands caressing me. Two penises slippery-sliding inside me. Six legs intertwined like jungle vines. Nothing crude. Nothing rough. Just pools of passion and spirals of titillation, floating and coming, floating and coming, a silver-lit cinematic sex scene directed by Zefferelli starring sensual, desirable, irresistible me.

I hadn’t met Nathan’s friend, I’ll call him Ron, but Nathan showed me his photo. Ron looked cute. Nathan and I signed on and Ron agreed. I invited the men to dinner at my apartment down the road from the Hollywood sign. We submerged meatballs, egg rolls, and frozen shrimp in hot oil in a fondue pot. We drank wine and drank wine and drank wine, drowning our inhibitions, diluting our second thoughts. We talked. But I was not attracted to Ron. I didn’t even like him. I didn’t want him to touch me. I don’t think Ron liked me either. Our conversation flared with hostility. I had an icky feeling about our looming love-in, but I’d committed, hadn’t I? And I was still curious. And I didn’t want to disappoint Nathan.

We segued into my bedroom. My senses were dulled, my mind mushy. I felt borderline nauseous. I remember pulling back the red-poppy-covered comforter on my queen-sized bed. The three of us on the sheets. Clothes removed. The stuffed lions on my dresser watching our charade. Was there foreplay? Passion? Titillation? I doubt it. I only remember my lover on top of me. Thrusting. Then leaving the bed.  His friend on top of me. Thrusting. My lover watching from the doorway. Me glaring at him over his friend’s shoulder. No floating. No coming.

Is that what my lover wanted? To see me screwed by his best friend?

This was not my fantasy. I did not feel sensual or desirable or irresistible. I felt angry. Sad. Stupid. Used as a junkie’s needle.  I was not the star of an art film. I was a body in a skin flick. I don’t even remember them leaving.

I didn’t see Nathan for weeks. When we did meet again, at a party, we agreed the threesome was awful. Misguided. A mistake. We never had sex again.

And that was my last threesome.


Sharon Goldberg lives in the Seattle area and was once an advertising copywriter. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming in The Gettysburg Review, The Louisville Review, Cold Mountain Review, Under The Sun, Chicago Literary Review, The Antigonish Review, three fiction anthologies, and elsewhere. Sharon was the second place winner of the 2012 On The Premises Humor Contest and Fiction Attic Press’s 2013 Flash in the Attic Contest. She is an avid but cautious skier and enthusiastic world traveler.
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