The clothes in my bedroom’s coffin-size closet were hung sloppily next to each other — dresses doubled up on shitty white plastic hangers and blouses evading shoes, their soles bearing the fecal residue of San Francisco. I lay on the wooden floor and retied my robe. Apparently, this was what you did when you had prearranged plans to have a threesome, and you didn’t know what to wear.
At this point, I was 44 minutes away from meeting up with a nice-looking couple named Sarah and Mike whom I had met through Tinder. They messaged me first. The quote in their profile—a reference to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—was all I needed to agree to meet them for a drink. I didn’t know how it would go, but you could have a drink with anyone for an hour, right? Even two people.
So, what does one wear to meet a couple for drinks, where the objective is to exchange bodily fluids? I imagined that it should be something sexy, or at least something slightly sexy to remove, since the garments would be removed in front of two strangers.
Everyone I’ve known who has previously had a threesome has told me that for them, it had “just happened.” They were drunk. They were in Spain. They were approached at a bar. They hadn’t planned an outfit; they were already wearing their threesome attire to begin with.
Seeking this sort of sexual adventure was out of character for me. But when the 26-six-year old virgin you were sure you were going to marry, the one you loved enough to not have sex for a year, dumps you in favor of the potato-bearing state he originated from, you’re willing to try anything in the hopes of feeling less heartbroken.
Threesomes are probably not recommended for the anxiety-prone, but there I was. I decided to wear black tights, a leotard and a skirt, which meant that when I removed my clothes, it would replicate removing sausage casing from a sausage, my body being the sausage.
There were so many variables that needed to coincide for this to actually happen. Suppose they didn’t like me. Suppose I didn’t like them. Suppose that she liked me but he didn’t. Suppose he liked me but she didn’t. Suppose someone became jealous. Suppose they brought me home and changed their minds. Suppose only one of them changed their minds. Suppose I became trapped in my tights for an hour, and they left me that way to search for a midnight snack.
More and more whiskey was consumed until we were all drunk, but there was no pressure. No pressure. No pressure. None.
When I finally arrived at the divey, romantically lit Mission bar, I found them sitting in a dark nook at a table. Mark had full pillow lips that you could imagine kissing. Sarah had this magical long hair that one moves off one’s shoulders like precious unicorn hair.
Introductions were made, and they asked to buy my drink. Each of them was attractive and friendly. We chatted about Oprah and exercise classes. I imagined that we could have been close friends if we’d met more organically. I was shocked by the ease of the conversation, falling into jokes and flirting at the right time with both of them.
More and more whiskey was consumed until we were all sufficiently drunk, but there was no pressure. No pressure. No pressure. None. At least that’s what we had written in our messages to one another before we met, but there definitely was pressure now.
“Should we go listen to music?” Mark asked in a no-pressure but actually pressured sort of way.
“Sure,” I answered in a no-pressure but actually pressured sort of way.
Why had I worn tights? I considered taking them off in the bathroom.
“I want to sit in the back with her,” Sarah said as we climbed into our Lyft. And we laughed back there while Mark was forced into polite conversation with the driver. I wonder how many threesomes he’d unknowingly dropped passengers off at.
“Five boys live here,” Sarah revealed as we climbed the stairs to Mark’s house, rolling her eyes with a knowing shake of the head. I gave her back a knowing smile, but I was so nervous thatI was just hoping I wouldn’t pee my leotard.
More drinks were made in the dirty, five-boy kitchen, and ants flowed from a crack in the tile and into a dish next to the sink. Severe leotard and tight regret weighed down on me, but I am an adult woman, and I had to deal with my consequences.
“What music should we listen to?” Mark asked me.
What kind of music do you suggest when you’re trying to impress two people? I was silent. Stumped. I told them I didn’t know.
“Well, what was the last song you listened to?” Sarah asked.
“Er, the Spice Girls?” I said, because it was—it really was—and I couldn’t think of anything cooler to say in less than a minute. So Mark put them on, and we all began dancing and singing the lyrics to “Spice Up Your Life.”
Is this how a threesome “just happened” — with whiskey and the Spice Girls and a house with ants and dirty plates? I didn’t think so.
“Should we play truth or dare?” I asked.
“OK,” they said, but not in unison, how I imagined they might.
Mark dared Sarah to kiss me. This was the first time I’d kissed a woman, and instantly I understood why anyone kisses a woman—soft lips and zero beard stubble scraping your chin. I was terrified and also wondered if there were any ants in the bedroom, but I dared them to kiss instead of asking. And then Sarah dared me to kiss Mark.
And the rest of the time passed fast but slow and hazy. And after lying in the middle, I realized that it was quite nice to be sandwiched by not just one warm being but two.
At 3:00 a.m., I said goodbye and walked into the fog, the heavy curves of gray. I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t care. I was the chill girl! I could have casual sex! With a couple! I could take off my tights and leotard in front of two people! And then I could have sex with them! Even with tight marks!
I still carried this feeling a week later—boxed up with a little bow. I was intrigued by this new skill set of mine, this balancing of consideration, ensuring each person had their emotional bids met. I had sexually evolved. I had become the most emotionally intelligent human. I could handle this beautifully.
Sarah, Mark and I made plans to see each other again that week. At lunch, my coworker, Robyn, asked why I was in such a good mood. And I told her everything.
I was territorial over this couple that wasn’t even territorial over one another.
Later that week I was excited about my second date now that I knew not to wear tights. Now that I didn’t have to make anyone play truth or dare. On a lunch walk with Robyn, I saw hickeys on her neck. We walked down the sidewalk like it was a concrete carpet meant for us to discuss sex and nothing else.
“Meeting a couple on Tinder worked really well,” she said. I told her that that was great. I felt like a threesome support group in one body.
“The thing is,” she paused, “it actually ended up happening to me…with the same couple you had.” And she laughed, tilting her head back with her blue hair, ready to explain the story, amused.
“I didn’t realize it was the same couple until we were there in person, and they asked where I worked.” I looked at the hickeys again, the sucking remnants of not just one but two hungry animals. They all had known, but they still did it. And shouldn’t they have? This was casual sex. There were no expectations.
Which hickeys were from Sarah? Which ones were from Mark? Had they gone to the same bar? Had they listened to the Spice Girls? Had they used Raid to kill the ants? Had Sarah sat in the backseat? Had she lay in the middle after and then sneaked out into the fog? I was…jealous.
I asked if Robyn would see them again.
“Maybe,” she said. Maybe.
After getting back to the office, I canceled plans with Sarah. Somehow, it felt like everything had changed. I had known it was just sex and that we are all adults, but I was territorial over this couple that wasn’t even territorial over one another. The idea of sharing them with my coworker was too much.
Sarah was upset and wanted me to reconsider. She wouldn’t have done it if she had known we worked so closely together, she said. She was disappointed and texted me for the better part of the day — quick floods of emotions.
I ended up comforting the person who had caused my discomfort, and now I know it’s true — I’m not the chill girl. I’ll never be the chill girl. And I guess I don’t want to be.
