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The Best Time I Didn’t Have a Threesome

By on January 5, 2016
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We visited her commune with the express intention of sex-friend-poaching, but unfortunately, no one struck our fancy. (Another complication of relationship threesomes: you need to have marginally similar tastes.) This, at least, spared us the horror of having to concoct some line about “exploring new horizons together.” (It was our first time; we couldn’t help but couch our shameful desires in blurry euphemism.)

We continued to probe, tentatively, at the outskirts of the hippie community, and got bolder when we noticed some beautiful girl on the street, even going so far as to smile. (If nothing else, trolling for a threesome made me less socially awkward, an unintended benefit.) Yet I was beginning to notice an unflattering trend: every time my boyfriend scoped a potential girl, I would immediately become jealous. I would worry that she was hotter, more experienced, better in bed. This insecurity immediately extinguished any spark of desire for her.

In order to make this worth it, I would need to be extremely attracted to whatever girl we chose, hoping that fervent attraction would counteract the initial jealousy of realizing, jarringly, that I am not the end-all, be-all of female beauty. But jealousy and fear kill attraction outright. I was rejecting girls who were ostensibly “my type” because I was afraid of feeling superfluous in my own bedroom.

Like Dar Williams, I “will not be afraid of women.” But I was negotiating my boundaries, my sexual comfort level, with the reckless abandonment that only comes when you’ve got something to prove. In trying to turn a threesome into some kind of point about feminist empowerment–of unabashed post-Orthodox hedonism–I was succeeding only in wringing out its inherent sexiness, reducing it to an awkward intellectual exercise. And to divorce sex from desire or emotion is to divorce it from any sort of pleasure.

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