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The Best Time I Didn’t Have a Threesome

By on January 5, 2016
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Threesome Image 1 Written by Rachel, a member of the world’s most famous threesome. (The Biblical figures and sisters Rachel and Leah shared a husband – Jacob – and an interesting if complicated relationship.) Rachel is a first-time Jewrotica writer.

Rated RIt starts as a fantasy.

We’re nine hours into what will be a 12-hour epic journey across the country, driving to a beachfront rental where we will be the only minorities in a fifty-mile radius.

He motions to a runner on the side of the one-lane road, which is crawling with SUVs bedecked with the flotsam and jetsam of outdoorsy families on vacation: bike racks, surfboards, kayaks, rooftop pods. “Elephant,” he says.

Elephants and Aardvarks started as a joke: a game in which we scoped out hotasses of either gender in order to assess each other’s taste. Now, we take it seriously, amazed at how different our preferences are. We laugh about how neither of us would ever catch the other’s eye in a street game like this. That’s the beauty of the game: it’s unbelievably shallow, and allows for the fact that objective good looks don’t necessarily translate into attraction. It’s hard to say if either of us is conventionally attractive–our game illustrates the wide swathes of meaning in the term–but it also doesn’t matter. We are attractive to each other.

I came to the relationship less experienced. Or: my experience was wide and shallow, whereas his was focused and deep. His longest relationship had lasted four years, mine for two fractious months. He could remember his “number” off the top of his head; I had to scan a half-forgotten registry of drunken hookups to arrive at some approximation of mine. Neither of us was looking for anything serious when we met, but for once, my sexual misadventures had landed me in that scary place where The Feelings lived. And The Feelings were telling me that I loved this man, and he loved me back. It was a riotous, confusing place to be.

We had recently dug ourselves out of a pit of sexual frustration, brought on by a month-long yeast infection (seriously) and the uncertainty of our future. He was Serious About Us; I am perennially unsure–a legacy bequeathed as much by twelve years of ideologically unsatisfying Orthodox education as by being in my mid-twenties. In the past few years, I had ping-ponged from self-righteous contumacy to apathy to a nebulous rapprochement between what I wanted and what I was told to do. That summer, I was practicing the art of Not Giving a Fuck.

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