The Best Time I Didn’t Have a Threesome
I used willingness to “go there” as a yardstick of my own sexual openness– an automatic bonerkiller. As with so much in life–donuts, high heels, graduate school–the thought enticed me, but the reality fell dramatically short.
And that, I realized, is just fine. Not wanting to watch my boyfriend fuck someone else doesn’t make me a prude, or a bad feminist, and I don’t owe anything to the “liberated” post-Orthodox ideal that exists largely in my own head. There are no Desire Police. I am allowed to want something in the abstract, and feel skittish about it in the reality.
Rather than use the vaunted threesome as a barometer of how “sexually cool” I am, how little Orthodox strictures matter to me, I’m waiting to find the right person. But waiting for a threesome isn’t like waiting for a train. There is no destination I need to get to, no pressure, no schedule I need to consult.
Right now, I’m happy where I am.
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Dear Jewrotica
Confess
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