MÉNAGE À FROID

Threesomes are exactly the kind of experience that’s better left to the imagination. Because the reality compared to the fantasy is like the difference between your tinder profile photo and the sight that greets you in the mirror first thing in the morning after a heavy night of drinking. Trust me, I’ve been there.

It was an otherwise dreary Wednesday night in early summer, when my husband and I sat in our local All Bar One on a with Gin and Tonic and Bellini in hand, perched on two stools at a high table. It was typically quiet for midweek but despite the lack of clientele we felt conspicuous, as if anyone else would know immediately that we were filthy sexual deviants.

Nervously we waited for David to turn up.

We’d found our ‘candidate’ on the internet and it was like interviewing someone for a job. I’d already made my mind up that if he didn’t reach my high standards, the whole thing was going to be out of the question. He walked in and I immediately liked most of what I saw – except his height. He made Tom Cruise look intimidating.

Fuck it, I thought. I don’t need to be seen in public with this short arse. And even in the bedroom, he’s likely to be horizontal or on his knees. (That said, I have long legs and would likely be in heels – would he even reach my pussy on his knees?) It was a throwaway shag. Nothing more.

I’d already convinced my husband to try an open relationship (fine, it was an ultimatum…) and now I had decided it was time to take it up a notch. Truthfully I was miserable and there was no spark whatsoever between us. I figured if I was ever going to make my long time MMF threesome fantasy a reality, this may be the only time. I was with a man I trusted and wasn’t going to end up like some spit-roasted slut at end of a footballer’s coke fuelled night out – there’d surely be an element of respect involved with my husband there? That and we could be very choosy about the third party.

We talked with David for an hour or so. He was what you might call ‘beige’ – nothing to do with his skin tone but a reference to the mood colour spectrum. Beige is as nondescript and dull as it gets. He worked for Next and I remember thinking how ‘Next’ his slightly shiny suit looked. I couldn’t detect much of a sense of humour and he wasn’t overly bright, but I needed to remember I was not dating this person. He was a one off sexual exploit and it was for the best that he didn’t bowl me over, or things would get really messy.

We agreed to go ahead and planned to rendezvous the following Saturday evening at his house to do the deed.

I had slightly overdone the makeup and chose a tight pencil skirt and a top with a neckline slashed to the navel. As we pulled into a road surrounded by high rise flats and parked the Audi, I had second thoughts for a moment. It was OK that he was short, it was OK that he was boring and it was OK that he wore Next suits; but I wasn’t sure I could have a threesome in a council estate and write about it for GQ. There was veiling the truth and there was out and out lying – I would be doing my readers a disservice!

Somewhere between the kerb and the front door of his humble abode, I figured I had little choice. It was hard enough vetting a person physically – I could hardly do a postcode check before consenting! As a string-vested neighbour returned from the cornershop with a four pack of Red Stripe and eyeballed us suspiciously, we waited impatiently for our date to come to the door.

He finally answered and led us inside his house where every sodding thing in there was from Next. Cushions, wall art, furniture – the lot. (I knew because I had the Next Home catalogue on my dining table.)

As we politely remarked on various items of decor, he brought out some stylish, thin stemmed wine glasses (Next) and a bottle of Merlot and we sat on a three-seater sofa (Next), me in the middle; glugging wine. I knocked back two or three glasses in quick succession, hoping and praying for it to go to my head quickly. It was impossibly awkward, no-one really knew what to say, how to make the first move or who should make it – it was like being thirteen again and getting worked up about the possibility of your first kiss.

This is ridiculous, I thought to myself, we’re grown adults and we’ve arranged for this to happen! Why are we all being so fucking coy?!

“Is anyone hungry?” David asked.

“Yes!” We said in unison, as if the distraction of eating was the most welcome thing imaginable at that moment in time.

Another hour or so of chatting and eating can’t hurt’, I thought, topping up my wine glass again.

As we mulled over the Chinese takeaway menu together like old friends, I had an out of body experience where my physical self was left on his Next sofa, while my spirit hovered at the ceiling, asking ‘What is this all about?!’

Group sex is meant to occur in a dark, underground environment where people hang around in their Agent Provocateur underwear on chaise longues, hiding their identities behind feather fans and venetian masks. People pay on the door and fumble around in near darkness until they’ve found an erection or a damp spot they can play with. It doesn’t happen in a council house on someone’s sofa in front of Eastenders, after eating Chow Mein and talking about the weather. Well, I didn’t think it did, but this, I supposed, was real life.

By the time we’d emptied the takeaway containers and opened another bottle of wine, I felt game for anything. Feeling decidedly more relaxed and a little moist in the gusset region, I took it upon myself to instigate matters and pulled David towards me for a long kiss. It felt so fucking wrong with my husband sat next to me, but wrong in the best possible way.

“After debauches and orgies there always follows the moral hangover.”

Jaroslav Hašek

For the next few hours, I waved goodbye to all my Catholic shame and resigned myself to living for the moment. Before long I was on my knees sucking my husband’s cock, while David knelt behind me and fucked me. Somehow, the seediness of the situation just made it seem even more sexy. Reckless abandon completely took over me and once the initial embarrassment was over with, everything seemed completely normal. It’s hard to imagine that it’s possible, but you quickly get used to a situation, no matter how fucked up it seems at first.

(At some point whilst we were still on the sofa, my husband had taken the liberty of using his phone to document the experience. I had no idea at the the time, neither did I have a clue what he might do with the photos. It would be another year and a separation later before I’d stumble across them online!)

With space on the Next two-seater being an issue, we took things into the equally Next inspired bedroom.  Over the course of the following hour and a half, I must have been fucked in every position imaginable. It was incredibly empowering to have two men pleasuring me at the same time and there’s no doubt that I enjoyed the experience, but as with all my other married indiscretions, I found it impossible to climax.

How could I be experiencing one of my all time fantasies, yet be incapable of orgasm?

It didn’t make sense. Maybe the situation was too contrived and I didn’t sense any real emotion. But people had wanton fucks all the time. And anyway, I could climax with my Rampant Rabbit gyrating inside me, that didn’t even have a person at the end of it!

I distinctly remember having my husband’s face between my legs, he was sucking my clit and fucking me with his fingers, while David was playing with my tits and licking my nipples. It ought to have tipped me over and edge and fast but nothing happened. I had never faked an orgasm and I wasn’t about to start then, it wasn’t about their egos – if I was going to come it was going to be real.

But as with most things in life – the harder you seek it, the more it evades you.

As I lay there, I tried to distract myself from the misfortune of an absent orgasm and turned my thoughts towards the dynamics of the situation, which were fascinating and would have been interpreted differently by each and every person living this fantasy.

Who really has the upper hand?

Is it the woman, who these men are desperate to please? Or is that a ridiculous idea, given that she’s outnumbered and the physically weaker sex? At the hands of two men, things could turn nasty pretty quickly. (Lucky for me, one was a midget and the other had my ring on his finger. Not a euphemism!)

Is it the husband, because he’s given permission for another man to ‘use his wife’, but only under his watchful eye?

Or is it the third party? Able to come and go as they please, answering to no-one?

Sensing my distracted mind and waning enthusiasm, David put on some porn to change the focus. That was fun. The whole thing was fun. But fun like a day at Madam Tussauds. Not life changingly poignant or even very exhilarating. Just two dimensional, ‘nice’ fun. I don’t know what I expected but everything I did at that stage in my life seemed to disappoint me intensely.

The etiquette of post-threesome is as awkward, if not more so, than the preamble. He offered us a cup of tea and whilst he was in the kitchen looking for some Next mugs to serve it in, we took the opportunity to get dressed. The second my husband and I were on our own after sharing sex with another person, I could tell something had changed. Nothing would be the same again. A lack of respect had seeped through the cracks and I could only imagine it getting worse from that point.

What would he or I do now? Where would we draw the line?

In a selfish way I was looking forward to the prospect of that. I’d ventured to the dark side and I loved the way it made me feel. Not during, but afterwards. I felt glad that I didn’t need to conform to social norms and didn’t imagine I’d ever care for them again. He came back into the bedroom and we perched on the Next bed sipping tea, making some of the most ridiculous small talk imaginable.

Despite the fact that we’d just gone beyond all normal boundaries and seen each other splayed over a bed from every angle, it still seemed out of the question to discuss the really pressing matters, such as:

“Is your knob as sore as mine right now?”

“I wonder when I’ll feel my clit again.”

“So, are you going to tell anyone you rogered another bloke’s wife in front of him last night?”

“Were we better or worse than other couples you’ve fucked?”

“Same time next week?”

If you think you’ve done a walk of shame, try doing it on your husband’s arm smelling like two different men. After being fucked for several hours without reaching climax, it felt like I had two bits of coarse grit sandpaper for labia. I’ll need an industrial tube of lube to ever function again, I thought, as I tried to adjust my thong in the car.

We snatched a couple of hours of sleep before we had to meet my family at church the next morning, to celebrate my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary and their vow renewal at the Catholic church.

We arrived late and I half expected to be struck by lightning as we stepped over the threshold. Sheepishly we listened to my mum and dad declare their love for each other once again, forsaking all others for the rest of their lives.

I slumped in the pew as I imagined how disappointed my mum would be if she’d known what a mockery I was making of my own marriage. We couldn’t have been more inappropriate about the timing, even though she didn’t know.

It seemed insensitive as fuck and hadn’t even been worth it. Like so many things in life, the reality had been a complete anti-climax.

Literally.