Two boys for every girl!

I was in Barcelona when I received the email from B. He and I had met the week before and had fucked around during his lunch break in the apartment where I was staying in the 16th arrondissement of Paris. When he left, we agreed to see each other again under the NSA guidelines: sex without attachments. I left for Barcelona two days later.

I had been wandering around in the rain, weaving in and out of the narrow Barcelona streets when I decided to stop for paella and San Miguel. It was then that I received the email from B, the one where he said he had “good news.” The “good news” was that the night I returned to Paris from Barcelona he and his friend would be near my flat and they could both come over. I was confused. Although I would allow myself to get momentarily caught up in all of it, mostly because of that damn French accent that I’m such a whore for, I was unsure how meeting his friend fell under the NSA guidelines. I told him I didn’t understand what he meant or what he was trying to say. There was, of course, a bit that was lost in translation during a lot of our email exchanges. When he responded, he still didn’t spell it out, but I was able to infer enough: “I thought we could come over and we could ALL HAVE FUN TOGETHER.” Yes, he used caps just like that. As an American who lacks the ability to be subtle, I asked in my following email: “Do you mean a threesome?” And yes, he did.

I took a sip of my beer and thought about it. A threesome was on the bucket list, but so were lots of things that I probably would never end up doing. As I contemplated, he continued to email me with things like “any life coach would tell you that there’s no time like the present,” and “think Vicky Christina Barcelona – you are there after all,” and my most favorite, “it’s unusual, but it’s the usual that kills us.” Pushy much? He also pointed out that a great way to recover from heartbreak is to fuck, and here was the opportunity with two guys – how could I not take him up on his offer? He was just trying to help me forget a certain asshole. Again I took a sip of beer, consulted my friends — who were divided 50/50 on the matter — and told him I’d have to think about it.

The concerns weren’t major, but legitimate. I wondered if after such an experience would only one fella ever be enough again? Would I have to adopt a different name? ‘Amanda’ isn’t exactly the name of someone who engages in group sex. What if things got out of control and went in a direction with which I wasn’t comfortable? It’s not as though I could hold my own against the power of two men. The solution to the last question was easy: “Whenever things get too weird for you, just yell ‘Jean Dujardin is ugly,’ and we’ll stop.” Yes, that was B’s answer. I laughed, and agreed — with the side note that I could opt out if I lost the necessary gumption to take on two guys at once.

The night I returned from Barcelona B and his friend M came over with wine. The conversation was mostly about politics as the massacre in Toulouse had just happened. Both B and M were extremely witty, educated, adorable gentlemen. I had already felt comfortable with B, and was becoming comfortable with the idea of the two of them, but in a way that made me laugh nervously.

Eventually they both made their way to the couch and sat on either side of me. It was when they both started kissing and touching me, that I froze up. Who was I supposed to touch first, or should it be both at the same time? How does one kiss two people at once? Did someone just stick their tongue in my ear? B suggested we move to the bedroom.

Again, I was sort of frozen and robotic in my movements, my movements that were very minimal because I was clearly not the one manning the ship. With B in front of me and M behind me they began to undress, then undress me. It was at this point in the story when I was relaying it to friends that I was asked not once, but twice: “Did they dance?” Apparently, dancing is part of a threesome in the minds of those who have never done it. There was no dancing. What there definitely was was me sitting on my bed staring at two naked French men with their erections inches away from my face. OK, I thought, I might as well start touching them or something. It was at this point, with a penis in each hand, that I realized I am not a threesome gal — or at least I’m not one after only two glasses of wine. I think that if I had been tipsy and on my way to feeling drunk, I might have felt differently about the situation. [tagbox tag=”threesome”]

I laid back on the bed, informed them that there would be no “D.P.” action (I really didn’t need a cock in my two major orifices down there at once) and just went with it. There would be two orgasms in that room that night, neither of which would belong to me. Afterward we returned to the living room, the dirty talk from just a few minutes before went back into political mode and we finished the wine.

I blame myself for not enjoying it to the fullest extent that I could have. There I was with two very handsome and charming men who wanted to “please” me and something in me just shut off. Maybe it’s because as an American, no matter how hard I try to shake it, my Puritan roots run deep, or maybe I’m just not a threesome person. It was fun and an experience that I wanted and wouldn’t give up, but if I did have the chance to do it over, I’d loosen the fuck up a bit. If loosening up for me means four glasses of wine instead of two, then maybe that’s how I should handle it if the opportunity should arise again. I’d also ask them both to dance, since that seems to be part of the equation on which I apparently missed out. Nothing breaks the ice quite like two naked dancing men.