Two Is Company, a Threesome is Chaos.

If anything, I believe a threesome involves too much work.

A few weeks ago, I was reading about former Spice Girl, Mel B’s divorce from husband, Stephen Belafonte, after ten years of marriage. I came across an article that purported their open marriage as the reason for the marriage itself coming undone. Adding fuel to fire were women claiming to have had dalliances with the couple several times during their marriage. While I am all for women’s sexual independence and experimentation, I can’t help but rephrase T.S.Eliot: this is how a marriage endsnot with a bang but with a threesome.

Now, tell me if I am wrong, but there seems to come a point in most relationships when the word “threesome” is uttered. Call me a prude, but I never understood the pleasure or even the point of inviting a third person into my bed. If the one you are already in bed with does the job properly, then what is the value addition of a third? Couples indulging in threesomes might argue that they giving into their wild side. Fair enough, but I’ll tell you what’s truly wildpeeing on your partner and that’s a separate article for another day.

Don’t look aghast. Did you know a male giraffe drinks a female giraffe’s urine to check if she is fertile? And if the urine passes the fertility test, the male giraffe courts the female, asks the rival males to back off and eventually fucks the female, no questions asked, no permission sought. A bit hard to imagine a long-necked, placid looking, leaf eating animal capable of such debauchery, isn’t it?

If anything, I feel a threesome involves too much work. It begins with having a conversation with your partner wherein you’d propose the idea, I’d presume, rather tentatively; a little more conversation with your partner if they brushed away your initial idea with a catch in the throat or a roll of the eye or physical assault; a third conversation (with the same partner if you are lucky) because third time’s a charm. By now, you have worn them down so much that they want to get it over with, like a root canal they have been postponing for too long.

The next step is finding someone who would be willing to be a part of your shenanigans – even better if they agree to do it for free. Once both of you have come to a mutual agreement on who will be the third cog in the wheel, there’s a new set of conversations between you, your partner and The Cog. At this point, you present the ground rules: Who touches whom? Who fucks whom? Who goes down on whom? Who climaxes first and other such sundry details? Because by now, sex has been reduced to a performance with designated roles, entry time and stage space. Are you beginning to see the work involved?

Don’t get me wrong, a threesome can work magically well for couples who treat the idea as akin to trying out a new restaurant that serves a steak of some never-before-steaked animal. I come under the root canal category. So when my partner (henceforth referred to as The Man) raised the topic for the umpteenth time, a mere death stare wasn’t enough. This happened last year, over morning coffee in Glasgow, at the Blythswood Square Hotel.

“Is it so important for you to have sex with other women despite having me?” I asked, ego suitably massacred but hidden behind the veneer of a smirk.

“Not at all! I just want to see you being pleasured by another woman.”

“And how is that going to benefit you? It’s not as if you’ll get to do anything with the said woman … ”

“Visual pleasure,” said The Man. “You can do whatever you want with her, I’ll simply watch and you and I’ll have sex after she leaves. Look, I’ll need to have sex at some point!”

Considering I had no reservations about The Man masturbating to porn, how different was this? It would be like a live sex show and as long as he didn’t touch The Cog and The Cog was given specific instructions on what she could and couldn’t touch, it should be okay?

“Why does it have to be another woman? Why not another man?” I asked.

“Because you’re the bisexual one,” The Man said. “Come on. I can see you are tempted.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. But what if The Man or The Cog got carried away and entered forbidden territory? What if in a fit of jealous rage I murdered one or both of them? What if The Man was never able to have one-on-one sex with me ever again because he had discovered the joys of half-baked orgies?

“It will be something new. If you don’t like it, we won’t do it ever again,” said The Man as he sipped his coffee.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Fine,” I said. “But I have some rules.”

“Whatever you want.”

“You will be sitting on a chair at the far end of the room.”

“Okay.”

“You won’t be allowed to touch her at any point. She can’t touch you either. Or kiss you. Basically no physical contact.”

“Done. Can I be naked?”

“Okay.”

“Can I masturbate?”

“You said we will have sex after she leaves?”

“And we will. Just not immediately. But we will.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Can I masturbate sitting on the bed?”

“Don’t push it.”

The next thing was finding The Cog. That part was easy, thanks to smart phones and an increased online presence of prostitutes. Google “escort services near me” and you will find several agencies, offering a range of women who offer a range of services for a range of prices.

I had the freedom to choose The Cog, but it was stressful. I knew she had to be a beauty in order to appeal to me, but not so beautiful that I felt self-conscious. Women were galore: blondes, brunettes, redheads, buxom, slender, big bosom, small bottom. It was a veritable smorgasbord of lingerie, luscious hair, breasts and behinds. Most of them were gorgeous and all of them were super fit.

Swiping through my phone, I found my Cog. Let’s call her Mia. Mia was a year younger than me and I know this because the profiles mentioned age among other kinds of numbers. She had dark eyes, dark hair and an enviable collection of lacy lingerie.

“She looks nice,” said The Man peering into the phone.

I nodded.

“Should we call her then?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Okay call her.”

“Why me? What am I supposed to ask her?”

“Whether she’d service a couple and what are her charges.”

I looked at The Man. If I was a cartoon character, my eyebrows would have arched all the way up and disappeared into my hairline. How did he know prostitute-customer business lingo? I wasn’t even going to ask.

I went out of the hotel building and dialed Mia, looking around to make sure that I wasn’t within earshot of the guard and the arriving guests. Four whole rings and no one answered. I looked at my watchit was seventeen past eleven. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was busy. Maybe it was the universe telling me this was a bad idea. I took a “bullet dodged” deep breath and went inside. I told The Man that Mia didn’t take my call. We spent the next few hours doing the mundane vacation stuff that couples do, when they are not scouting for someone to join them for three-person sex.

Sometime during lunch, my phone beeped. It was a text message from an unknown numberHi Hun. I checked my call logs and found that the message had come from the same number that I was trying a while ago.

Hey … Hope you are well. Just wanted to know whether you’d be interested in servicing a couple and what are your charges. Thanks.

Couple sex 400 pounds per hour.

That was three-fourth of my monthly rent. 

Only you and I will be having sex. The third person will just watch. Can you offer a better price?

Whr?

In our hotel … Blythswood Square Hotel.

Whn?

Tonight … 8pm

300 … can’t do 8 … 9?

250

300 last offer … cash

Fine … see you … and I texted her the address.

The Man and I were sitting at the bar and I was on my third glass of red wine to calm the pre-sex jitters. At ten past nine I gave Mia a call. If there was an option, I would have deducted money from her fee for late-comingit was unprofessional, never mind the nature of the profession. The call went unanswered so I sent her a message and finished my wine. Fifteen minutes later, she messaged back saying that she won’t be coming. I didn’t bother asking why because it was none of my business. However, having come this far, I wanted to see this through its conclusion. Out came the smartphone and a new website. This time I let The Man pick The Cog.

“Cara” was not badnot as sexy as Mia, a lot less endowed and had a confused look on her face, as though she were thinking, “I had come for lingerie shopping. Why are they taking my semi-nude pictures?” But she was a lot warmer than Mia as she peppered her messages with “Dear” and “Love,” was prompt in her responses, charged 200 pounds and showed up at 11, the time we had agreed upon.

She called when she reached the lobby. By then, I was drunk beyond comprehension. Anyway, the plan was that I would take Cara to our room, discuss matters and explain the rules of the arrangement and The Man would come in later. I tottered out of the bar and reached the lobby swaying left and right. I greeted her and I am sure she could guess that I was smashed, because the next thing I know, Cara was holding my hand and escorting me to my room, making sure I wasn’t colliding with things or people or getting out of the lift on the wrong floor. God bless her.

Once inside our room, I didn’t waste any time. I told her that she and I would do the deed while The Man would watch, and that she wasn’t to touch him at any point.

“Okay,” she said, in English laced with an Italian accent. “But I won’t lick.”

In retrospect, I should have asked her whether she gave blowjobs and if she did, what was her bloody issue with cunnilingus? It was a lot less stressful to the jawline and being gagged wasn’t a worry. But at that point, I was barely able to stand straight let alone heckle for oral sex.

The Man came in while we were negotiating. I am not sure if it’s a rule with all prostitutes, but ours wanted her payment even before the clothes had come off. Crisp twenty pound notes exchanged hands.

Once the financials were settled, Cara and I wasted no time in getting undressed and kissing. She was wearing Chanel and every time my face went near her neck, its rich scent made my stomach churn. A few seconds into the kissing, we were on the bed with Cara on top.

“Come here,” she said to The Man, pointing at the empty space on the bed above my head. “Kiss her.”

The Man did as he was told while Cara kept digging away at my insides, as though in search of spare change that has rolled under the couch. Before I knew it, The Man had replaced his lips with his penis and Cara didn’t look like she would give up on the fingering till she had extracted an orgasm. I wished there was a way to tell her that I couldn’t climax like that, and now, with a mouthful of penis, saying anything at all seemed like a bleak possibility. Two of my orifices were choc a block with body parts and two others with the nauseating smell of Chanel.

Like a boxer pinned down by his opponent, I had to tap on the bed for these two to stop. I gulped all the air I could and went to the washroom. Out came the day’s coffee, breakfast, lunch and several glasses of red wine. Bent over the closet, I puked with abandon, unmindful of the fact that The Man and The Cog were naked on the bed. The Man came in to rub my back. When I made sure that I had no more vomit left, I rinsed my mouth, drank some water and went back to the room but had to go back to the washroom immediately. Chanel still lingered in the air and I was no longer sure whether it was the multiple glasses of wine or Chanel that had induced the vomiting.

“Are you okay, darling?” Cara asked.

I nodded, smiled at her and leaned forward for a kiss. But she led me towards the bed and made me lie down. She brushed my hair away from my face, gave me a light peck on the lips and said, “Good night, darling. You sleep.” Then she got dressed just as quickly as she had undressed and left. The Man gave me a tablet and I passed out at some point.

The next morning he told me that Cara had studied to be a dentist.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me when you went back to throw up the second time. She is doing this on the side to raise funds for opening her clinic.”

“That’s very commendable.”

“Sure … but she made 200 pounds for doing nothing.”

Well, we kind of sort of made out, and then she put me to bed and gave me a goodnight kiss.

Shyama Laxman
Shyama Laxman has done a Masters in Creative Writing from City University, London and has written her first novel as part of her dissertation. It is now laying eggs in her laptop. When not working as a Sales and Marketing professional, she fantasizes about her book launch, driving a red BMW convertible, getting a bikini body and other things too naughty to be mentioned. She lives in London.