This is the story of being the girlmeat in a boybread sandwich.
During SlutFest 2004, that time period when I gave myself the all-access pass to unfettered carnality, I made a mental list of things I wanted to do. Near the top was being in a threesome with two men.
In the grand spirit of nothing exceeding like excess, the threesome promises a surfeit of pleasures. More hands, more mouths, more flesh, more limbs, and, in this case, more cocks. I’d had the girl/boy/girl threesome a couple of times—and in fact the week after my boy/girl/boy threesome I’d have another g/b/g one—but I’d never been with two boys at once, and I liked the idea.
I liked the idea of being the warm womanly center of the all male maelstrom. I liked too the idea of being doubly objectified, doubly penetrated, doubly used and doubly pleasured. I liked the idea of having a cock in my mouth while a mouth was at my pussy, and while that scenario is obviously open to the g/b/g threesome, I liked the idea that I could then be fucked by the cock belonging to the mouth that was at my pussy.
I didn’t really think a lot about the boys kissing, touching or whatever together. It would be exciting—I like hot boy-on-boy action as much as the next sexually progressive chick—but it hadn’t really entered into my fantasy extensively, to be honest. Mostly this fantasy centered on me, my body, and those two boys who would in tandem be doing their utmost to pleasure it.
I met Olivier and Damien where I met nearly all of my SlutFest 2004 partners: online. They were very upfront about who they were and what they offered. “Hello,” their IM read, “Are you interested in a threesome with two young European men?”
I read, and I thought about it for a moment and realized, yes, yes I was interested in a threesome with two young European men. I responded, we chatted, exchanged emails and then phone conversations followed, and a week or so later I found myself waiting for Olivier and Damien at the World Bar on Irving Place.
Reading the rather generalized approach of their opening IM gambit, you might expect that Olivier and Damien didn’t customize their approach for their audience, and you’d be right. I had multiple identities on this particular Internet sleaze corner, something I did in part because Donny liked to chat with girls and he even liked to chat with me when I was pretending to be someone else and he knew that it was me pretending to be someone else, and something I did in part to see how many of my potential lovers were just trolling the waters and how many were looking for someone more exactly like me.
Mostly, I found, there was general trolling. Olivier and Damien were trollers, but at least they were very upfront about it. There was little chance of misreading their approach as anything but what it was: an opportunity to fulfill a common fantasy with two willing and hott young European men.
Olivier was not in fact European, though Damien was. Olivier was in fact South American, Argentine, I believe, and Damien was Spanish. Olivier was 27 and Damien was 25, so their combined age was 52, and that meant that together they were ten years older than I. (Damien continues to be the youngest man I ever fucked, with an age difference of 17 years. He is not, however, the youngest person. She was 20.) But they did have very European manners—they were careful to spend equal time talking to me one by one, to show little niceties such as standing when I went to the loo, to open doors for me, and to expressly ask if I was interested in fucking them, though in more genteel terms.
In short, meeting them at the bar, drinking mango martinis and chatting, felt more like a very casual job interview, if the job interview were directed by Pedro Almodovar. It felt much more like a position that I was applying for than it did a seduction. And I suppose I should have taken some important clues from that feeling, but what with the novelty of the situation and the mango martinis and the swirling ebb of Spanish accents muddling my head like musk, I didn’t notice at all.
Damien was the better looking of the two—in fact, he looks a lot like my Donny, but Spanish. He, like Donny, possesses long fine fingers and a matching long fine dick. He like Donny has a mouth full unto perversity and limpid brown eyes. Olivier was shorter, squatter, and less handsome, but he was clearly the more sensual of the two. He, for example, was the only one to lick my pussy.
The two of them explained that they had met while working together a few years ago, that they had an interest in threesomes and figured why not? They had, they said, good success, and really why wouldn’t they? They seemed surprised with their success, a bit embarrassed by the wealth of lady part riches that had apparently fallen into their two suave laps.
We made our way to my apartment on that summer night, walking three abreast when we could. They rolled a joint European style with tobacco and smoked it. And then we went to my bed. It’s hard all these months later to remember the narrative of events with any kind of lucidity. I remember that Olivier was a better kisser, a much better kisser, though I was much more attracted to Damien. I remember that they spoke in Spanish about me to one another and it both titillated and unnerved me. I remember that there seemed a kind of tag-team action happen, as if one would tap in and take the place of the other fucking me and then he would sit back and watch.
They liked to watch.
It went on and on, and I did have the opportunity to be the “fingercuffs” of Chasing Amy fame, and I liked it, abstractly. I got fucked over and over and I sucked cock over and over. I even, at some point, let Damien fuck my ass, and I wonder now at the cavalier way I did that. My ass doesn’t now have the largess it did then; now when I have anal sex I expect some kind of emotional tsunami to rise, swell and surprise me with its flattening force.
I enjoyed it, enjoyed it all, the fucking the sucking, the multiple insertions, the many condoms that were slipped on, ejected and tossed aside. But I enjoyed it all abstractedly, as if I was watching a movie of me in this role with these two boys who knew each other far, far better than they knew me and cared far, far more about one another than they did about me.
And that is not to say they weren’t caring. They were. Everything they did, every move they made they asked me first. Yes, I said, yes, and yes. I said no not once, except to turn down their offer to get high. They were nothing if not polite, nothing if not gracious, nothing if not solicitous of my wellbeing.
I dare I need not say it, but in all that cockage, in all that to-ing and fro-ing of penis and tongue, in all that old in-and-out, I didn’t come. Not once, and I wasn’t going to. I just watched this unfamiliar movie unfold in the scene of my familiar bedroom and though to myself, Huh. And then, when they'd both come, they dressed and we kissed, and kissed again European style cheek-cheek-cheek, and bid our polite good-byes into the night.
Today, though the reality did not live up to my fantasy, I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t do it again—and indeed I had the opportunity to, for Damien and Olivier contacted me again and again, asking if I was interested in playing with them, in playing with them and another girl, in playing in general. No thank you, I said, for having been there once, I didn’t feel the need to do it again.
At least not with them. I would do it again with men, or a man, I know well. One thing I found in all that SlutFestivity, in all my buttsluttery and slutbuttery, in all that vast barrage of sexual activity is this: I need a connection. I need a strong connection, at least one, though I’m not averse to two; I need a connection or I am not interested.
If it doesn’t hit my heart and my head, both, together at once, I can’t get my pussy to wake up and pay attention. It was a lesson worth living.
It is a lesson worth practicing too. I look forward to putting it to very good use.