Thursday, May 21, 2015

The Blog About Threesomes

I high kick urinal handles so I don't have to flush them with my hand but I kicked too high and fell on the floor so I probably have Ebola. Is this how Icarus felt?

After my last blog post about controlling Wi-Fi enabled vibrators, I've had a lot of people messaging me, namely friends but sometimes curious readers who follow my blog, wondering if what I write about in this virtual tome of mine is not only true but also if my parents read it. Both answers to these questions are “yes” and I'm fucking happy about it.
Your new iPhone wallpaper.

One of my good friends told me that the idea of one of his parents reading about his dating and sex life would make him sick, but to me my sickness is rooted elsewhere: women I've dated. I find the fact that I have terrific parents who can roll their eyes or look away and smile and realize I'm working on myself out loud to be one of my biggest assets. Not everyone can be so free. But like any man, I built my cage elsewhere.

For my entire life up until now I have always written stories but published them with stifled subject matter because I didn't want to offend anyone, namely the kind of women I thought I was attracted to or the kind of women that I thought I should be attracted to because they looked good on paper and would subsequently help me look good on paper. But the problem is, that’s not the kind of story I want to write. They can keep that stationary because: Fuck. That.

So this blog post is about threesomes. And I've had a lot recently.

Let me rewind to the beginning. There’s an app for everything, especially for dating. Of course there’s Tinder, which I've talked about before, but to me it’s more of a video game I play when I get tired of reading ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror on my Kindle app on the subway because it’s so fucking depressing but also so incredibly interesting. I've met a few girls off of Tinder, but it wasn't anything special—which should be expected from a looks-based dating app. But also when a girl asks me on Tinder what I do for a job and my answer isn’t “finance” I tend not to get replies.
It was in December 2014 that a friend of mine told me about 3nder, (pronounced “Thrinder”), an obvious pun on “Tinder” with obvious connotations: it’s meant for connecting “kinky, curious and open-minded people.” While I don’t consider myself kinky or curious, I am open-minded, and also it seemed like a fun app to have to play with friends at a bar without ever really making any follow through. It’s the same reason I downloaded the “Registered Sex Offender Locator” app: morbid curiosity. Both polyamory and Chris Hansen are enigmatic to me.

I downloaded 3nder, made a profile, and played with it off and on until about March without thinking much of it. I matched occasionally with couples and singles, was occasionally contacted, but I never made any real effort to reciprocate. It was still a video game to me, and like my love life, I wanted my fantasies to happen organically. I have had a threesome before that had manifested itself out of a night out with two girl friends and I had falsely assumed it would happen again.

Then I matched with Ellen and Clara on 3nder.

They were two straight girl friends from college who had a fantasy that better fit meeting someone off the Internet for than daring to ask a real world acquaintance, although I'm sure many guys would be happy to oblige—friend or otherwise. Ellen and Clara are hot. They asked me out for drinks.

We met outside a bar near Union Square one unassuming Sunday night in April. It was starting to rain. They arrived together, Ellen a busty but petite dirty blond and Clara a leggy, dark featured brunette. I was nervous.

“Hey, I'm Sam.” I said. I stuck out my hand out at Ellen for a handshake and smacked one of her boobs. Idiot.

“You just touched my boob.”

“Yeah I did. I did do that. I touched it. Your boob. I'm so sorry…” my hand was still out.

“I’m Ellen.” She looked at my hand like I had offered her a handkerchief after she had sneezed, a bit intrigued at the formality of it but understanding the gesture. We had met on an Internet threesome app.

“I’m Clara.” Clara cut in with a laugh. “You're probably going to touch a lot more than that.”

We drank wine.

It was refreshing to me that sex was on the table with no pretentions alongside a $50 bottle of Chianti. And the fact that all three of us could afford a $50 bottle of Chianti, or more, was also extremely cathartic. I was used to sitting across from not only actresses or models but also “aspiring” ones at that. The check was always unabashedly mine.

“I work at a startup,” Clara informed. “I really enjoy it.”

“I do graphic design,” Ellen added. “You?”

I explained what I did and I expected the worse. How do you explain that you're a self-employed writer and performer at 27 if you're not a “name”? People always expect you to have a side job… but instead of a deprecating look, both Ellen and Clara looked upon with me increased approval.

“Oh thank God,” Clara exhaled. “I'm so tired of finance guys.”

“Guys who pronounce it fin­­­-ance,” Ellen added. “Kill me. Kill me now.”

“Is that a thing?” I asked.

“Yes!” Ellen said as she set her wine glass down. “Nobody else pronounces it like that. It’s like they're a part of some secret cult.”


Clara nodded. “The thing is if they were part of a secret cult, it would be something we've never heard of. Otherwise it would be a terrible secret cult.”

I laughed. “So they are just ostentatious douchebags with an afflicted vernacular.”

“Very much so.”

My eyes lit up. They got what I said in my last sentence. Previous girls I had dated struggled with pejorative words like ‘pejorative.’ “So why are you guys on 3nder?”

They looked at each other. Ellen kind of chuckled to herself. “We just have this fantasy and want it to pan out with someone that we have no strings to.”

Clara spoke up: “But still like enough to want to consider strings, like friendship. You seem to fit that. I think we found the 1% of non-weirdos on 3nder. You should have seen some of the messages we got.”

“I can only imagine. Man, 2015 is fucking weird, huh?”

I repeated that last line as I laid naked between them in Clara’s bed in the Lower East Side.  “Man, 2015 is fucking weird, huh?”

“You're telling me,” Clara said with a laugh.

The rain had stopped outside the open window. A sweet smell drifted into the lamp lit room. We all seemed to simultaneously inhale and exhale with it.

“It’s called ‘petrichor’,” I said.

“What is?” asked Ellen.

"My sexually transmitted disease. It's new. Straight out of Africa."

Clara smacked me.

“I'm kidding. Petrichor is the smell of the earth after rain."

“That’s really pretty,” Clara said as she drew her hand across my stomach.

“It comes from Greek petra for earth and ichor, like the blood of the gods in ancient Greek mythology. I learned that last part watching Xena growing up.”

Ellen laughed. “Yeah?”

“Lucy Lawless always sounded like it would be better suited for a porn star than a television actress.”

“It does sound like a porno name,” Clara agreed.

One of my favorite words, up there with "superfluous."
“Anyway, they say humans appreciate the smell of petrichor because our ancient ancestors relied on rain to grow food for our survival… and now millenniums later, us, the descendants of petrichor, can lay post-coital, three across in a bed in machine Manhattan and pretend that we still have a connection to the earth."

“The earth is just the charger, we're the connectors,” Clara said. "It's only how you want to plug in that makes us different."

It was the truest thing I'd heard in a long time.