original condom image by Sin Amigos, flickr
Ask and she shall receive.
One of the best Christmas presents I ever received was a sandwich. The kind where I’m in the middle, snuggled in between two men.
I had not had a threesome before. I was in my early twenties, out with my boyfriend and his high school best mate, Jack*, and we were on a tear throughout their hometown. Back then, it was a big deal to return from the city to the quaint country town where there’s essentially nothing to do but drink (and, apparently, have sex, as evidenced by the plethora of very young women pushing baby strollers).
Already plenty lubricated by cheap cocktails, a momentary stop to the ATM turned into a live action Choose Your Own Adventure: let Jack reload his wallet and we all continue on merrily toward more watered down beer or seize the opportunity and casually suggest to him that we all go back to his family home, find a suitable room and fuck like rabbits.
More like a deer caught in headlights, Jack couldn’t tell if I was serious or just messing with him, and he quickly looked to his best friend for guidance. A shrug and a smile indicated the former and I was granting him permission. Considering my relationship with my boyfriend was heavily based in sexual escapades, I knew he would be fine with it. It was only a matter of minutes between a quick dart to the gas station for condoms and the house where my boyfriend and his best mate would spend their teen years watching satellite movies about Patrick Swayze busting up bar fights.
When you’re in your twenties, jacuzzis are among the list of things that you consider sexy (it’s ok; you eventually outgrow that when you get older and realize that they’re havens for bacteria). Good thing Jack’s family had a substantial one on the lower floor. Being hidden under water is a grand way to be naked with your boyfriend’s best mate while trying to make him feel comfortable in his own anxious excitement. It’s also a good way to circulate the alcohol in your system, faster than sitting in drafty, smalltown taverns.
Still not entirely sure he wasn’t going to be the butt of a terrible joke or that we were going to change our minds and he was going to get punched him in the mouth, Jack made sure to keep asking “You sure? You sure?” It was almost like an instructional session of where he could put his hands, his eyes constantly darting to his friend for assurance as I climbed on top of him.
Once we were pleasantly warmed up to the point of sweating despite the hot bubbles, and Jack felt confident enough to go with the flow, we retreated to the renovated attic, a room large enough for three people to roll around in and far way enough from the rest of the sleeping house. Horny and drunk, we weren’t exactly the quietest bunch.
Bodies still steaming from the jacuzzi, rolling around with all attention centered on you is nothing short of fabulous. There are endless amounts of positions from which to choose and logistically speaking, should one partner get tired, the other can easily spell off.
Once the combination of the night’s activities eventually set in and the sun’s rosy haze starts peeking through the trees, muscle strain, rugburn and sober fatigue start to make themselves noticed. Any noise you hear in the house could be the mother waking up. The fear of her stumbling upon her son, best mate, and some strange girl intertwined in a naked sloppy mess becomes quite real, so you fight every urge for one more thrust and one more suck, and call it a night. Removal of any of the night’s evidence has to be taken care of, and you quietly retrace your steps from downstairs ensuring that your panties or condom wrappers are not littering the halls.
Once all clues of indiscretion have disappeared, you retreat to separate rooms and wake up a few hours later, trodding down to the kitchen to say good morning to the rest of the family, thanking them for letting you sleep in their guest bedrooms, since ‘driving so late through the snowy night would have been too treacherous.’ Thank god for the legit alibi of living in the snow belt.
You say your goodbyes, thank your impromptu lover for the experience and head home for Christmas breakfast at your beau’s family farm where you eat, shower and give side-eye to him for the rest of the day, savouring the memory and hoping more such adventures will transpire.
Looking back, it seems such a tame event compared to what I’m now used to, but it was certainly a grand entry into the world of debauchery that is now my wheelhouse.
The moral of the story is that you don’t get what you don’t ask for. And Christmas is a good a time as any to be asking.
* Not his real name. Like you didn’t know.
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Got a question about sex in art, relationships, parenting? Send Sonya a note at dearmadame@torontostandard.com. Anonymity assured.
Sonya JF Barnett, also known as “The Madame,” is the founder of an erotic arts community called The Keyhole Sessions and the co-founder of SlutWalk Toronto. Follow her on Twitter @KeyholeSessions.
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