“You know, my friend and I, we’ve been looking for a while for a guy to have a threesome with.”
Sometimes you can tell when you’re playing with fire, and if I’d taken a sniff at that moment I probably would have smelt the flesh on my fingers burning. But I was looking into another dimension of debauched delight, a fantastic fiefdom of fleshy fulfilment, and the lustful synapses of my monkey brain greatly outflashed those in control of logical thought. This was a moment to risk everything, to flip the coin. I wonder, I thought to myself, will I get some head, or maybe a bit of tail? He he. Maybe both.
It would be several hours before the 50p of fate that I’d just projected up into the air would clatter down and cast its judgement on my decision. In the meantime, the sultry brunette girl was fluttering her big beautiful eyes at me, waiting for a response to her half-proposition. Desperately willing my lazy left eye to hold the line I met her gaze and, with just the slightest tremor in my voice, replied with the best line I could think of: “I’m a guy.”
There was a moment of tense silence as she judged whether that was the smoothest or dorkiest thing she’d ever heard. Eventually she decided it fell somewhere in the middle and, with a coquettish laugh, said: “Then let’s see where the night takes us.”
Oh my god. Before my eyes I could see the pinnacle of male sexual achievement: the mystical threesome. Despite having dabbled in occasional online research into the subject, I had no idea how I’d go about arranging the logistics of such an encounter, but decided I’d cross that bridge when I come on it. To it! Come to it …
First, some cun- sorry, context. It was April 2016 and I was in Kew, west London, where I was working at the botanical gardens on a project with my chocolatier boss – Aiden (whose name I’ve altered) – and a few friends. Aiden and I were currently at a pub next door to the gardens at 5:45 pm on a Thursday, enjoying a pint with the girls of the aforementioned threesome, whom I’d befriended in the previous few days. The girls had come to see our show and invited us out for a drink afterwards, the subsequent conversation suggesting that my lame puns during the performance had not diminished their apparent attraction to me. They worked at the pub and both lived in the area, whereas I was staying about an hour away on the other side of London, making convenience a potential extra perk of our three-way pact.
“She really likes you,” the coquettish girl, who for the sake of this story we’ll call Andrea, said to me as she nodded towards her half-French friend. “You might not see it now but Louise (also a fake name) has an amazing body. Incredible tits under that shirt.”
I shivered with anticipation. It was as if every word Andrea uttered brought me further into the uncharted lands of alpha male territory. Of all the penises-with-legs in the area they’d chosen me, dishevelled and flabby with chocolate weight, to be The One. The One for the Three.
As another discussion took Andrea and Louise to the bathroom, I sidled over to Aiden and told him about the proposition, a mixture of terror and excitement in my voice. “That’s amazing!” he said as he grasped my hand in celebration, the glint of his younger, formerly-single self in his eye. “You’re living the dream, mate, you’re living the fucking dream.”
“Well, if I rock up tomorrow in the same clothes,” I replied with a wink, “you’ll know it’s gone well.” With that Aiden headed home, his well wishes giving me some encouragement as I contemplated the sexual acid test that awaited me.
As the hours passed and the pints flowed, several of the girls’ friends and workmates joined us around the pub table. Most notable among them was a German woman who worked as a groundskeeper at the botanical gardens, a dreadlocked, smiley hippie whom I instantly liked. Countering her positivity was the pub’s deputy manager, a nasty scowl of a woman who lived in an apartment above and had brought her husky downstairs to socialise. That’s right, a husky, a wild Arctic dog, cramped up in a London apartment. As the awful woman (let’s call her Sharlene) barked commands and admonishments at the poor creature, I briefly wondered if the unexpected dog would play any further role in my evening.
Relaxing with the alcohol, I sensed the group conversation becoming faster and more erratic, a change I put down to our shared drunkenness. I’d been talking primarily with Louise, or at least listening to her talk rapidly at me, the words bursting from her angular face like pressurised steam from a kettle. Among the fast-paced stream of consciousness I caught the suggestion that we should go outside, so I took her hand and led her out to the park across the road.
We kissed on the green under the moonlight. It was, I reflected, a jarringly romantic segue into what promised to be an evening of emotionless carnal sin. I knew I’d missed the last train home, my last chance to back out of this gamble, but felt supremely confident in what was about to unfold. The coin, still spinning high above, glinted at me in the moonlight.
“I want to have sex with you,” Louise said, her finger drawing patterns on my chest. “Maybe even a threesome with Andrea.”
My ego, already inflated beyond measure, nearly jumped out of my body. I felt almost godlike, high on my own incredible luck. I smiled and nodded my consent.
Then she looked up at me, piercing me with her wide, dark eyes. “But it can’t be tonight – my brother’s staying at my place and there’s nowhere else to go. We’ll have to wait until Saturday.”
The fateful coin, glistening at the top of its arc just moments before, plummeted fatefully back down towards me. If I couldn’t go back with the girls then I was stranded on the other side of the city, with no way to get home and nowhere to stay.
As I agonised over what to do next, Louise – her moment of slow solemnity gone – suddenly skipped across the road and got into the passenger seat of a Volkswagen Golf. Stunned, I watched as the car did two laps around Kew Green before Louise got out, a bag of white powder barely visible through her clenched fist.
This wasn’t a romantic moment in the park; it was a drug deal. Suddenly the group trips to the toilet and the increasingly erratic conversation made sense. This was a Coke party, and I’d been drinking Fanta all along.
Buzzed up on another hit of cocaine and oblivious to my predicament, Louise dragged me back into the pub, giggling and chattering at a million miles per hour. It was decided that the party would continue upstairs at Sharlene’s, and despite my natural aversion to the woman, I opted for temporary shelter over instant homelessness. My dream night was quickly unravelling in front of me.
As I entered the apartment the husky growled and bit at my ankles, clearly perceiving my maleness as a threat to his domain. The dog’s howls were matched only by Sharlene’s shrieks, the dysfunctional couple’s bickering piercing my ears and cutting straight through to my brain. I excused myself from the cacophony and went in search of the bathroom, the coke crowd too wrapped up in themselves to notice my absence.
I took one squelching step into Sharlene’s bathroom and was met by one of the most disgusting sights I’ve ever encountered. The linoleum floor was covered in puddles of husky piss, with landmines of shit interspersed among them. One of those piles had ended up in the tread of my boot, and the act of squishing the shit had released its foul smell. I briefly flirted with the idea of pissing straight on the floor as a small act of revenge against Sharlene’s horribleness, but decided against it and grudgingly hopscotched my way to the toilet.
Back in the living room, the cokesters were puffing away at a joint in an effort to curb their synthetic energy. Sharlene was ranting about her ex, halting the vitriol intermittently to bark commands at the husky, who was still trying to bite and paw me into submission. I, unwilling to join in the consumption, was massaging Louise’s shoulders in the hope that she might present me with an escape from this unfolding nightmare, but she was too far gone to pick up on my anxiety. Andrea looked at me with some trace of sympathy but offered no solution to my predicament. My only chance was the friendly German.
Sensing my discomfort, she took me aside and offered me her couch for the night. A massive wave of relief flooded over me and I rejoined the circle, knowing that I’d only have to endure the barrage of chatter a little while longer. The feeling was short-lived; barely 15 minutes later the German girl told me that, actually, she couldn’t host me because she was having a fight with her housemate. I was disconsolate. Craving sleep, with a full day of work ahead of me tomorrow, I adopted the foetal position in the corner of the room and tried to pretend that none of this was happening.
Eventually, thanks to some gentle cooing from Andrea, Queen Sharlene granted me permission to take a brief nap on her bed in the other room, on the proviso that she would kick me out whenever she felt like it. I slunk off to her dank cesspit and sunk into the most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever lain upon, the missing slats distorting my spine into a painful curve.
I thought back to the 50p of fate, the greedy gamble I’d taken at the start of the night. I hadn’t just lost the toss; the white hot coin had crashed at my feet and ripped through the ground beneath me, dragging me down into a gaping abyss below. It was the closest I’d ever felt to hell. I flicked back through my memories and realised that this was, without doubt, the worst night of my life.
But there was more agony to come. Just as I felt sleep gently wrap its arms around me, one of the guys who’d come back with us marched into the bedroom, flicked on the light and ordered me back into the other room. Queen Sharlene had decided that, while she wasn’t ready to sleep yet, she might be soon, and it was unacceptable that I should occupy her bed in the interim. Defeated, I squished myself onto a couch half my length, only to endure the night’s ultimate humiliation. Hefty Sharlene, entirely unaware of what she was doing, sat on me. She actually SAT on my huddled body for a full half hour, snorting lines and inhaling joints while I buried my face in the cracks of the couch, hoping for sleep, or death, or both.
When Sharlene eventually moved I scurried off to my final position for the night: curled up in the corner next to the husky, who’d finally stopped attacking me. As the humans sniffed themselves further and further into a shrieking madness, I realised the dog was the only creature in this room with even a shred of dignity remaining. I put my hand on its soft coat and consoled myself that at least I wasn’t the only prisoner in this hellhole, hoping that he, in his canine brain, felt something similar towards me. A fitful sleep enveloped us both.
A few hours later, after dawn had broken, I made a daring escape down the stairs, through the pub and out an open door. I was pale, exhausted, mentally scarred and utterly unsexed. But I was free! London’s cold morning air had never felt so good.
I walked the two minutes to work and, as I entered, was greeted by whoops and cheers. Aiden had a wide grin on his face, his hand raised and waiting for a high five. I looked at my hand then back at him in horror, not understanding his reaction. Then it dawned on me. After all, I was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday …