A friend was telling me a story the other day in a coffee shop that threw me right into the violent and voracious laughter I’m infamous for because I’m kinda old school black.
It’s the sort of laughter I live for. The kind where complete strangers stop what they’re doing to check on you because they can’t recognize someone experiencing humor because their own lives are so damn dull, which ain’t my problem. Don’t worry about me, Brenda. Finish your pumpkin chai.
I know I won’t do the story much justice in retelling, and on the surface level it isn’t really all that funny to begin with, but shit, I chuckle every time I think about it. It is my hope it brings you joy too, sisterfriends.
So my friend was dating this classically trained musician. Black man who played the violin or viola or something really fancy. He was living in our little southern city while he waited to go onto some program in London, it was some fancy shit that would have made for a good plot of a critically acclaimed movie. I don’t know all the details and they don’t really matter.
“He just got out of his last relationship.” My friend told me.
I’m nosy, which is a side effect of paying attention. I sit with my notebook out and an ink pen, and while anyone explains anything to me, I’m jotting down follow up questions, story inconsistencies, frequently used words. I’m a lover of words and conversations and while some think gossip is a vice, I consider it to be the dessert of conversation – enjoy it every so often, don’t overdo it, and definitely don’t live on it. Get you some shit that’s gonna nourish you, but a little gossip every so often is fine. Healthy, even.
Naturally I want information.
“How did it end?” I ask. The end of my pen has been clicked and I’m ready.
I know this pause.
I use this pause.
Studying language also means paying attention to what isn’t there.
This is a pause is the conversational equivalent of ‘buffering’, like when you’re streaming a program and it needs a second to load. My friend knew the story and needed a minute to load it as to display it to me in a way that would be most suited for my pleasure.
“Well….Him and his last boyfriend had a three-way…” he started.
I knew this shit was gonna be good.
I can’t quote his story directly, so I won’t even try, instead I’ll very loosely paraphrase.
The musician and his then boyfriend wanted to spice things up in the bedroom, because after just a few months, things started to get repetitive. Mind you, most of our parents have been performing sex in the missionary position for literal decades, but suddenly everyone has access to internet porn, and needs excitement every few weeks.
So the musician’s boyfriend coyly suggests (in a way that certainly implied nothing about this was a new or recent thought, but rather, one that had been pondered and considered, maybe even before the relationship began) that they introduce a third person into their sexual festivities.
Now hear me out…
I love healthy and intentional sex where participants know what they want and agree to the constraints (…or restraints). I am wild about that type of sexual awareness. Hell, I aspire for it. I also know most of you niggas are not operating with that kind of intentional practice in any aspect of your lives, and to suddenly practice it during the physical and emotional marathon that is sex, just doesn’t seem realistic. Start small. Find a favorite color. Know how you like your steak prepared. If you haven’t gotten intimate with yourself, sex with a partner isn’t the place to start.
But whatever….Everyone wants to be a freak, nobody wants to do the work.
The musician doesn’t want to take part in a threesome. Which, to me, is fascinating. I’ve…..how do I say this….fucked with a number of interesting and diverse negro-men during my lifetime. I imagine I probably have in other lifetimes, and I’ll probably do it in future lifetimes. People who work in creative fields for a living have notoriously been my favorite sexual partners. Creatives have already cultivated a personal sense of what is beautiful and why. I don’t play a violin, but I love watching violinists, my observation is this….musicians don’t rush to the end of the song, they find ways to make every part between the beginning and the end interesting and beautiful.
Musicians are very capable of a quality threesome. That’s just gospel. So I definitely made a quick note about how strange that detail seemed.
The musician, fearful of his own divine calling, eventually agreed but didn’t want to handle to responsibility of picking the third person. The musicians boyfriend already had someone in mind. I don’t know why that doesn’t sit right in my spirit, but it just doesn’t. If we agree to share a sandwich and I cut it down the center, you OBVIOUSLY get first choice as to which half you would like. I know people aren’t sandwiches, but maybe they are.
So the big night comes.
The musician and his boyfriend anxiously await the third party, probably some random that the boyfriend knows from probably Instagram where most relationships go to die. There’s a knock at the door, there’s a warm welcome, there’s a quick introduction between the musician and the ‘third-party’.
So far so good.
There’s a rolling of blunts, there’s a couple glasses of cheap wine, there’s some music going; that new R&B where the women don’t sing vowel sounds for some reason. There isn’t a lot of talking between the three of them, I imagine. These guys are in their younger 20’s and I’m telling you, those niggas don’t have a conversation.
There’s a glance at a swelling crotch. There’s a sly smile. There’s a puff. There’s a pass. There’s a fond touch between the musician and his boyfriend. There’s the third party eagerly waiting consent.
In my imagination, there’s consent. Isn’t that cute?
There’s a permissive glance between the musician’s boyfriend and the newly added third party. There’s a suggestion, no words maybe, but an encouragement that the newcomer and the musician warm up and get acquainted. At this point the musician has had enough wine and decent quality weed to be open to it, and so he and the newcomer kiss.
The musician’s boyfriend watches.
The kiss gets deep and warm and wet.
The boyfriend feels at ease. It’s working out. What was once a rolling fantasy is unfolding itself into a tangible reality.
The kiss between the newcomer and the musician becomes hot and furious. Both tongues taste like budget wine.
The musician’s boyfriend helps the musician out of his t-shirt. The act is erotic, sure, but more a suggestion at the level this experience should move toward. Understanding this, the newcomer takes off his own shirt, but his lips, full and wanting, are damn near magnetized to the musician.
More clothes come off, half hard, brown dicks are bobbing around, different shades, different variations of thickness and fullness. Some shorter and thicker, some longer and thin, all of them perfect and prepared.
The musician and the third party close the empty space between them and create intricate shapes using their golden brown colored bodies. The boyfriend watches, and like a beginner in an expert level game of double-dutch, waits for his time to get in, not quite finding himself between the already established paced – which is picking up with not so much as a warning.
A slip of protection (look. This is another detail I’m making up because protection is important an y’all ain’t gonna be out here hitting it raw and blaming me), an interlocking of fingers, a trail of spit down the crack of the musicians bare ass, and the musician already wonders why he ever considered objecting to this experience.
Back to my friend and I in the cafe. Laughing doesn’t capture what I’ doing. Technically, I’m howling. I’m banging on the table. I have to wipe my eyes with a nearby napkin. If my friend doesn’t explain another thing, I’ve heard everything I’ve needed to hear that day.
Boooooooooooooyyyyyyy imagine THAT type of disappointment, where you think you’re going to be participating in the interconnected act of communal loving. Introducing a stranger into the sacred and exhilarating act of sex with someone you enjoy. You’re anticipating some sexual equity. Admit it. You kinda envisioned what two sets of pouty lips were gonna look like on the shaft of your own meat.
And here you are…looking dumb, watching the man you love get his ass cheeks clapped by some man you’ve been secretly wanting from social media. Look at what you did to yourself. Spitting on your own dick and playing with your own purple nipples watching them, trying to stay hard, but also a little frustrated.
You did this to your damn self.
Now you gotta watch this stranger enter your boyfriend in ways you never considered. Now you gotta watch your boyfriend experience pleasure he ain’t never felt before in places he didn’t even know could be erogenous. Your boyfriend didn’t even WANT this.
And now….You gotta sit and realize, the sex wasn’t repetitive.
You just weren’t that good at sex.
The musician cares, but he isn’t that good a multitasker, and right now his face is in the carpet and all his nicest parts are vulnerable and exposed to a stranger, hell bent on pleasing as many of the musicians spots as simultaneously as possible.
The musician’s boyfriend, long bored and dissatisfied, rushes himself to climax, even fakes the intensity of it all. If porn is to be believed, once one person finishes, so do(es) the other(s).
But once a-fucking-gain, life is not porn. The two keep going for what feels like hours but might actually be a solid thirty minutes. The third party, who needed little convincing to be here in the first place, harbored a talent and stamina never originally discussed with the musician’s boyfriend.
In the café, during the very active present, I am hollering. I push my coffee cup away, scared that I might actually choke on my own coffee and laughter. I can’t write this shit down fast enough, but I figure I have enough information to predict the end of this, and technically, the musician and his boyfriend do too.
The next afternoon is awkward. Everyone fakes being cool with what the fuck ever happened last night. The attempts at plain ole’ twosomes leave the musician and his boyfriend with more questions than cravings.
By the time the musician’s boyfriend suggests they need to ‘have a talk’, the musician has already packed his viola or violin or whatever the hell he plays. Eventually and somehow the musician goes and finds the man from the threesome. They have a couple twosomes with each other, each encounter with fewer sparks than the last, and personalities too different to explore an actual relationship.
Everyone is single and confused, which to be fair is still better than being confused because you’re together.
I’m not entirely sure who wins in the situation, I do know that getting to hear this story for free while being absolutely uninvolved in any of this fuckery has to put me somewhere in the running.