MENAGE A TROIS. So much more elegant than it sounds. I’ve only ever been in one threesome since starting University and even though we’re all mates, it’s still made us feel really weird for days afterwards. Although, now at least we can say we’re at that stage in our relationships where nothing phases us. In the same way that you can have soulmates (and I truly believe everyone has more than one), we all thought and still do think, that we’re all meant to be. We’re kind of at the centre of our group of mates – but we’re not one of those incesty group of mates who date each other and then swap. That’s just sad.
So back to the threesome. Liz, me and her boyfriend and my best mate Will thought it was high time to all have sex together. It was an impulsive decision, definitely, but to us it sounded beautiful – we’re so close platonically anyway – in reality it was all a bit smutty.
And really fantastic.
I won’t go into the mechanics, no doubt you’ve all had viruses placed on your computer from researching this matter. But it really is as you’d imagine. Hot. One thing I can say is that it’s never boring, there’s always something (or rather someone) to do. The main thing is that voyeuristic aspect – if you aren’t doing, you’re watching, although staring and not doing anything would be bizarre, it not funny.
The only problem is that if you’re insecure, then the hierarchy of sex within a threesome might make you feel a bit rejected which is why some couples double team, I guess. From all I know, being number three is best because you don’t get hurt. Although, that is where the weirdness came in. Liz was really moody with me afterwards so this made Will feel strange and the next day, all talk was small talk. It wasn’t until I went round Liz’s house that we did the post-mortem.
“So I guess there isn’t much more we can do with each other now!” Liz laughed.
“Yeah, we’ve exhausted our friendship and it would be best if we didn’t see each other.” I said.
“I can’t help feeling jealous though.”
“Why? I don’t love Will in the same way you do and vice versa.”
“But you two have been together before.”
Admittedly, this seemed messy.
“But we’re not together now. Who do you think Will rang first today, you or me? Because he certainly didn’t ring me.”
“Yeah. He said he felt really strange talking to you.”
“Exactly. It’s even more awkward than the awkward Saturday morning.”
“I’ll get him to talk to you.”
I smiled. “See? You have nothing to worry about.”
“I guess so.”
For reasons more inexplicable than the point of studying a degree that qualifies you for working at Tesco, we’re now closer than we’ve ever been.
So then, three. Trois. It’s a magic number. According to Lola, it’s the number of times you have sex with a guy before becoming emotionally attached. And behind all my bravado I’m inclined to agree, well, in terms of the nice guys anyway.
Lola is the girl that gets beeped at by random cars and vans and lorries when walking anywhere. We’ve been to London, Wales and Brighton together – it’s like the male population were all preprogrammed to heckle her. When we were out shopping in Asda together we were stopped by a pretty Iranian woman called Sameen who said “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in this country. You are like a star.” Even though she is so used to this kind of thing, Lola was speechless.
She is also the girl who fell for her neighbour, Travis, and cannot get over him. They keep having sex even though she said she doesn’t want to get any closer to someone so perfect. She’s starting to go a bit mad.
“I know the feeling,” I said as we did more shots.
It never winds up that way. To be honest I think he’s the one pretending not to be in love with his neighbour.
“E, I’ve never met anyone like him in my life. He’s amazing. You know he is amazing.”
“Is he though, really?” I asked.
“You know he’s perfect.”
Admittedly, yeah. He is. He has blue-black hair, a posh-boy jawline and ridiculously charming come-to-bed-eyes and just the right amount of stubble. He is a photographer and a painter, he fixes bikes and worships the Coppolas. His favourite bands are Public Enemy, Cold War Kids and The Beatles. He isn’t selfish in bed.
“I’m really, madly in love with him. I just wish I hadn’t sex with him more than three times.”
Maybe the number is self-fulfilling. Maybe the number should be bigger than three. Maybe, for some people, the number doesn’t matter.
LAURA’S MY EXPERIMENTAL game, as I was hers, or so I thought. We were seeing each other for two weeks and I have refrained from talking about it because I know a lot of readers will judge me. Which is sad. Mel and Lola were a little bit awkward about proceedings too but they accepted it, like when I had anal sex second time round but cried to them the next day about the fact it hurt much more this time, when it should have been easier.
Anyway, as last Wednesday’s self-consciously vain cocktail lunch established, they needed some enlightenment. I told them about Laura: a skinny, bottle blonde tomboy who I’d met on a day trip. There was an undeniable spark and we both refused to let it go even though I had to leave quickly, so it became a Facebook affair – my first one. Of course, as is customary with my closest girlfriends, they needed intimate details.
“Can you actually do a woman? Because there’s no penetration and if you’re not using a dildo, you know, so…where’s the sex?” said Mel.
“Keep your voice down Mel those girls look about fifteen,” Lola said, almost choking on her purple drink.
I was thinking – ugh, they are so ridiculous. “You’ve both done some lady-teasing!” I snorted. ” So you can both shut it. In answer to your question Mel, you can have sex with your fingers.”
“No you can’t!” Lola giggled.
“You can have sex with yourself,” Mel said.
True, nothing beats a bit of hand-action to get through a particularly boring day. But what is it with everyone thinking about the phallus constantly as the provider of the definitive sexual experience? Is it the result of a patriarchal political system? Is it because of symbolism in architecture?
“Does this mean you’re a lesbian then, because if you are, we can’t be friends,” Lola said.
“Don’t you mean bi?” I snapped back. “For god’s sake do you think I’m going to try and do you now?”
“Yes!”
“You wish.”
“You know I’d love it baby!”
“Eeww.”
“You probably could seduce me if you wanted to.”
She knew I never would. It is impossible for me to think remotely sexual thoughts about Lola and vice versa! Not that it’s wrong or anything, but we’re so close anyway that occasionally we are akin to being married in the sense that we finish each other’s sentences. I just said to her what I’d been telling myself.
“Well, you should try it. There’s no harm in it and what better way to discover than with a proper bisexual?”
“Are you bi?” Lola asked.
“Probably not. I’m just having fun.”
And I did enjoy christening Laura’s house. But we had to finish things because I couldn’t go down on her. I don’t know what came over me. I was telling Lola all the juicy details as Mel had just finished on the phone with her bloke.
“Laura came and you didn’t?”
“No Mel, I came but she didn’t because I wouldn’t do oral.”
“Oh right. Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.” I still don’t fully appreciate why, but maybe it’s because oral sex is an incredibly powerful experience and for many couples, it’s the where the deal is sealed. When I think back, I feel bad for leading her on and I’m sure she wanted more than just a casual setup. Laura was really sympathetic but I guess bi-curiosity killed the cat this time.
“I’m glad you’re not gay,” Lola laughed.
“Oh, shut up and drink your Woo Woo.”
KINK IS THE WORD. I adore spanking, nibbling, playfighting, whips, tassels, corsets, handcuffs, blindfolds, garters, PVC, shoe fetishes; have yet to try out scratching and belts – but full on lovebites? I was lucky enough to have never been the girl at school who paraded the bruised symbol of a conquest on her neck. Even back then I knew it was tacky.
And it still is. Take Steve. He was thirty and wanted to give me lovebite. I said no. Actually I said:
“You must be joking.” Friendship with said selfish middle-aged bloke quickly fizzled as you know, just as I was acting out that kitchen sex fantasy with Jack, who didn’t lovebite and didn’t want to. Then there was Chemistry guy, still can’t remember his name. He liked spitting. I asked him to just lick me instead but he spat even more, so I was spitting back and for me it became a self-defence mechanism, but for him it was a turn-on, which for me was still retaliation so it got very messy until he stopped and then we had angry sex. That was okay but it was no reason to return his calls afterwards.
I really do digress too much. Anyway lovebites, those ‘orrible things. I feel that lovebites are a sign of sexual immaturity. Sore, red lines that look like curved burns with those imprints and bruises around them. I’ve even seen some with and even scabs. Seriously, that’s gross. To be treated like gum and marked like such is far from erotic. It’s in that realm of cheap and nasty, like daring-to-bare-it-outside-risking-arrest-as-you-grind-up-against-the-wall sex (which is excellent by the way, providing your partner’s arms are strong enough), only pretending that you’re a snake.
People, if you want to use mouths use them wisely and pleasurably. Don’t just gnaw at flesh because it looks good. You are not a dog. I repeat. You are not a dog.
“I let Dave bite me all the time,” Lola said.
Between now and my last post to you, Lola’s found herself a sensible(-ish) bloke who isn’t from her workplace and isn’t using as a rebound shag.
“And you enjoy it? You don’t just think it’s disgusting?” I asked.
“It is chavvy, but he likes it.”
Then she looked at me like she’d just bought me a present.
“You need to try it. Let a guy bite you.”
She showed me these ugly little bite-bruises on her arms and on her left hip and I still wasn’t convinced.
“It actually doesn’t hurt,” she insisted.
“That’s not the point.”
“Come on missus ‘I wore a school uniform in bed and I liked it’. Everyone has a fetish.”
“But that’s roleplay. Different kettle o’ fish. Dave’s practically eating you. It’s consumption, it’s total objectification-”
“Since when did you relate sex to anything philosophical?”
“Since always!”
“Just get down and get biting!”
So based on Lola’s covert invitation of experimenting, I took back my prejudice against the biters. There was an amazing guy called Chris who I was seeing last year but we broke it off as he decided to leave and try out a musician’s career in London. We were both surprised when it didn’t work. He came back for a while, but we just talked. As I remembered, Chris liked being bitten and has asked to bite me, but I always refused point blank and reeled off my list of reasons. As you can imagine, we didn’t have sex that night.
I gave him a call. It’s always weird re-talking to your exes. He was still in Manchester because his band were starting to take off.
“See, you didn’t have to leave,” I said.
We met up and it was great catching up as friends; it was more than great because it meant spending time with a guy who actually drank wine. I went back to his house and after a lot of massaging (needed preparation, see) I let him bite me. Which felt…interesting. He didn’t make a meal of it, just a nip on my leg. And my arse. He let out a few moans.
“Did you like that?” he asked.
Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the philosophy, but being bitten made me feel like a zebra that has just been pinned down. Though, that’s even weirder than the biting itself, isn’t it?
I left a message on Lola’s phone the next day.
“Lola. Lovebites are overrated. Fact.”
I’ll stick to spanking.
FINALLY! I’VE MET a psycho girlfriend. Unfortunately that means I’ve become the bitch that makes a guy cheat on his psycho girlfriend.
Jack is my age and is the guy I was seeing on top of Steve. Right, okay, not with Jack on top of Steve…oh, you know what I mean. Unlike Steve, he’s a master of the quickie and moves about like he’s all scuzzy.
“He doesn’t make that much noise to start with but when he’s on the verge, some primitive man’s voice comes out as he gets faster and faster. It’s really sexy!”
“I know – we could hear you last night,” my flatmate said.
Unfortunately the walls in our flat are rather thin. I’d met him in 5th Ave, like you do, got his number and commenced shagging, either him coming round to halls or me going round to his, which was always better given the increased bed space.
All was fair in love (lust, actually). Then came the war.
The confrontation happened in, of all places, Platt Fields park. It was my fault though. I was just walking with my flatmate and her partner when I saw Jack and another woman (she is indeed the other woman), and they weren’t holding hands, or even talking, so I just presumed they weren’t seeing each other and I ran ahead to hug and kiss him with a big “Hi Jack!”.
This enthusiasm turned out to be a mistake for both of us.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the other woman asked. It wasn’t so much what she said but the way she gave me the up-down look that I knew I had to put my guard up. This is his Girlfriend. Jack glanced at my eyes before tilting his head down. He just didn’t say anything.
“Oh, me and Jack go way back!” I lied, thinking, yeah, Jack goes all the way up my back and down again.
The Other Woman turned to him. “I didn’t realise you kissed all your old friends.”
“I don’t,” he struggled. “It’s just we haven’t seen each other in so long and you’re happy to see me, aren’t you Eileen?” he said.
“Yeah. It was just a friendly kiss.” I added.
“On the lips?” She shouted. I began to worry if there was going to be a scene right in front of the lake, which could turn rather ugly.
“Hang on, are you two together?” I asked despite being able to predict the answer.
“Of course we are,” she snarled in a way that sounded so friendly, like that awful ‘Smile’ song by that awful Lily Allen. “Why, does that mean anything to you? Are you one his exes?”
“Calm down will you Hannah? We’re just mates.” Jack said, putting his hand round her waist.
“It didn’t look like that to me,” Hannah said.
I put on a big shock face. “I’m not one of his exes,” I said wearily. She’s sounded like she was about fifteen and right there, I figured this particular shag isn’t worth the effort. “We’re just friends. Look, I’ll go. I’m sorry.”
This was horrible. Hannah just wouldn’t stop staring at me, which made me paranoid for a while, but then I just started to get irritated. I had clearly started something here or driven a wedge or something and as fun as he is in bed, he, as a person, isn’t worth it. This had to be finished. I looked Jack right in the eye, put a hand on his shoulder and said: “I guess I’ll see you around sometime. You’ll probably find me on Facebook.” And I walked off. There’s much more sex to be had elsewhere without all this icky emotional mess. He has my number, knows where I live and knows a lot of my mates. Clearly I’m a bitch because I knew, but he’s nasty for not opening up his relationship and being honest.
The only problem is that he keeps texting me. And ringing, leaving messages on my answerphone. I mean why can’t he just have regular sex with his girlfriend, isn’t it enough? So it’s going to be a case of ignoring this desperado…right after I’m done with having phone sex.
DATING STUDENTS IS all well and good but I find that the maturity level is astonishingly poor whilst the egos are never matched by performance. Although, maybe I’ve just been unlucky whilst trying to get lucky.
So I’ve decided to do a Daisy Lowe: date someone almost twice my age. It’s highly likely that I’ve become a glory-shag for someone going through a midlife crisis, yet, despite being conscious of this, I continue to date him because the sex is amazing. Is that wrong?
Me and Steve are in a sexual relationship. We are acquaintances, but not friends. We could grow into something more profound and all the little signs are there: the conversations are getting longer as is the time lapse between ‘hello’ and ripping each other’s clothes off; there are good night text messages and cups of tea. We bond over music and post-structuralist theories, but that’s about it and we both know it. The silences are never awkward. It just means we have more sex at that point because there is nothing left to say – we don’t care that there is nothing. It’s just sex.
Mel thinks I’m taking advantage of a lonely man.
“It sounds like you’re getting kicks out of dating this older man. Are you sure it’s the right thing to do?” she warned.
“Sex is always the right thing to do,” I said.
“No,” she rushed. “You’re messing with his ego. I meant that he’s gonna be bragging to his mates that he’s scoring with a student because he’s that mate who was going through a dry patch.”
“Seriously, Mel? Shut up? You make me sound like a loser,” I moaned.
“God what is with you today? Did you suddenly grow insecure genes?”
“No!” I shouted, “You just grew un-feminist bitch genes in about three minutes!”
Like previous dates I met Steve over a JD and coke in a bar somewhere in Manchester city centre. We exchanged numbers, but this time, actually kept in touch. Lots of touching (naturally), and so keeping up contact and appearances was purely for sex rather than friendship. And I hate that term ‘friends with benefits’. It makes platonic friendships sound like they are not beneficent without the rampant sex. (If you use this term, please stop for a moment, grow up, and reconsider your lax language use.)
“I think it’s risky to pick a guy up like that when you know you’re doing to dump him soon.”
“But this is different. We’re not in a relationship and if we were it would be open. I’m sure he’s as single as me as… the sky is blue.
“What?”
“Sorry that was a crap comparison. But do you get me?”
“Did you tell him you weren’t seeing anyone else?”
“Why should I do that? The orgasms are great.”
“Exactly! It sounds like you don’t know where each other is unless you’re in bed.”
Damn her wisdom. She is normally right about these things and I don’t want to wind up the perverse-Lolita object. So instead of telling Steve where we stand, I asked him what he thought about us.
“I don’t think we’re in that place yet.”
“Oh thank god, because I thought you might think we’re some sort of couple.”
“No. We haven’t done anything couple-ly yet,” he replied.
“Yeah I know,” I said with relief.
So if you’re bored of the scene, even the very fit Man Met scene, then consider pulling an older guy once in a while. There are several benefits. He is less likely to fumble over protection, the sweet talk doesn’t sound sickly or stupid and there are always,
always presents. He will probably be a lot more experienced in the bedroom and will certainly let the lady come first. At least, Steve understands this fully. It’s nothing like the hump ‘n’ spent crap from your average twentysomething.
