My Best Friend Planned A Threesome

The question on my husband's birthday is usually: What do you get for the man who has absolutely everything? My husband is not a shopper; he buys food and, lately, diapers. He lately declared that he has sufficient pants to last the rest of his life. When I asked about his intentions concerning a drawer containing dozens of stray socks, he stated his heirs would sort it out.

For his 40th birthday, I had my eye on a vintage watch. It would complement his tattered sweaters and declare to the world that he is, actually, employed. But when I mention this to him, he balks. However, he says that what he truly wants is  a threesome with me and an additional woman.

This is not precisely surprising. He'd voiced the fantasy previously. So had practically each and every guy I'd ever dated. But this time I said yes. Perhaps it is the moral weight of the  birthday and also the reality that he by no means asks for anything. Perhaps I'm daunted by the cost tag on a stainless-steel Rolex. Perhaps, as a journalist, I cannot resist a deadline, or I pity him heading into middle age consigned to sleeping using the exact same woman (me) for the rest of his life. And perhaps, just perhaps, it is simply because I fancy the concept myself.

I ought to say that we're usually really dull. We do not swing or have an open marriage. We're rarely even awake past 10 p.m. Even though I wrote a book about infidelity all over the world, I ended up concluding that fidelity is really a great concept. So far, it has been for us. This wouldn't technically be cheating, but it is not textbook monogamy, either.

Indeed, the concept of a threesome is so exotic that for a couple of weeks, it just sits there. I occasionally mention the name of a female friend.

"Would she be acceptable?"

"Absolutely," he says. It turns out that all of my girlfriends and practically all of the spouses of his buddies would potentially make the cut..

Even though I'm a novice, I'm fairly certain that obtaining somebody we know could be a mistake. There is the enormous possible for awkwardness. And I do not want somebody making a wedge in our cozy twosome. I'm envisioning this as a onetime deal.

Anyway, I wouldn't know whom to ask. My husband and his buddies can chat over a beer about obtaining two ladies into bed. Heck, that is porn. But middle-class straight girls do not tend to compare same-sex fantasies. It is tough to know who'd be tempted and who'd be appalled.

Over brunch 1 day in Bantry Bay (where my husband and I now live - I'm American; he's British), we tell some buddies about the planned birthday "present." 1 of them, a single British banker who's nearing 40 herself, grimaces and goes silent.

"You look horrified," I say.

"Yes, I mean, I just believe it is extraordinary!" she says, blushing.

My husband rejects the concept of a sex club as too public. I rule out advertising on-line, because that appears like an open call for venereal illness. We determine that the perfect candidate could be a sexy acquaintance. She'd be vetted (everybody knows acquaintances do not have herpes) but simple to steer clear of afterward.

A candidate soon emerges. She's a friend of a friend I've met at dinner parties but whose name I can by no means keep in mind. By chance she's seated behind us at a concert, with a man who appears to be her date. For the very first time, I notice that she's really pretty. She's tall and thin, having a small ballerina's waist. And I'm fairly certain she's sassy.

"How about her?" I whisper to my husband.

"Yes!" he says, too loudly.

Following the concert, the four of us chat. I make firm eye contact using the woman (who I've figured out is named Emma), I amfascinated by her comments on the music, and wait for my man to suggest that she and I meet for lunch. She appears flattered. A couple of days later, we exchange e-mails and make plans to have Thai food. I get dolled up, and am pleased to see when I arrive that she has, too. Does she know that she's on a date?

Generally I'm so self-absorbed that my companion might be bleeding to death and I may not notice. But the pursuit of the threesome has created me much more attentive. Over soup, I listen carefully to Emma and rapidly comprehend some thing that would have taken me years to notice: Under a pond of sassiness is really a lagoon of insecurity. She clings to boyfriends who mistreat her, convinced that she does not deserve them. I'd mistaken tall for self-possessed.

This most likely means that she's too emotionally fragile for a threesome, but I determine to broach the subject anyway, a minimum of to obtain some practice. I do it under the guise of exchanging girly confidences, saying, "You will not think what my husband wants for his birthday." I tell her that I've agreed to it in principle but that I haven't but discovered the third party.

I believe she gets that I'm propositioning her, but rather than taking the bait, she becomes the Cassandra of threesomes. She describes the rogue ex-boyfriend who pressured her to go to bed with him and his other lover, and also the buddies of hers who swapped partners and by no means swapped back. She says that I'll be scarred by images of my husband performing unspeakable issues to an additional woman. "And what if it is somebody who's extremely hot? How could you possibly deal with that?" she asks, a bit insultingly.

Not just is Emma out of the running, she appears to be morphing into that most dreaded of creatures: the friend. She talks of future lunch dates at other Asian restaurants. I'm suddenly sympathetic to those male "friends" of mine who disappeared when I got engaged. Why stick around?

That night I tell my husband about the "date," which cost me R300 and ate up half my workday.

"Thanks for taking care of that," he says, with out searching up from his pc. It is precisely what he says when I've waited at house all morning for the plumber or replaced the rechargeable batteries in our phones. It occurs to me that planning this threesome has turn out to be an additional 1 of the issues I do, like organizing playdates and supervising the renovation of our kitchen.

Nevertheless, my new man's-eye view of the world is thrilling. I notice ladies everywhere - at the chemist, in line at the supermarket. I even scan my book group - middle-aged expatriates who like to read about the Holocaust - for candidates.

I have a belated feminist revelation: Women don't demand ssalary increases and promotions, because we're trained to sit pretty and let someone else chase us. In my new role as decider, I don't care what anyone thinks of me. I just go after what I want from them. It's refreshing to have some time off from wondering whether I look fat or not.

And putting this once-furtive fantasy on the table is energizing. Threesomes suddenly seem to be everywhere, although the message about them is paradoxical: Everyone (at least everyone male) wants to have one, but no one's had a good one...yet!. A friend says he bedded two women on the night of September 11, 2001, as they all watched television together. But — as in many stories I hear — there's adisparity or an imbalance. One of the women had a serious, unreciprocated crush on him. "Inside every threesome is a twosome and a onesome.

I'm undaunted, but no closer to finding a candidate. Fortunately, my husband and I extend the deadline a few weeks past his birthday after realizing that, between work trips and school holidays, we don't actually have time for a threesome until the end of the month.


I decide to have a look through some websites. Perhaps not everyone on them has a STD? At least a dozen couples are seeking a woman for a threesome. The couples all claim to be gorgeous and under 30. Since I can't compete on looks or age, I decide to distinguish myself by sounding desperate: "I'd like to give my partner his best birthday present ever: an experience with me and another woman. Will you help me?"

To my surprise, I get a reply fifteen minutes later. It's literate and nice.

"Hi, I also have a boyfriend with the same fantasy (not very original, I know, but boys will be boys!!). Maybe we could end up doing a deal  If we like each other, I'd be happy to help out. What kind of scenario did you have in mind?"

She signs it "N."

It may seem imprudent to pledge loyalty to an anonymous, bisexual woman who trolls "no-strings" websites, but I decide right there and then that I won't respond to anyone else. I like her sisterly tone and her perfect spelling. I'm not sure about the exchange deal, but that doesn't seem to be mission-critical for her (although when I read the e-mail to my husband that night, he says, "I'll swap you").

We exchange more e-mails (I call myself "P"). It turns out she's a straight, divorced, disease-free mom in her forties who claims she was motivated to answer my ad by a kind of sexual altruism. She also quotes the French expression, "One need not die an idiot." I agree. We decide to meet for a coffee date.

As I'm getting ready to go meet her (silk body fitting dress, foundation, nice lipstick, mascara), I'm suddenly struck by the strangeness of what I'm about to do. It's real, and I'm nervous. How do I convince a woman to unrobe with us. My husband, who spent years of his life addressing this particular challenge, gives me a little pep talk.

"With women, you have to listen to all the stuff they say," he explains. "They have all these complex emotional issues, and you have to try to understand what they are. Just keep asking questions. Be pleasant and reassuring but also slightly evasive." He's probably afraid that I'll change my mind, because he adds that to keep life interesting, sometimes you have to stick your neck out.

"It's not my neck that's going to be sticking out," I say.

I'm already sitting down when N. walks into the café. She's an attractrive, slim brunette with a friendly face. Although she's dressed conservatively, I notice that her makeup is fresh. She must be eager to make a good impression, too. I'm certain that my husband will like her.

I try to seem riveted as she describes her boyfriend woes, her life as a single mom, and the health issues of her elderly father. Despite the peculiar circumstances, she's clinging to the conventions of female bonding. I steer the conversation toward sex. She says she's never been with another woman and isn't sure how she'll feel about that. She doesn't mention the possible swap. We part warmly with a chaste, double-cheeked kiss. I wait several days before sending her a note. I tell her that she's been in my thoughts and that I found her charming "in every way." She replies immediately, saying that she's very keen for our adventure, but that she'd like to discuss it in more detail. Could we meet again?

I'm not sure what kind of plans she wants to make. We'll each suck one of his toes? I'll read him poetry while she pirouettes? The course of things on the day itself seems hard to predict. But by now I'm goal-oriented. If that's what she needs, then I am ok with that.

At our second meeting, her insecurities surface: Do I think this counts as cheating on her boyfriend? ("Of course not!") What kind of women does my husband like? ("Brunettes!") We lay down some ground rules for the threesome. To avoid it getting too thrusty and porn-like, the two of us will be in charge. My husband won't make a move unless we allow it. She and I will go to the small, furnished apartment that he uses as an office, and he'll join us there once we're ready.

"Do you think he'll agree to these terms?" she asks.

"He'll just be glad to be in the room," I say.

Everything seems to be settled, but again we part without finalising a date. I send the usual lovely-to-see-you follow-up. She replies that she enjoyed our conversation, too, but that she'd like to meet once more to talk
about our plans. Again? I'm beginning to doubt whether she'll go through with this. I'm tired of putting on makeup every time I go to meet her, and I'm running out of dresses.

My husband insists that this is the normal pace of seduction.

"Obviously she's not ready yet," he says. "She has some sort of hesitation. You need to work out what it is and help her with it."

On my way to the third meeting, I decide to loosen up and be less calculating. I tease her about all the planning, telling her that I'm making storyboards and cue cards. I confess that this is all a rather big deal for me; she says the same. For a while, I even forget that I'm trying to get her into bed. We coquettishly call each other "N" and "P."

This new mood seems to be what was missing for her. After about an hour, she takes out her calendar, and we schedule the threesome for a week later, the 20th, over lunchtime.

When I get home, my husband is waiting up.

"I decided to just be myself," I tell him.

"Oh, no," he says.

I give him the good news that we have an actual date. To keep his expectations in check, I mention potential glitches, including the fact that her father is 86.

"So? He won't be there, will he?" he says.

"You know there's a possible problem," I say.

"He might hand in his dinner pail? Drop off his perch? Buy a one-way ticket? The best for us would be if he checked out of the hotel on the 21st, earliest," he says.

A week later, N.'s father is fine and I'm getting ready to meet her. "I have a threesome in two hours," I keep boasting to myself. I'm not going to die an idiot.

I meet N. at a café for a quick coffee, then we head to my husband's office around the corner. On the way, I insist that we stop at Woolworths, where I buy cheese, sausage, honey, and bread — in case we work up an appetite later. Clearly I'm shopping to calm my nerves.

When we get up to my husband's office, it's N. who's nervous.

"You're in charge, OK?" she says. Me? We're both relieved when my husband arrives. They introduce themselves. He's immediately very "touchy-feely" with her, which breaks the ice. We have a sort of group hug, and then we agree that he can take off both of our dresses.

My first surprise is that women are allowed to wear jewelry in bed. N. even keeps her large hoop earrings on. My second is that a threesome is so, well, sexual. I'd focused so much on the logistics and the catering that I had forgotten we were all going to be naked.

My third surprise is that, when you're detail-oriented like me, threesomes are confusing. You quickly lose track of who's at which stage. There's a lot of ambiguous moaning. My husband tells me afterward that he got a little lost, too.

Overall, it's nice. I get the sense that we're all trying to divide our attention equitably. There's no clear twosome or onesome. Occasionally, N. and I ask each other "How are you doing?" like old friends.

But after maybe 40 minutes, I lose interest. I wonder whether I might check my e-mail. N. is really quite beautiful, but seeing versions of my own lady parts on her feels vaguely incestuous. Although it's all new, it's too familiar. By contrast, I find my husband extremely appealing. Part of what I like about men, I realize, are the differences between us.

I try to stay attentive — it's a birthday present, after all — but soon I'm just scratching their backs. When I glance at the clock, I'm surprised to see that only an hour has passed. I had no idea that sex could be so ... long. I realize, with some alarm, that they're both probably more sexual than I am. I like it plenty, but I'm satiable.

Finally, they tire themselves out. There's a sweet moment at the end when the three of us lie together under the covers, with the birthday boy in the middle. He's beaming from ear to ear. I'll later get a series of heartfelt thank-you notes from him, saying it was as good as he had hoped.

"It affirmed for me how much I like the female form. When you have two, it accentuates that," he tells me afterward.

N. seems very pleased, too. On the walk home, she says she's surprised by how erotic she found the whole experience, especially being with me. I'm flattered to have converted her. But I feel like the Christian missionary who realizes — just after the big revival — that she's actually more of a Jew. I'm not nearly as gay as I thought I was. I'd always felt that there might be something else out there. Now — and not just by the process of elimination — I'm struck by how emphatically I want my husband.

I'm left feeling unsettled. I can't wait to shower. Sadly, I'm more conventional than I'd thought. In theory, I didn't mind sharing my husband for an afternoon. In practice, I was shaken up. I wasn't bored; I was bothered.

Still, I don't forget my etiquette. I send N. a polite thank-you note. Her reply suggests that she'd like a repeat performance. I'm not planning on it. My own birthday's coming up, and I think I'd like a nice watch.