The Perfect Threesome
The first time you see them, it’s hardly worth writing home about. Or texting a friend, as the case may be. Just another couple on the street, hand in hand, muttering about something the way those in a long-term relationship do, I love yous slipped between did you do the dishes and please take out the trash. You suppose that’s why things go the way they did, why this particular couple drew you in like a magnet, catching your interest and keeping it. But that’s still a ways off.
Just then, you walk into the same building as they do, down a long, stale-smelling hallway that breaks off into a room where a whiteboard reads, CPR RECERTIFICATION. You smile at the woman as she hands a pen to you by the sign in sheet, the bashful expression of two people who followed one another in off the street to the same occasion.
The crowd ranges the gamut of city life, as you expected. Seated in the chairs loosely arranged on one side of the room are new parents, bleary-eyed teachers, teenagers getting their lifeguard certification, and people like you, those anxious to be prepared in an unexpected emergency, plagued by the thought that someone could die in front of you, from a preventable kind of hurt that the right CPR training could have healed.
The class itself is nothing exciting. A series of patient instructors—nurses picking up a few extra dollars, ex-EMTs—display the right amount of pressure to use to the beats of “Staying Alive” and the correct grasp to use when pulling an object from an infant’s throat.
You try the plastic dummy first, face disturbingly blank, man-shaped in a vaguely militaristic way, and something about your hands against the false-flesh of his mannequin chest makes the soft, recently rejected part of your heart flinch away.
This is the closest you’ve gotten to intimacy in longer than you’d like to admit, and that’s not a great realization to have, the fact that a CPR dummy provides your first sexually charged experience in the last few months. It’s distracting, enough so that you don’t move on from your station when the next group goes, and a gentle hand taps you on the shoulder.
It’s the woman from before, long brown hair falling into her face. “Are you okay?”
You nod, swallow. “Yes. Sorry. Just got lost in my thoughts for a second.”
She laughs, a chuckle low in the back of her throat. “No need to apologize. My mind wanders during these things too. I think it’s easier to think about my grocery list than actually needing to save someone’s life.”
Carly, as she introduces herself later, is a social worker who wants to be prepared to help the at-risk adults she works with, and her husband Phillip is a children’s librarian. “We thought it might make a fun date,” she admits, bashfully, after class.
Phillip rests his chin on the top of her head. “We like to multitask. A date, and a professional development opportunity, all in one.”
Even after a few minutes, you find yourself wanting to lean in closer to them. They met in college, during an intro to psychology course, and started dating after a year of hooking up and studying abroad, first her in Chile, then him in Ghana. A connection thrums between them, stronger than just the rings on their left hands, the kind of electric aliveness that allows him to lean against her shoulder while she looks the other way, how his posture opens up when her hand lands on his arm.
It’s something about this, their nearly effortless acknowledgment of one another, that prompts you to ask, “Are the two of you doing anything after this?”
Carly shakes her head. “Cleaning out the garage? But that can wait.”
“Carly will do just about anything to avoid looking at the garage,” Philip says with a smile, resting a hand on Carly’s waist to assure her that his words have no bite. “Even though she’s the one who wants to clear it out so we can park the car in there.”
“I hate when the car’s freezing on winter mornings,” Carly explains, “it makes me want to crawl right back into bed. But,” she tilts her head, “that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Why do you ask?”
You aren’t prepared to explain exactly why you don’t want to say goodbye to these people yet, or why the thought of never seeing them again, all filtering out the door into the Sunday air after class, makes your stomach twinge. “I’m starving,” you admit instead. “Would the two of you want to grab lunch?”
Carly claps her hands, “Yes! We’ve been hoping to try that new sandwich place.”
Phillip runs his fingers up Carly’s side, making her giggle, and winks at you. “She’ll steal your pickle. Even if you think you want it. You’ll look away and when you look back, no more pickle.”
Carly rolls her eyes. “I’m not that bad.”
“Yes,” he winks at you again, inviting you in on this familial joke, “my love, you are.”
Lunch is more fun than you’ve had in a long time. Between bites of pastrami on rye, Philip tells you about workplace drama (hint: everyone is fucking) and Carly teaches you how to balance a spoon on your nose. And they ask you questions too, curious, genuinely meant queries about where you grew up, your favorite books, and if you believe in ghosts. (Carly doesn’t, Philip does, and you aren’t quite sure.)
You know that not all couples are like this, inviting you in instead of out. Many of them sit lost in their own world, making you feel like an interloper or intruder, unwelcome and unwanted, never quite in on the joke.
But when the meal ends, napkins back on the table and drinks finished, Carly looks genuinely stricken when she says, “Can we get your number? It would be terrible to never see you again.”
You take her phone to put your contact information in, trying to focus on something other than the softness of her skin when your hands brush. She smiles so bright when you hand the phone back, that, for a moment, you forget you aren’t looking up at the sun.
Just like that, Carly and Phillip become a part of your life. Dinner once a week, always at a new place, and drinks more often, Carly drawing gossip out of the bartenders while you and Phillip play the strangest songs you can think of, dancing with inhibition to classical music in the middle of an empty dance floor. Sometimes you complain about your dating life to them, the endless conversations that trail off when meeting in person comes up, the thirst traps and miscommunications, and constant, ceaseless swiping.
It’s during one of these nights out, a Saturday where you are more than a little tipsy, that the confession, “I just want something like the two of you,” springs out of your mouth. You mean that you want something comfortable, to be in love and trust that the other person loves you back, but the sentiment sounds sharper, harder edged with teeth, uttered in the low light of this particular dive.
Carly’s cheeks are flushed and Phillip’s hair is falling into his eyes, all three of you a little undone, and suddenly, the air feels unsteady. You stare at one another, tension churning in your stomach, for one, two, three breaths. You swallow, unsure what to say next, and just when the words are forming on the tip of your tongue, someone across the room scores a victory at the ancient pinball machine. Everyone cheers, and the rising noise breaks whatever thread tethered the previous moment of uncertainty.
The night continues on from there without any sort of interruption, ended by a routine hug, Carly and Phillip setting off in one direction, you in the other, but the lingering memory of that momentary strangeness stays on your tongue. It is this memory that flickers in your stomach the following week, when Phillip texts to say how about we make you dinner, instead of going out? And Carly adds we’re great hosts ;).
You spend longer than normal putting together an outfit, not as fancy as a restaurant, not as casual as a dive bar, before deciding on a summery dress with blue flowers, specifically because you like the way it shows off your shoulders. Under the dress, for reasons you don’t dare articulate to even yourself, you’re wearing the kind of matching underwear that demands to be seen.
Their house, which you have never been to before, is cozy and clean. Neither of them make the kind of money that results in those high-ceilinged new developments up the hill, but it’s clearly a home, made beautiful by the gauzy curtains in the front windows, the gentle peach color of the kitchen, and the warm, mildly vanilla scent of every room.
Carly opens the door beaming, in a kelly green crop top/skirt combination that brings out a coy sparkle in her eyes, and tugs you towards the kitchen. Her hand is warm in yours, her grip tight, and you try to ignore the way your organs flip-flop, wanting to press closer to her, wanting to catch her waist from behind and make her laugh the way Phillip does.
Phillip is halfway through dinner-prep, knife sliding cleanly through a series of vegetables as he chops them on the countertop, and you suppress a shiver at the muscles in his hands, the way his forearms flex as he reaches for another cucumber or bell pepper.
Carly pours each of you a glass of wine, her wedding ring winking as she opens the bottle, and hands one to you and one to Phillip, keeping the third for herself. “To friendship,” she proposes, lifting her glass for a toast, “and all the ways friends expand our lives.”
You clink, first with her, then with Phillip, and watch as Carly and Phillip’s glasses find one another. It feels like a flag waved, a race begun. You lean forward, eager to find out what happens next.
The next couple of hours find you in front of a beautiful meal, laughing while Carly and Phillip explain the foibles of a mutual friend, and sat on their couch once the food is eaten, dishes in the dishwasher and kitchen returned to its pre-meal prep level of cleanliness.
Music is playing, a woman’s voice singing softly about lost love and future love and the mysterious ways of the ocean. Carly reaches languidly for your hand, moving it to the sway of the music, and you realize how much you trust these people, this couple who has invited you so easily and kindly into their life.
That realization makes it easy to accept Phillip’s hand on your ankle, Carly’s nod as he moves closer, until your faces are centimeters apart. “Do you want this?” Carly’s question floats in like a voice on a long-distance call, crackling with static and present all the same. “Because we definitely do.”
You nod your consent, over and over again to show how badly you want this, even with words escaping you, trapped in the electricity of Phillip so agonizingly close, his cologne reminiscent of pine trees and campfire smoke.
He waits there, just far enough away to not be touching, until you close the distance. His mouth is open and urgent against yours, the slippery muscle of his tongue firm and teasing all at once. He tastes like red wine and you want him to press closer, until you can feel every part of his body against yours.
His hands thread into your hair, yours exploring the muscle of his chest, the bones of his clavicle, and when you lean back, breathing hard, Carly’s right there. Her eyes are dark, cheeks flushed pink, and something twists beautifully in your stomach when you realize she looks like that, hungry and wanting, because of you.
Phillip nudges you towards her, and it makes you feel brave enough to meet her completely, to bring your hand up to her neck and feel the skin there, soft and pulsing against your fingers. When she leans down, the silky strands of her hair brush against your neck.
Her mouth is even softer, generous as it parts, tingling and glorious as she bites at your lower lip and runs her nails down your arm. Phillip noses at your neck, sucking at the skin over the muscle that meets your shoulder, sending little nips of pleasure down between your legs.
Carly’s approach is wider-ranging, one hand at the back of your neck, tugging gently at your hair, while the other palms at your chest, finding one nipple, then the other. You groan at the contact, wanting more and more and more, more friction, more suction, more of anything these infinitely generous people want to offer, and Carly giggles into your mouth, tugging you into one more head-spinning kiss before pulling away.
She runs a hand down your side, nearly ticklish, teasing smile on her lips like she knows exactly what she’s doing, how the soft presence of her nails makes all the muscles in your abdomen twitch.
You can feel how wet you are, thighs sliding against one another as you wriggle, searching for contact, and as Carly rubs circles around your nipples, scraping just a little with her nails in a way that makes you moan again, breath coming faster and faster, Phillip slides a hand beneath your skirt and Carly tugs it up further with her free hand, pulling it past your hips with one smooth motion. It’s Phillip’s turn to groan, a low rumble in his chest, as you instantly part your legs, and he brings your underwear down, fingers moving to the slippery heat he finds.
Carly must be good at telling him what to do, or some other past girlfriend, because Phillip’s hand finds your clit without ceremony or fear, simply arriving at it like a seasoned traveler, and as he rubs with soft, sure strokes, Carly lifts your skirt even higher, allowing him to kiss across your stomach, and hip bones.
You feel utterly lost between them, or cared for, like you can dissolve into this cocoon of skin and heat and gasping and know that your molecules will all return again, that you will find yourself on the other side, remade with the memory of his fingers pulsing inside you and her mouth against yours.
You come for the first time like that, his fingers stroking you and her tits pressed against yours, and she laughs as you do, a sound of release, leaning down to kiss him in celebration of a job well done.
He’s hard, you can see even through his self-conciously expensive jeans, and you are briefly flattered by the lack of care with which he pulls them off, like fucking you and Carly is more important than any material item ever could be. Carly slides your hands under her shirt, and looks at you with doe eyes, “Will you help me take this off?”
You swallow, words still unable to reach your mouth, and tug it over her head, resulting in a bared set of beautiful tits, prettier than you could have imagined. You kind of want to tell her that you have imagined in your bed at night, wondered what her nipples might look like, how she’d shudder as you moved your hands across them, but there’s no time for that, not when everything is so perfectly present.
Carly winks at you and wraps a knowing hand around Phillip’s cock, stroking up and down in a way that makes his eyelids flutter closed. He groans, arching into her touch, and she turns to you with a teasing eye. “Want to get on?” You aren’t sure if this is allowed, if it’s taking too much, but then she places a fingertip against your lips. “I get him all the time. Don’t worry. I’m really good at sharing.”
Her finger sneaks into your mouth, and your tongue darts up to meet it, salty and a little sweet. She kisses you again, one hand still slowly, tantalizingly moving up and down Phillip, and when she urges you towards him with a soft hand on your back, you follow. You’d listen to any instruction she offers, you realize, as you swing a leg over Phillip, bracing your hand against one of the armrests.
If Carly’s saying it, then it has to be a good idea. Phillip’s laid back on the couch, staring at you like you’re beautiful, as beautiful as his beautiful wife, like there’s enough space in the world for you both to be beautiful, all three of you to want and be wanted, like this is so, so good, and when you sink onto him it’s Carly who gasps, like she and Phillip share some part of the same pleasure center.
You roll your hips once, to see how it feels, and he groans again in that mountainous, rumbling, exhilarating way. It’s a good fit, made better by the way he places his hands at your waist, stable and strong, how you already feel close again, filled to the brim with pleasure.
You reach over to Carly, hand against her stomach, up her ribcage, against her throat, as he moves underneath you, and then you decide it’s time to go big or go home. You take your hand back down, sliding your fingers against her pussy, slippery and heavenly and magic, how her face scrunches up, hips bucking in search of contact.
You slip one finger into her, then another, pulsing your hand the way you like and the urgency of her hips increases, like she wants more, and more, and more, more of your fingers in that spot, at that angle, more of your teeth against her knee when you lean down on a whim to bite at the sensitive spot there.
She seems to find Phillip on instinct, kissing him with the messy, open mouth of someone listening to pure instinct, and he’s moving underneath you like those rolling ocean waves, squiggles of pleasure once again building at your core. You increase your speed against Carly, faster and faster, and your other hand lands at her shoulders, pulling her up, tugging her close enough to feel your bodies together, moving in tandem with Phillip.
You swipe a thumb across her clit and Carly collapses against you, face buried in your neck as she pants, fingers scrabbling for purchase against Phillip’s torso.
You come next, a crest of pleasure that arrives as Carly places a messy kiss on your cheek, scattering your vision. It should be scary, to momentarily lose control like this, to vanish in the shadows of two other people. It’s not.
Instead you feel more whole than you have in a long time, gone to a new land and returned, braver and stronger and more loved than before. Phillip follows, hands guiding your hips as he slows underneath you. He grins at you, boyish and charming, and you blow him a kiss.
He leans up, hand at your jaw, and whispers against your ear. “She’s not done. Put a hand on her lower back, and—” He takes your other hand in his, and places it back against her pussy. Slowly, guiding you, he rubs across the nerves there in broad strokes, pausing to tease lightly at the inside of her thighs. Carly shivers, and tilts her head against your chest.
“Hold her a little more tightly,” he murmurs and of course you listen, bracing Carly up higher, nipping at her jaw as she breathes faster, and faster. He chuckles, and you feel the vibration in your own throat. Your hands move in tandem, methodical, familiar as if you’re the one who married her all those years ago, and just as Phillip bites gently at your bared shoulder Carly shudders and comes back to herself, twitching and breathless all the way.
She’s laughing too now, a soft “that was fun” against your lips, and as you watch them smile at each other, his hand coming up to softly brush hair away from her face, you’re already thinking about what dinner you’ll prepare next time, the kind of wine you’ll offer, how you can’t wait to do this again.