See, we were taking a class about making movies, so we decided to get together on the weekend and make one for practice. Six women, all from the class, and Mark, who tagged along with Janice because he thought it sounded like a good time. God knows where she met this long, tall, twenty-something drink of water, with his sweet face – and did I mention his cock was perfect? – but Janice prowled many streets. Unlike some of her finds, Mark was a keeper. He wound up fucking each of us in turn, never coming, giving each woman his complete focus, a tall, young, adorable sex toy of a man.
Now, I’ve pulled a couple of trains in my time – nothing that set any records, but hot just the same. There’s something about taking on all comers (so to speak) – maybe because it’s the classic slut fantasy, the one so many women are ashamed to have, or maybe it’s because when you fuck four or five or ten people, if you warm up at all, you get
really
warm. And I was raised to be a nice and compassionate person – it’s sad to see someone moping on the sidelines, like the only little kid in the class not invited to the popular kid’s birthday party. I’ve always figured that if you exercise some judgment in choosing people to socialize with, there should be no great problem with fucking them later in the evening, if it comes to that.
Still, there’s something special about a guy who can fuck one after the other, never flagging, never letting one woman feel he liked the last one better or he’s looking forward to the next. This man was not just thinking about baseball. He was truly sweet, truly present with each, which I knew because I was saving myself for last, magnanimously saying, “Oh, no, you go ahead,” when it was time to switch. I knew this might leave me with leftovers – an exhausted boy who only wanted to cuddle – but it seemed as though he knew how to pace himself. So for most of the afternoon I sat at the head of the bed watching, studying Mark with each of them. I saw the sweat and the eye contact, the murmured getting-to-know-you that’s so inexorable and intimate when it happens when you’re already fucking. Don’t get me wrong, I know plenty of fucks fly by with hardly any intimacy at all, but if you’ve never experienced the kind where you’ve barely said six words before your bodies meet, yet when you’re done you feel like you know the person deeply – well, you’ll just have to take my word for it.
I know what you’re wondering: If this is a bisexual story, why didn’t all the women get into a big pile? Maybe we weren’t very attracted to each other. More likely, we were all a little mesmerized by this force of nature. Boys like this don’t come down the pike every day.
When it was my turn, sure enough, Mark wrapped me up in a cloud of sweet, slow fuck. Jeez, he must have been studying tantra. Say all you want about casual sex, but I can tell you, it’s completely possible to have a no-name fuck and get the message that you are precious, absolutely precious. Mark and I beamed that to each other as our hips escalated their speed. It was the only message to send, each of us a young seeker of exotic knowledge and true nirvana in the wild jungles of sex.
Of course my first thought (well, OK, my third or fourth thought) was that I wanted to take him home to Boyfriend.
The night Boyfriend said, “Lucky Pierrre is the one in the middle,” Mark was in me just as deep as he’d been that first day, a slow pump that put me in such a fuck-haze that Boyfriend’s presence was almost irrelevant. This is why people are scared to have threesomes: if two of them feel like this, what will the leftover person do? In real life, of course, a scene like this could turn into a jealous fit, even escalate into a divorce. But life with Boyfriend was like real life, only better: if his girlfriend was busy falling in love with the trick, no problem! He’d find something to keep himself amused. When you’re fucking – especially when you’re fucking more than one person at a time – there are always plenty of things to do. He had already slid his fingers into my cunt, massaging my wet velvet walls and Mark’s cock simultaneously – this made everyone happy, including Boyfriend, because Mark really had the cock of an angel, big but not too, shaped like cocks were meant to be. And Boyfriend had had his hands on a lot of cocks – several thousand at least – which meant that he had hands that could probably have touched any cock in the world and made it happy, hence his remarkable rate of success with straight men. When your cock is in such hands, why fuck it up by getting all homophobic?
Boyfriend was, however, ready to up the ante. In fact, I think Boyfriend’s middle name was “Up the Ante”, or maybe just “Up the Ass”, because that’s where he liked to go, and that’s where he usually wound up, even with men who had never before thought that they might
have
an asshole. As Mark fucked me, he made a moving target, but to an old pro like Boyfriend that didn’t matter. I heard condom noises from miles away. I had already come several million times, it seemed, and neither Mark nor I focused much away from the slow dance that engaged our cunt and cock.
Until I felt a steady increase in the weight on me, heard Mark moan – a good moan, not a bad one, a deep
Ohhh
of a let-your-breath-out-and-the-cock-come-in moan – as Boyfriend’s cock met Mark’s back thrust and rode forwards along with us, burrowing into Mark’s asshole just as slowly as Mark’s cock sank into me. A perfectly timed, come-along-for-the-ride kind of move, Boyfriend’s hips pumping exactly in time with Mark’s, and the energy changed just as perfectly: all of a sudden I was fucking them both. Pierre may be the guy in the middle, the one who gets the most sensation and attention, but each of us could feel the other two, Boyfriend’s cock gradually nudging Mark’s cock into Boyfriend’s own rhythm, driving us both like a team of horses. This made it feel as though there were two cocks in me, not filling me up like two cocks really would (yeah, of course we tried that later) but energetically, one fucking the other fucking me, as Boyfriend’s cockhead rubbed the base of Mark’s cock over and over.
Maybe this is the true basis of male homophobia. Guys, when fucking, know their ass is sticking up for anyone to plug. It might as well be painted on in neon letters: “Fuck me! I’m an ass-phobic straight guy!” Some big fag like Boyfriend is going to come along and become the ultimate topman, pin Mr Missionary Position like a bug on a corkboard. I’m sure the charm of this situation was not lost on Boyfriend, though he had the decency not to brag about it when he was fucking straight-boy butt: a fey boy, fag since youth, able, with the help of a glop of lube, to subvert a heterosexual coupling, turn it perverse, bend it from two to three, from straight to queer, from vanilla to kinky.
And if you do it right in the first place, he’ll bend over any time you like. The arrow will never really straighten out again.
This was one of the bases for Boyfriend’s and my arrangement; in a way, I helped get the boys in, held them down while he worked his ass magic, gave them just enough of the familiar – hot hungry pussy, legs wrapped around their backs – to allow them to assimilate his cock without freaking out. Together, we were a walk on the wild side.
Maybe some of the men we fucked went home and cried, got drunk, went into therapy. But Mark fucked back, ass opening easily to new knowledge, greedy for pleasure from both ends. He was as open to sensation as he was to love. If fucking me was like saying a mantra, getting fucked was like
being
the prayer. Filled with cock, his cock in me, he became a fulcrum, sex and sensation perfectly balanced, and I felt the song of his come build up in him as he climbed higher and higher. Surfing pure fuck, anyone’s come was everyone’s come – any one of us could have been Lucky Pierre, the one in the middle.
When you fuck someone over and over, you learn them and you create a new entity, the fuck of your relationship, your ongoing connection. Your sexual energy weaves together, making a new thing that is of you but beyond you. You can’t create it again with anyone else, not exactly. This is true when you fuck one person, and it’s just as true when you fuck more.
When you fuck someone only once you enter into chance, ride a wave of fate, then sweep up on the shore. Many waves, one ocean: most of us go out and ride the waves again, but not
that
wave.
Mark died shortly after I brought him home to Boyfriend, doubtless just after making someone else happy, for that seemed to be his brief and shining path. His motorcycle slid on a rainy curve; his last threesome was with it and a speeding car.
When you fuck someone only once, someone you’ll never be able to fuck again, it’s as evanescent as the spun sugar crown on top of the fancy dessert, and just as delicious. I imagine the three of us, on each other, and I circle around and around the image, stopping and starting us like we were wind-up toys, or computer animation. In a place where time stops, just like it did for Mark, we are fucking right now, will fuck perpetually – I visit that place in glimpses and always will. He will always be Lucky Pierre, and I – oh, I’m just lucky.
In memory of Mark.
The Magnificent Threesome
Elspeth Potter
The One-Eyed Man saloon was not providing the entertainment DeVille was waiting for. His companion, Harcourt, was hunched over a small bound notebook, turning his stub of pencil over and over between his big, blunt fingers. DeVille doubted the numbers would change tonight. The next town along was hosting a fandango after a performance of the travelling Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, and the streets had emptied by noon. Not a soul had entered who was interested in playing cards or hiring guns; the patrons, all two of them, came in, drank, gave him and Harcourt a suspicious glance, and left. He’d seen pitched battles that were friendlier.
He fluttered his deck of cards between his hands in a never-ending stream while he pondered how best to irritate Harcourt, and thus distract him from his obsessive accounting. It wasn’t getting them to San Francisco any sooner.
“It’s closing time,” the saloon’s owner Miss Kitty said, leaning over their table. A tuft of dark hair poked out of her red dress’ low-cut bosom, and she needed a shave. DeVille had been surprised, when they’d first arrived two days ago, how few of the customers seemed to mind Miss Kitty’s eccentricities. Then again, it was the only saloon in town.
“I know you must get your beauty sleep every night,” DeVille commented. He gathered the cards into one hand and smiled up at her.
Miss Kitty laughed like mountains crumbling and tapped the back of his head. He grabbed for his hat. She said, “You are a caution, Mr DeVille. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”
“I am so sorry, ma’am, but me and the captain here have other plans,” DeVille said. “Right, Harcourt?”
Harcourt put away his notebook. He looked up long enough to say, “Yes.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
DeVille knew what the locals thought: Harcourt looked dangerous. A coloured man with deep-set eyes and lean cheeks, he wore black from hat down to scarred cavalry boots. The grips of his two low-slung Colt revolvers gleamed with use, and he didn’t hide the Bowie knife sheathed at his back. His voice was deep and rough as his appearance.
DeVille, a round-faced white man with a tidy moustache, knew he looked as if he’d come from another country entirely, though both men hailed from Holmestown, New Jersey. He made an effort to look less dangerous and more prosperous than Harcourt. Today he wore snug fawn pantaloons and a brocade frock coat the colour of good red wine. His embroidered gold waistcoat glowed over a minutely pleated cream linen shirt with a string tie. He reached into his breast pocket, but Miss Kitty laid a giant hand on his arm.
“I’ll run you a tab,” she purred.
“Why, thank you, Miss Kitty,” DeVille said. “And I’ve been thinking – why don’t you call me Virgil? It doesn’t seem fair, me using your Christian name and you not knowing mine.”
Miss Kitty giggled. This sound was more like rocks tumbling down a mineshaft. “Oh, you sweet thing,” she said. “Don’t you forget to have a drink with me next time.”
“I most surely would never forget!” DeVille said. He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. Harcourt rolled his eyes.
As they exited, a slender young cowboy entered, battered hat in hand, his longish blond hair tied back into a stubby queue. He wore a long sourdough coat, stained dark with waterproofing. DeVille gave him a second glance, and then a longer, more appreciative one as he hurried into the saloon, graceful in his high-heeled boots. Harcourt elbowed him. He sighed and let himself be drawn out of the swinging doors.
They’d gone barely ten steps when Miss Kitty bellowed after them. “Virgil! Captain Harcourt!”
DeVille looked at Harcourt, who lifted his eyebrows. They retraced their steps. The cowboy sat at their vacated table. Seeing his face clearly for the first time, DeVille was startled by the softness of his features, though he was clearly no longer a young boy. Without beard or moustache, his lips had a plush curve, just waiting for someone to press with their thumb.
Miss Kitty poured the cowboy a glass of whiskey and placed it in front of him, but he didn’t drink it. Miss Kitty said, her expression fierce, “Some rowdies attacked the Widow Larimer’s spread, just outside of town. Austin here’s her wrangler, and he thinks they’ll be back.”
The Widow Larimer was a coloured lady. DeVille imagined she hadn’t been interested in the Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, either. Before Harcourt could say they’d risk their lives for free, he named their rates.
Austin looked up at that. He was beardless, but no fool, that was clear. “She told me to hire Captain Harcourt.”
“Where he goes, I follow,” DeVille said. “Ever since we were boys. But I’m only half his price, since he’s the better shot.”
After a little haggling, DeVille stowed away their advance money. Austin would ride ahead; they had to retrieve their horses from the livery. As they headed for the Widow Larimer’s ranch, Harcourt said, “You only follow me because it suits you. You’ve been getting me into trouble ever since we were boys.”
“He paid up, didn’t he?”