The Junction
Published in

The Junction

My First Threesome Experience

Believe me, I needed a stiff drink after my family had left to return home. I’d been pretty good for a few days, just having a drink in the evening. But, honestly, being good isn’t something high on my agenda.

Which is why, when asked if I was interested in being part of a threesome, I didn’t exactly shy away from the proposal.

I think back over my life and I truthfully don’t ever recall being invited to share in such an experience. Why not. Nothing is ever too late.

The nightclub, upon entering, had that sleezy feel to it, literally; the beer mats were stuck to the bar. On the small dimly lit stage a comedian, wearing a tacky suit, with long side burns, ridiculous sunglasses, told jokes that choked in front of the patrons. I thought I was having a drink in Purgatory — some drinking establishment mid-way between Heaven and Hell. I swear, there should have been a neon sign on the outside wall proclaiming this to be the In-between Lounge, where the good guys and bad guys come to have a drink and forget their troubles.

Looking around, it’s a mixed bunch; salesmen, bankers, alter-boys, old and young, and angels that don’t look anything close to being angelic, more like ruffians, and several other scary characters, all drinking, smoking and cavorting with hot, non-angelic, women who wore nothing more than what looked like a curtain of beads.

The comedian, I hesitate to call him that, tapped the microphone and introduced a group of young men. These weirdos made up a band consisting of a drummer, a man with a guitar, and a pianist. Pete, the guitar guy, and vocalist, most caught my attention. He was wearing a small pair of fluffy wings on his back and a halo attached to his baseball cap.

The name on the front of his T-shirt reads Pete. Lest, I assume, he should forget who he is after a few more snorts of coke. Dressed the way he is, he’d be better suited to the name Gabriel. All that being said, the band were called The Demons. Go figure.

The woman behind the bar, surprisingly, was modestly dressed, with just her breasts bared. She’d probably be in her mid-fifties, not unattractive, and I think I could make a case for assuming she had all the qualities of a socialite.

Pete performed a drum roll then smacked the cymbals. The Demon fans cheered and clapped. Tony, the pianist, puffed away on his cigarette.

I haven’t seen you in here before, the barmaid said, pulling my second pint.

Does that mean you know everyone in here? I said. My eyes felt like they were aching to drop away from keeping eye contact, wanting to gaze upon her sumptuous, if implanted breasts.

Then the discipline was shot.

Sorry, I said. Admitting I had no self-control over what my eyes preferred to stare upon.

That’s why these puppies are out, don’t be shy, she said. And she shrugged her shoulders in a manner that had those globes bouncing.

So, I said, looking around, you know everyone in here?

It’s always the regulars. Quite rare these days, having a new face at the bar.

I don’t recall how or why I chose a nightclub called Little Darlings. I think it just looked dirty enough to fit my mood.

I dislike intensely my family coming from so far to love me, but more, I hate their leaving. Even Reckless, not eager to warm to my nephews, looked sad at their going.

Loving family is so fucking hard.

The barmaid had moved down the bar to a guy, obviously a biker, complete with wiry full beard, tattoos and who, like me, couldn’t find the discipline to look at anything above her neck.

After the Demons finished their second number, the comedian reappeared, tapped his mic, and introduced the next act.

Now, for your undiluted pleasure, please welcome, Nightshade. There was some awakening in the seedy dark, even applause. The girl who then appeared on stage under a spotlight, looked to be anything between twenty and thirty years old.

Another for you? The barmaid said.

Oh crap, I was surely caught gawking at the spectacularly naked girl on the stage. I brought back my attention.

Well, why not. I’m not driving, and my hotel is close.

She pulled me another Pliny.

Can I ask you something? I said.

Go ahead.

What makes such a beautiful girl take up that kind of occupation? I said, slanting my head toward the stage.

She followed in her mother’s footsteps. It pays well. It’s an honest business. Not for everyone.

You know her mother? I said. But that went unheard as she had slipped away to serve a guy who looked, in every aspect, homeless, but was probably downplaying his wealth. This is San Francisco, after all.

The biker had already moved from his spot at the bar to a better vantage point. I never left my barstool.

For the next fifteen minutes I was the only guy sitting at the bar.

You didn’t come in to enjoy Nightshade? The barmaid said.

I don’t know why I came in. My family left today, heading back to Europe. I drove them to the airport and didn’t feel like making the three-hour drive back to Mendocino. I just needed something, and that something was a drink. I took a walk and well, here is where I stopped walking.

That’s a Ted Baker shirt you’re wearing, right? She said.

My eyes, finally, made the greatest effort to keep eye contact. It is, I said. Her remark surprised me. What else does she know?

A gallon of beer deep and I didn’t care how bloated I felt. At this point, I was still missing my family.

If I became vertical, gravity would strike me down.

I assumed the woman had years of experience behind a bar, knowing something about all kinds of men. I realized her face was quite beautiful. A loosely tied ponytail hanging to the right, and fake but great eyelashes.

I imagine there’s not much you don’t know about men, I said.

There’re only two types of men, honey.

I wasn’t drunk enough to chase that statement from across the bar. I knew which category I would fit into. I was saved from a momentary silence by a shout.

Mom, get me a diet coke, please.

It was the girl from the stage, wrapped in a robe. Hell, I’ve been talking to her mother all this time.

The daughter looked spectacularly beautiful. A moment later she tied on an apron and came the other side of the bar. I smiled and looked at the barmaid. She smiled back. We both understood what the other was thinking.

The comedian was failing badly. It takes a certain type of person to want to get on stage or on camera and be the center of attention. I have met many entertainers, from the obscure to the known to the world famous. I believe that the desire to get on stage and be worshiped by a crowd comes from an unhealthful place. Perhaps they came from a broken home. Or were brutally bullied while in school.

As I emptied my glass the barmaid stood directly across from me. My discipline and good manners came to the fore.

You don’t like them? She said.

I was left in no doubt as to what she was referring.

I wasn’t going there, either. What’s your name? I said.

My professional name, or my real name.

Real.

Wrong choice, that’s the one I don’t share.

Okay, professional?

You’re about to hear it.

Just then the comedian was introducing the next act.

…and now for the star of the show. Please welcome, Misty.

There was applause, some whistling, and impolite calling out.

Misty stepped out onto the stage. I recalled her saying how the last act had followed into her mother’s profession. Somehow, some reason, I didn’t want to see everything of her nakedness. I turned back to the bar and sipped at my beer. I didn’t look back to the stage for another fifteen minutes. Nightshade now served at the bar, taking wisecracks from three younger guys.

You can sit on my face any day of the week, Nightshade, the tallest Baby Boomer said, obviously in the tec industry, wearing a shirt with his Google identity badge still hanging around his neck.

I’ll be sure to let you know next time I want to take a shit, Nightshade said.

In my stupor, I imagined each day this mother and daughter came to work having perpetual dreams of and flighty plans to escape the hospitality industry. It’s ironic that these people were constantly hatching plans to get out of this place, whereas I actually sought refuge in this little community of sordid dreamers.

Clearly, I don’t have a body worthy of your glances, the returned barmaid said, this time her breasts covered.

Beer has always enabled me to shed embarrassment. Not at all, I think you’re stunningly attractive.

What’s your name? She said.

My real name or my professional one?

The smile that happened on her face, it shot me straight to the heart.

Touché! She said.

I’m Harry.

She reached across the bar, offering her hand. Louise, she said.

What had always made me more uncomfortable were the vulnerable moments. Maybe that’s why I have always avoided eye contact.

What do you do, Harry?

I’m retired, professionally.

Okay, what did you do?

A bit of flying, some sailing, I said.

Whatever you did, it was hard. I wanted to question why she would assume such a thing, but she went on… It always put me off when a guy’s hands were softer than mine.

My version of flirting probably came off a little sloppy. I guess that’s a lot to do with age.

I cannot imagine rough hands over your body, I said. Then choked worse than the comedian.

Most people have deal breakers when it comes to the opposite sex: conflict of religion, bad breath, or black hair. For me, if they don’t drink, they’re outta here! She said.

She didn’t, couldn’t have known how those few words comforted me.

You live for adventure. You’re one with too much curiosity, and I must admit, you probably have a lot of charm. She said.

Louise looked at the clock behind her, then rang a bell. Let’s have everyone out of here, please.

Thank heavens, I only have a quarter mile to walk, or stumble, or fall asleep in a doorway.

I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Louise, and pulled out my wallet to pay my tab.

Thanks, Harry, she said, then, is that a golf membership I saw in your wallet?

Yes, St. Andrews.

My daughter and I are members at the Olympic Club. We are playing tomorrow morning. Do you want to join us for a threesome?

And that was it, that was the invitation. In my life I’ve never played golf with two women.

What time?

Let’s do 7:00 am, the light is just coming up.

I’ll be there, Louise.

Hard to believe, but I always keep my clubs in my car, and my penis in my pants.

I had suddenly forgotten the pain of letting my family go…

(To be continued)

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Harry Hogg

Harry Hogg

I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the coast of Scotland. Now living between Colorado, Missouri, California. I write to be loved