There’s no tactical way of saying it, or sugar-coating it in metaphor; I was propositioned for a threesome this week. On the list of male fantasies, this ranks somewhere between work experience as an FHM photographer and a fortnight at the Playboy mansion. When I asked a friend what I should do he asked whether it was a “good” or “bad” threesome. When I confirmed two women would be involved, he called me fifty shades of mental and asked what any self-righteous heterosexual would if confronted by the same story; “Are you gay?”
In my defence, they were slightly older than me. I say slightly. Rumour has it they were in their early forties, so I wasn’t even a twinkle in father’s eye when they were rebelling against their parents and buying East 17 records. They were both looking good, don’t get me wrong. The toiletries aisle in Tesco can perform miracles. In the right light, at the right angle, and with enough pints of San Miguel flowing through my bloodstream, they may have passed for 39.
Hunched over the bar, listening to a crap covers band called The Kondoms (classy, I know) the two women approached me. Straight away I knew they were up to something because they took the seats adjacent and whispered to each other before turning to me and saying “You’ve got lovely teeth”. I’m barely a beginner in the world of chat-up lines, but even I know that praising someone’s oral hygiene is hardly the quickest route into their pants. I can’t see many lads getting laid when their first words to a member of the opposite sex are “I love your fillings, can I have the number of your dentist?”
“Shut up Leanne” said the other woman, hunched against the bar with a glazed expression. She looked me up and down, softened her expression and elbowed in the conversation once more. “You’re old enough to be his mother” she said, swaying slightly on her seat. At this point, I didn’t help matters. In fact, I spotted an opportunity for a few giggles.
“Nah, you’re far too young” I said, with a soupcon of innocence and a cheeky smile. Straight away, their expressions changed from mild interest to rapt attention. Leanne started stroking my forearm like I was a lost tortoishelle cat. “You’ve got lovely arms too” she purred. “How old are you?” asked the other woman, whose look of drunkenness had been replaced by a curious glare.
“21” I said. “Oohh” they giggled.
“I think I’ve found a toyboy” Leanne said, sipping from her glass of wine with as much suggestiveness as she could muster. “We’re going for a dance Isabelle” Leanne suddenly announced, marching her to the centre of the pub where The Kondoms were murdering ‘Eton Rifles’. I hung back and sat back down with my friend, looking at me with a mixture of pity and awe.
“So are you going to fuck those two birds” he said.
“What?” I shouted, incredulous.
“They want you, dickhead” he continued.
“It’s just flirting” I replied, noting that I can barely get one woman to sleep with me, let alone two at the same time. I walked through the dancefloor, heading for the toilet, but I was not nearly nimble enough. Leanne and Isabelle collared me (literally) and began rubbing themselves against me before I had a chance to gather myself. I looked around the busy pub and more or less everyone was watching. At once I could feel thirty women thinking “Oh, what a pair of sluts” and thirty men thinking “Get in there my son”. Not one to party poop, I joined in until The Kondoms finished their horrific rendition of ‘Pretty Vacant’. It could have been the flailing limbs or mere coincidence, but both women’s hands seemed to find themselves in the vicinity of my crotch on more occasions than natural.
Finally reaching the loos, Roger sauntered in. Roger is a legend of my local football club and many years older than the two women I was dancing with, so surely he would shed some light on the situation and offer the guidance that only age and experience can muster.
“They want you to be the filling in their sandwich” he said, unzipping and staring at the wall.
“Right” I said. “Is this a dream?” At this point, Roger should have put on a lumberjack outfit and started singing ‘We Will Rock You’, as the room dissolves to the twinkles of my 7am alarm clock. But this was reality… This was happening. If I wanted it.
Then the worst thing possible happened. Think of the worst possible thing to happen at that moment. Go on. Think. OK, whatever it is, multiply that by ten and you will arrive where I did after I exited the washroom.
The lights, previously dark and atmospheric, were up. The band was taking an interval and Leanne was in the middle of the dancefloor. It then struck me, the ultimate cockblock. She shares many of the same facial features as my Nan. Ouch.
Once this had sunk in, her further attempts to butter me up were proving fruitless so she eventually gave up and moved on to a bald man wearing an anorak. Still, not bad for a night’s work.