Honest Liars

Mr. Robinson had worried me since our first phone conversation because he particularly emphasized the need for our relationship to feel mutual. It had been a bit of an ego bruise for him to pay for my company, particularly at my above-market rates, but he had acquiesced. He had authored his own WYP page, there was no denying he at least anticipated some kind of monetary exchange when attempting to date people in their 20’s. But he wanted to be wanted, and while that is understandable, this is the sex industry, baby. You pay for us to be honest liars.

After our first outcall, I hadn’t known if he would go for another night. I’m not the most convincing when it comes to erotic pleasure. I can serve attentiveness, but not unfettered orgasmic desire. But to my surprise, he texted me the next day saying he wanted to do it again in the near future. Sometimes these wants blow away in the wind, but other times, the intent has some weight to it. Shortly after that text, he followed up with a photo of a woman.

Mr. Robinson: Tomorrow my pretty fuck buddy is coming over, and she wants to have a threesome with another girl.

It was a bold move, but if there was one thing I knew about Mr. Robinson from our two encounters, it was that the man had no trouble cannonballing into complicated situations.

It was a compelling proposition, and I realized with surprise that I hadn’t ever gotten this request prior. I mean, why not hire an escort to fulfill your more ambitious fantasies? I looked at the photo. The woman was in her late forties or early fifties, and looked like one of those bleached blonde insufferable Beverly Hills housewives. I love an older woman, but not that sort of older woman. Still, I didn’t want to be judgmental. I certainly was not commenting on Mr. Robinson’s style. Primarily because he lacked any semblance of style. I decided to keep an open mind, and hoped we might find middle ground.

In all honesty, I haven’t had a lot of threesomes in my life, and none that I’ve been particularly wowed by. They were all fine. I was always the unicorn third, willing to fuck couples for the experience. My last threesome had happened before I realized I could monetize my adventurous propensities. Back in my nonprofit days, my goal had been just to increase my body count and to check off objectives on my to-do list. Even now, I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve had sex with less than forty people. One day I’ll hit two-hundred, and then I will order myself a commemorative cake.

Anyway, after trying a few threesomes, I realized that it wasn’t my cup of tea. I prefer to focus my energy on one person at a time. The third person adds so many variables. I feel like somebody always has to be directing who does what when, even if it’s sexy instructions like, “yeah baby, now lick my clit.” While I am a whore, aside from that, I am relatively vanilla in my personal life. I’ve tried the whips and chains, but they don’t excite me.

However, trepidation aside, the story teller in me was excited for the threesome. I wanted to do it for the sake of doing it. I hadn’t considered the category, but threesome with people in their 50’s is now a box I can say I’ve checked.

Mr. Robinson overestimates how much of a night owl he is. He is not capable of being alert past midnight. He initially invited me over for 8:30p, then tried to make it 7p, which was not doable. Earlier that day, I had shot the rainbow photoshoot, then afterwards I’d run errands and taken a few conference calls. I’m a busy fae. I had shit to do, and he would have to wait his turn.

When I arrived, Mr. Robinson and his fuck buddy had already gotten the party started. It was clear they had been drinking, and I needed to drink.

Mr. Robinson: My lesbian business partner got me this very nice bottle of tequila for Christmas. I think you’ll approve.

Mr. Robinson retrieved a ceramic bottle of tequila from his liquor cabinet and poured three shots. It was at this point that his lady friend came over to us.

Mr. Robinson: Selena, Valeska. Valeska, Selena. And now we take a shot!

She smiled at me, then sniffed the shot, making a face.

Valeska: What is this? It’s not cognac?

I was so grateful to hear that she spoke with a deep Eastern European accent. She was not a Beverly Hills housewife. I felt immediately more at ease. While Europeans can definitely be neo nazi’s (they were the OG nazis), I tend to get more explicit neo nazi energy from white Americans. Eastern Europeans experience xenophobia and other systemic exclusions in the US, which makes it easier to relate to them. They too enjoy a generous serving of marginalization from that USA buffet of oppression I know so well. Chatting with Valeska was a million times better than trying to maintain a conversation with some American Exceptionalism™-Kool Aid-sipping Karen.

Mr. Robinson: No, it’s special tequila my lesbian business partner got for me.

Mr. Robinson loves drilling in the sexual orientations and races of the people around him.

Valeska: I shouldn’t. I’ve already had too much. And I don’t want to mix alcohols.

Mr. Robinson: C’mon, it tastes like butterscotch!

I took a sip of the tequila. It was smooth and sweet. Definitely a million times better than his bottle of frat-house-Patrón.

Me: It is very good.

I drank the first shot in under a minute, and before I realized how fast I was going, I’d made it through three more. It was just very tasty tequila. And tequila is my lady. It didn’t take long before the conversation devolved into me and Valeska talking shit about the United States, how people here don’t know how to party, and what a sham democracy we’re living under. Mr. Robinson grew increasingly uncomfortable as the tide turned against him. He was clearly representing a Standard White American Man in our unflattering equation.

Mr. Robinson: You can’t hate all Americans. You like me, and I’m about as American as they come.

Valeska and I looked at Mr. Robinson with the same “don’t be hurt little man” expression. Men are fragile creatures.

Valeska: No, Jeff. We love you. You’re a good man.

She stroked his arm, assuringly. I downed the rest of my shot of tequila.

Me: Yeah, you’re fine. But America is a sham.

Valeska: My children said, “Come! You’ll love it!” So I came. I wanted to be near them. But I don’t like it. I am glad I made it before everything closed with the pandemic, otherwise it would have been harder to get in.

Me: Where are you from originally?

Valeska: Moldova. It’s a small country in Europe, near Ukraine, if you know where that is.

She didn’t say it with any hint of condescension, just an acknowledgment that I might not know where her country is on a map, similar to the way that I don’t expect foreigners to know where Oklahoma is, or that it exists.

Me: That’s cool. Do you miss it?

Valeska: So much. Back there I had a career. I was a journalist interviewing kings, prime ministers, and other important politicians across the world. I had private meetings with the Ayatollah of Iran, and people knew who I was. I was naive, thinking because I speak five languages and had a career in Moldova that the Americans would love me. Stupid me, ha.

Me: Wow, five languages. That’s really impressive. Which languages?

Valeska: I speak Moldovan, Russian, French, English, and Ukranian.

Me: That’s so cool.

Valeska: And now instead of reporting, I work at Bloomingdales. Because Americans don’t like to hire reporters with accents.

Me: Americans are xenophobes.

Mr. Robinson: Let’s talk about something else.

Valeska: Yes sweetie, you’re right. Let’s talk about something less serious.

Mr. Robinson: Another drink? Val, you want another cognac and coke?

Valeska: No, I can’t. I’ve had too much already.

Mr. Robinson: Selena? Can I get you some water?

Me: Yes please.

Valeska: Let’s get comfortable.

We moved our party over to the sofas. Mr. Robinson had a fire going in an artificial fireplace with fake logs punctuated by flames fueled with gas. It was a fireplace as real as The American Dream--which is to say a hollow illusion.

Mr. Robinson and Valeska began making out. He reached up her dress to fondle her cunt. The threesome was beginning, and I realized I was pretty wasted. I’d let my love of fancy alcohol get in the way of my typically moderated drinking habits. But Mr. Robinson had been somewhat right: the tequila was so smooth and roundly sweet that it did taste a bit like butterscotch. My clit was flaccid beyond help. The best I could hope for was that my hole would be kinda wet because of my youth.

Valeska: Come over here and kiss me, baby.

I gathered myself, wishing I had just one more sip of alcohol within reach, in spite of how blitzed I was, but my cup was in the kitchen. I went over to kiss her. I felt nervous, sure she would be able to sense my ambivalence. It’s much easier fooling men than it is fooling women.

The troubles with threesomes abound when not all partners are fluid bonded. I was certainly not fluid bonded with either of them, which meant we needed multiple condoms on hand. It wasn’t like I was about to allow Mr. Robinson to dive between our respective vulvas, shoveling one and then the other like people do in the pornos. If he wanted to fuck Valeska, he had to remove the condom, and then if he wanted to fuck me, he needed to open up a whole new condom every goddamn time. It seemed like more work than it was worth in the end, but I wasn’t about to pipe up with commentary.

After a while of threesome-ing we each needed bathroom breaks. Valeska and I went first, then Mr. Robinson went. When he left the room, we had a moment to chat alone.

Valeska: I hope this is good for you. I’ve never done this before, with someone getting paid. I mean, I am here for free.

She chuckled at her statement. I didn’t know what to say. I was enjoying myself, but not for any of the reasons one might want for this kind of sexual tryst. I was enjoying the story of the moment while I was physically divorced from my sensations.

Me: I’m having fun. I like you, and Jeff is cool.

Valeska: Let me know if you want anything. I want to make you feel good too.

Me: I will.

But I couldn’t, because in that moment there wasn’t much I could tap into within my body. I primarily felt drunk. Secondarily, I worried Mr. Robinson would bruise my cervix and make the sex I would have later in the week less enjoyable as a result. Thirdly, I felt awkward as I faked my way through our ménage à trois. It was a lot to navigate with two people who were essentially strangers. I didn’t even have a groove yet with Mr. Robinson, and now I had to get to know the body of another person. As an aside, Valeska was cuter in person. She had a well preserved little body, considering her age and that she had popped out a few kids. I wasn’t upset to be fucking her, even if I felt self-conscious about my technique.

Valeska had a few orgasms by the end. I can’t remember if Mr. Robinson came. I think he might have at some point. I didn’t come. I tried to fake an orgasm, but neither Mr. Robinson nor Valeska believed me. When Valeska left for another bathroom run, Mr. Robinson asked me privately.

Mr. Robinson: Do you not want to come? Is something wrong?

Me: I don’t think I can. I’ve had too much to drink.

Mr. Robinson: Okay, don’t worry about it then. Next time we’ll have fun, just you and me.

I was glad to hear he intended to hire me again. I didn’t know how he perceived the success of this threesome. Was it a win for him? Had we scratched his fantasy itch, or was he as hyper perceptive as Valeska and I were? Mr. Robinson weaves between deep thinking and thoughtlessness. Perhaps it’s a form of zen. Perhaps it’s blinding waves of privilege obscuring his innate perceptiveness.

Mr. Robinson wanted to continue playing after our brief pause. As he focused on me, Valeska began drifting off to sleep. He tried to rouse her, hoping she would join in, but she swatted him away. She had had her fun. It was getting late. After a point, he too gave up and pulled me in to cuddle against the two of them. It was surprisingly wholesome. I laid with them, intermittently checking the time. Once again, we had wrapped well before midnight. I wasn’t sure if I was obliged to stay until midnight or if I might be free to dip out early.

I stayed put for about ten minutes, then began making moves. Mr. Robinson didn’t try to pull me back in. He watched as I fumbled about, searching for my clothes and anything else I may have dropped during our romp. Valeska briefly opened her eyes to see what was going on, then returned to her somnescent state.

It was a threesome like all the other threesomes I’ve had, which is to say, overly complicated with minimal payoff. If the goal is simply the threesome, then I suppose that goal was met. But if the goal was exponential pleasure, I’m not sure if any of us had a better time than we would have had with one-to-one sex. Perhaps I’m just not adventurous. Perhaps I’m jaded about threesomes because I haven’t had a mindblowing, delicious orgy. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it more were I sober. Maybe it’s just a matter of all of us getting to know each other better, and learning over time. I don’t know, but in the end, I’m sure Mr. Robinson will arrange for another round with Valeska and me.