The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

Lucky Pierre

Carol Queen

“You know,” said Boyfriend, humping swivel-hipped, with the kind of satisfied tone he got when imparting the Great Wisdoms, “Lucky Pierre is the one in the middle.”

The one in the middle this time was named Mark, however, not Pierre. I had found Mark myself — a rare circumstance. Boyfriend typically used his male sexual socialization to full advantage, plus his uncanny gaydar infallibly told him which fellow in the room might be most open to frank, affable erotic suggestion. Boyfriend was charmingly friendly and direct, asking, “Do you want to fuck?” as easily as most guys would say, “Hey, how about we grab a beer?” Of us two, he was invariably the more comfortable cruiser, and usually the most successful at bringing boys home. This did not always mean gay men; in fact, though Boyfriend was quite open to fucking gay men, being more or less a gay man himself, he was just as interested in bi men and even straight men.

I believe the proper term for Mark would be “bi-curious”, and Boyfriend liked those, too. In fact, I never saw a reasonably cute man Boyfriend didn’t like, though admittedly it helped if he had a foreskin. (Mark was not endowed with one of these, but he had many other charms.) Lucky me, it made for many erotic adventures of the kind I’d always dreamed of but had yet to achieve, my past boyfriends always too straight, my girlfriends too lesbian. Just coming off ten years of dykeitude, already a few months of bisexual adventures with Boyfriend had me well fucked and newly intrigued by the permutations available to bisexual boys and girls.

So I had gone out and found Mark, hoping to score as well as we did with some of Boyfriend’s acquisitions. Well, actually, I didn’t find him; Janice did, but she owed me one after the night I’d fucked one of the other guys she brought to our party. She showed up with this guy, having obviously hinted that he’d get sex — then she pretty much vanished. Well, I wasn’t going to let him just sit there looking uncomfortable — how unhostesslike is that? — but the guy could have been a lot more fun. If Janice was going to show up now with a hot young stud and then bitch about me snagging him, words would be said about her conduct on the previous evening. But she didn’t bitch at all. I can’t imagine anyone feeling bitchy around Mark. He had an angelic demeanour, a gorgeous cock and, what’s more, he shared the wealth.

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.