By Holly A. Phillips
Two weeks ago, I decided to come clean about my sexcapades, leading me to realize I have a fear of threesomes.
I wasn’t surprised when my inbox (Gmail, Facebook, and phone) quickly filled with responses.
One of the first ones I read was from a sorority sister. She told me I was going against science in my attempts to have meaningless sex (“Even hookers have to numb themselves,” she said), and that truly amazing sex only came when the two people involved were married and loved each other.
I chuckled as I reminisced her, shacking at the frat houses frequently in college—I take it her drunken romps weren’t so hot.
Most of the other messages were from men, commending me on my brave attempts at having sex in public-ish places, or for just writing it in general.
But a few of the messages I received were from women, claiming that my story was all too familiar—they swore we were sleeping with the same man.
Out of curiosity, I replied, and we played a round of twenty questions. Indeed, we were all sleeping with the exact same man.
He is in his early 30s, has a collection of distinctive tattoos, and is engaged to be married this fall.
And, apparently, he likes to wine and 69 Baton Rouge women after telling them that he’s “never done anything like this before,” and that he’s into threesomes.
I forcefully swallowed this information, as my stomach churned with guilt and shame. It is a feeling I’m becoming way too familiar with.
You see, it’s not my first time as a side chick, and it’s certainly not my first time as one without even knowing it.
When I contacted him about what these ladies told me, I wasn’t surprised when he told me my sources were “crazy.” But when every detail was confirmed, he started to panic, and wanted me to lie for him.
“I cannot ruin a potential marriage,” he told me. “Do you know how embarrassed I’d be if this got out?”
Oh, because it’s such a thrill writing to thousands of people about my fun sex life, and then finding out the entire city is humping the same stump.
It’s not that I celebrate being the messenger, but there’s that whole girl code thing. I don’t know his fiancée, but I’ve got a hunch that she doesn’t deserve to have sloppy seconds, thirds, and fourths from her “dream guy.”
That sick feeling in my stomach is often followed by another familiar ritual—a trip to Woman’s Hospital for an STD test.
I arrived for my test, my third in just five months, handing me a cold realization that I need to reevaluate my choices. Tears formed in my eyes as I placed my feet into the stirrups.
But to my relief, my doctor refused to judge me, and like always, we chatted about John Mayer as she swabbed, poked, and questioned me.
It took me awhile to pinpoint where my anger was coming from. After all, I went into this knowing it was just a sex thing, and I’d made a true effort not to fall for him.
What hurt me were the lies—nine months of lies, and more than 15,000 messages—when he told me just how sexy I was, how it’d been “so long” since he’d had sex, and that I was the only one.
His apology to me was backhanded, as he said he didn’t think anything of it since I would tell him about dates I went on, and, “Stuff happened, sorry you hate me.”
First of all, a date does not mean sex. Second of all, I’m not going to fall for a mediocre manipulation tactic from a man who is, in fact, engaged. And thirdly, stuff happening does not result in falling into a vagina (or four).
So, I got my amazing sex, but it came at the expense of my ego, a small piece of my heart, and my faith in humanity.
In some sort of sick way, I did have a threesome (more like a gangbang without my consent), and my greatest fear was realized—it was dishonest, mean, and definitely not worth it.
Maybe my sorority sister was right; I went against science and I got burned. But her theory didn’t mention resiliency, and that (along with karma) is always on my side.