threesomes
for Couples Who Want to Know More
lainie speiser
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 My Story
Chapter 2 How Threesomes Happen
Chapter 3 You and Your Man Are Ready to Roll
Chapter 4 Girlfriends on the Prowl
Chapter 5 Being Chosen by a Couple
Chapter 6 Enough Woman for Two Men
Chapter 7 Bringing Another Man Home
Chapter 8 Alternative Lifestyles
1
MY STORY
The truth is I’ve always wanted to do it. I’ve always fantasized about being an active participant in a three-way. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to have more than one tongue following the curves and crevices of my body, to have more than one pair of busy, attentive, loving hands spoiling me, to have the option of kissing more than one eager and open soft, wet mouth.
I’ve always wanted to stretch my arms out and feel two bodies at my fingertips, to be filled in every imaginable way, to literally be smothered by the skin of both a man and a woman and do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do with that woman—or any woman, for that matter.
I’ve always wanted to have two men do my bidding, to be so sexual and so in control and so out of control that I couldn’t hold back my orgasm and neither could they as they released themselves in my mouth and inside me.
As you can tell, I’m really turned on by the very notion of having a ménage à trois.
My boyfriend knows this, and he knows without my having to tell him. He knows how excited I get when he takes out Steve Austin—my big, baby blue rubber vibrator. He uses it on me while I enthusiastically perform oral sex on him. I instantly become wet and excited because I have two hard cocks all to myself. I never use this vibrator when I’m alone—I only enjoy using it when fooling around with him; otherwise, my hands do the job quickly and efficiently. But using it with a partner is a totally different story: The double stimulation feels decadent, luxurious, and unapologetically greedy.
And he loves it, too. He’s rock hard the entire time, and I feel so free and wild that I can allow him deeper in my throat than ever before, without feeling any physical stress or the slightest bit of pause or discomfort. I truly love it. I love the feeling of being used to my full sexual potential, and I love feeling the double stimulation. I keep my eyes open so I can see Steve Austin working his magic between my legs while my boyfriend’s thick cock darts in and out of my mouth. If I could describe it in one word, it would be “voluptuous.”
And my boyfriend knows. “You just want two guys going at it on you, don’t you baby?” he says with a sexy grin. “You want to be a little slut. You need two hard, big cocks to make you come.”
A Naughty Audience
One day when I was working behind the scenes in a phone-sex recording studio, a woman was recording the tale of her very first ménage à trois with a happily married couple. I sat on the couch outside the recording booth, listening to her performance, on-hand to make her comfortable with the session and ready to ask questions if the story needed further elaboration. But this model, Susan, was very thorough when it came to describing this occasion of sexual awakening.
She talked about having a threesome to experiment with the female counterpart of the couple more than anything. She talked about being undressed by her friend while her husband watched, kissing and caressing her all over. “I had always wanted to be with a woman, but I felt very shy about it,” Susan said. “This felt like a sexy but safe way to start. With her husband there, I felt free to really go for it without feeling self-conscious about it.” The women played with each other’s breasts, fingers, mouths, and tongues. They grinded against each other’s firm, supple bodies, face to face, kneeling on the bed. Her friend’s husband decided to join the action by going behind Susan and fondling her, playing with her wet, engorged clit.
VOYEURISTIC PLEASURE
After listening for a bit, I walked to the bathroom of the recording studio, locked the door, and began to masturbate. I came quickly sitting on the toilet and replaying Susan’s sexy words in my head. A threesome felt so forbidden, but it was okay and consensual too, which made it guilt-free and still exciting. I could do that, I thought, I could totally do that.
I sent my boyfriend a text message telling him what I’d just done, perhaps out of my own guilt for being less than professional or perhaps just to be naughty, and he sent me a text back saying, “That sounds so hot. Let me know when you’d like to give that a try. It’s all up to you.”
This is one of the many reasons I like him so much, because when it comes to sex, it’s all up to me—no pressure, no hassle, all play.
It’s not that I haven’t been close to it. I have, for sure. But you would think a sexual being such as myself—now in her mid-thirties, who has worked in erotic entertainment in one form or another since graduating from art school (of all places)—would have done it by now. And not only would have done it by now, but would have done it many, many times.
But my vocation does not necessarily define who I am, not completely anyway. Just because I don’t have a typical profession doesn’t mean that I’m not exactly like most women. I have the same insecurities, reservations, and hang-ups as any other woman despite making a career for myself in the world of adult entertainment.
Having worked at several erotic titles throughout my career, and as the current spokesperson and columnist for Penthouse, I’ve been reading about threesomes, in the form of erotic literature or dirty letters, for quite some time now. I’ve seen delicious-looking photo spreads of happy threesomes totally engrossed in a triangle of flesh and orgasm, but observing it, let’s face it, is much easier than actually doing it.
The First Three-Way Offer
Years ago, after graduating from art school, I embarked on an adventurous and exciting backpacking trip with my good friend Sabrina. She was a lot more free-spirited than I, even by art school standards, and while we were sipping Bloody Marys and smoking cigarettes on the plane, she leaned over and said, “You know what we should do at some point during this trip? We should pick up a guy we both dig and share him. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
Sabrina was, and is, one of the most gorgeous women anyone will ever meet. A Demi Moore look-alike with a wonderful sense of humor and a sweet spirit, she would attract even the most well-to-do men (and women), who might stop to stare and appreciate the splendor of her natural beauty. She took a long pull off her hand-rolled cigarette and added, “Preferably someone who can’t speak a word of English.”
Yet I couldn’t do it. I had a boyfriend back home, a much older man who would’ve approved of it, as he approved of me leaving for Europe for two months, because he was a teenager in the 1970s and fully believed experimentation was imperative in the development of any young person. But she was my friend and she knew all of my vulnerabilities, and although she’d seen me naked many times, she had never seen me naked in that way. You know what I mean.
The closest Sabrina and I got to a hot ménage à trois was when she and I shared a bed with a very young, handsome, smarmy, and well-endowed Australian man at a complete stranger’s house off the beach in Brighton, England. There was simply nowhere else to sleep, and I was really tired. So tired that I didn’t let their moaning and coupling inches away stop me from drifting off to sleep. That is, until I felt a hand stroke my arm—a rough, large, strong hand that did not belong to my small-boned, pretty Sabrina. I don’t think it was even an invitation but simply a matter of cramped quarters and darkness and mistaking one soft woman for another. I got up quickly, took my pillow, and tried sleeping in the bath
tub for awhile, but then some other hippie came in to use the toilet and I switched to an old, smelly, funky couch with no cushions and stayed there for the rest of the night.
Sabrina made me coffee the next morning and asked me if I’d slept well. She never asked about the two of us sharing a foreign stud for the rest of the trip. Sabrina was always sharp that way.
“We should pick up a guy we both dig and share him. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
A Subtle Seduction
When I was 25, I was infatuated with a tall, stocky political protestor of sorts. He had a face like a lion, with a mane of sandy hair to match. But despite his feminist leanings, Paul was kind of a jerk and seemed to enjoy yanking the chain of my emotions in his passive-aggressive ways. During our relationship, I befriended his best friends, an attractive, creative, good-looking couple who were both a bit older than me but a lot nicer and more fun than Paul was.
Linda was in her mid-thirties, an actress who looked like a pint-sized version of myself and favored black clothes and platforms, just like me. We shared a Spanish heritage and gabbed in corners during Paul’s otherwise boring political get-togethers, smoking by the window and getting buzzed on cheap beer. Linda’s husband, L.R., was a professor who could wear leather pants without looking the least bit cheesy. He had a lustrous head of brown hair that was cut in a sort of Dutch Boy page that only a lanky, boyishly handsome man could pull off. He was a Southern gentleman and would cater to the two of us and give us joints to help us get through these miserable gatherings.
They both liked me a whole lot and thought Paul was an absolute ass for not appreciating the splendor that is me. It was all very seductive, but again, I didn’t realize anything right away.
That is, until I hung out with them one Christmas Eve. Paul had discarded me for some political convention yet again, so they invited me to go to a happening party with them in Brooklyn. First we partied at their Manhattan apartment, smoking, drinking, and doing shots.
I caught Susan looking at me from the terrace, and then she walked over to say, “You’re an absolute goddess. We don’t know what Paul’s problem is, but screw him, he’s a very troubled person and not deserving of you.” That felt pretty good to my wounded ego. Then when we were waiting for the train to take us to Brooklyn, I somehow kept catching eyes with L.R., and we’d both break out laughing. “Merry Christmas, Lainie,” he would then say, and I would answer, “Yes, Merry Christmas, L.R.” They were such a giving and warm couple.
The party was everything they said it would be, with a good live band performing in the living room. A few times the three of us went outside together for a smoke and some air, as it was very hot and crowded inside.
During one of these breaks, Linda took my hand and said, “I just wish you the best of everything. You’re such a great person who deserves the best that life has to offer.” I blushed and said thank you, and then she put my hand in L.R.’s hand and said, “Oooh baby, you have to feel her hand, she’s got such soft, beautiful skin.” L.R. listened to his wife, took my hand, caressed it, and kissed it. He said, “If this gets too late, you know you can always crash at our place. We have plenty of room.”
And back up the stairs to the party we went. Truth be told, as lovely as Linda was, I wasn’t the least bit attracted to her that way, more than anything because she treated me like her kid sister and because people said that I could pass for her sister. But I did find L.R. attractive; he was so confident and funny and smart without any kind of arrogance or sleaze. And he could dance. He danced with both of us, fast and furious like the aging punker he was.
I was getting seduced for sure, but mainly by him, and a lot of Jack Daniels shots from the pint he kept in his leather jacket. At some point, he and I took a rest while Linda, ever the little spitfire, kept shaking her shimmy right front and center to the band of young, floppy haired men.
L.R. and I observed this, and then he said, “Merry Christmas to you.” And I said, “Merry Christmas L.R.” Then he leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed him back. It was surprisingly soft and skilled on both our parts, considering all we had consumed. And then Linda stopped it. She didn’t yell, she didn’t cry, she didn’t punch me, but she did slur, “My friend is kissing my husband, how nice.” And I ended up sparing the three of us any public drama, left the party, and went all the way back to New Jersey alone.
But I learned my first lesson in the ways of ménage à trois: Don’t make any unsupervised moves. It’s simply bad manners.
I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t know any better, and what can I say, your husband was pretty fine. I imagine if Linda and L.R. are still married that they, too, have learned a lesson and that is to make your rules heard loud and clear: Do not kiss, touch, or do anything with my husband when I am not present and actively joining in.
I learned my first lesson in the ways of ménage à trois: Don’t make any unsupervised moves. It’s simply bad manners.
The Planned Pick-Up
Then there was the time at Tex Mex, a trendy but cheap bar and eatery near my apartment in New Jersey at the time. I was there with my cute cousin Loli and her friend Bridgette, who were visiting from France. The bar at Tex Mex is the scene, especially on Friday nights, when assorted young professionals let loose from their week of hard work on Wall Street.
While we waited for a table, I caught the eye of a Jewish Rob Lowe look-alike. He zoomed right in on me, flirting and asking me whether I was a designer because my look was so fashionable to him. It was a line, yes, but a line any woman can appreciate; after all, he didn’t say “nice tits,” he said “great outfit.” His name—okay I can’t remember his name. There is a three-margarita limit at Tex Mex, and they make them so tasty and so strong that I went through my limit pretty quickly that evening.
Loli, Bridgette, and I were seated at our table, and he and his Wall Street friends at theirs, conveniently nearby. Both parties spent the evening mingling, but my cousin and her friend were tired from jet lag, so the two of them went back to my place early, and I stayed on.
By the time the place was closing at midnight, I was sitting on Jewish Rob Lowe’s lap and having a fine time. He had a lot of coworkers with him, but one younger man, perhaps his protégé, stood out. He seemed sweet and liked the same kind of music I did, so what the hell, the three of us decided to continue the party at my place.
But the fun, flirty, mild tone to our threesome totally changed in my living room. There was a nervous vibe coming from two people who had probably conspired back at the restaurant during one of my many trips to the bathroom. I felt this tone most from the protégé.
“This is a nice place … I like that painting,” he said, gesturing at an abstract over the couch. “I bet you painted that, huh?” said Jewish Rob Lowe, taking off his blazer with too much confidence. Actually, I hadn’t painted it, it was a gift from my friend Anthony, but I was getting nervous and said, “Uh yeah, that’s mine.”
I decided to take control of the situation by playing hostess, fussing over making drinks, getting ashtrays, and pouring over my expansive CD collection for the right tunes, saying, “Any requests? I have everything.” I chose a mellow but hip band, Stereolab, and joined my guests, who were getting comfortable on my couch. They had a little spot waiting for me between them.
“You okay?” asked Jewish Rob Lowe, smoking one of my cigarettes. “You seem different than before, more uptight.” I was more uptight, he was right, but he seemed changed, too. Shrewd and calculating for starters, and his protégé seemed strangely pressured by him as well.
The protégé got up to use my bathroom, and in his absence, his older, more experienced coworker made his move, and we started kissing. He was a good kisser, and my apprehension melted away, my hand comfortably rested on his rock-hard bulge, and he pulled out my breast and played with it. Then I noticed him look up and past me. I sat up and saw his young friend watching us, sweating with near-virginal fright. “Sit down, bro!” his partner in crime invited. He obediently sat
back down with us and started stroking my back.
And it felt all wrong in so many ways. It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined a setup for a threesome with two young, good-looking men should be. His friend wasn’t sure whether he wanted to do it, or possibly out of anxiety, even could do it, and the ringleader was a bit too bossy and self-assured. Clearly, he was the one who was going to dominate and call the shots, but I don’t like being bossed around.
It was then that I learned something else about the art of ménage à trois: You have to trust the people you’re with entirely and set the scene to be safe.
He had told me at Tex Mex that I was pretty, and that he knew what pretty was, having three older sisters. He said he had a lot of respect for women, but time had taught me that many men who make such claims feel the exact opposite, and perhaps he was even angry about growing up the youngest in a house full of women. I didn’t trust him at all, and I didn’t trust his protégé, who clearly did not have a mind of his own.
By this point, I had sobered up and realized it would be rude to get it on with two strange men in my living room while I had two houseguests sleeping in the back room of my apartment that I use as an office. One of them would undoubtedly get up to use the bathroom and wander into the front room to the call of dirty talk and moaning. These guys were strangers, and if I were going to put myself at risk, that was my own business, but what would my mother say if she knew I put her youngest brother’s youngest child at risk, too?
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