by Kitty Thomas
“Oh?” I say, taking another sip of water. The water has two lime slices in it, exactly the way I like it, and I wonder which one of them put in that request.
“Did you know we knew each other?” he asks, not betraying any emotion about any of this.
“Of course not.”
And I didn't. What are the odds? I admit that as I leveled up the quality of the men on my roster, I had the concern in the back of my mind that they might run in the same social circles. Once you reach the top echelon in a city, everybody seems to know each other. But it's a big city, I was discreet and thought that was enough. Obviously not.
“Well, we do,” he says as if this clarification were necessary and will somehow spark off some deep tearful confession on my part—which it does not.
So far Griffin is the only one who has spoken. The other two have been watching me shrewdly, observing all my reactions as if they are human polygraphs determined to spot the lie.
“And?” I ask.
I'd like to get this witch burning over with so I can start my lonely cat lady future. There was a grey male cat with only one eye at the clinic last week. He's up for adoption. I could call him Mr. Wednesday.
Griffin continues, oblivious to my insane pet acquisition fantasies. “Imagine our surprise when we found out we all just happened to be dating a wonderful girl named Livia. Did you think we wouldn't find out you'd been playing us? Did you really think we wouldn't know each other?”
“I'm not playing you,” I say, leveling a hard glare at him. I can't believe he has the nerve to act as though I've been doing something dirty this whole time.
“Hmmm,” is his only response. He takes a sip of his own water. “Are you saying you have actual feelings?”
He says this as though I'm some sort of sociopathic robot who has stalked them all like prey. I want to point out that every single one of them approached me.
But instead I just say, “Yes.” Though my actual feelings in this moment are running more to terror coupled with anger than love. Even so, I'm sure I would pass a polygraph because terror and anger are definitely actual feelings.
“Which one of us do you love?” he demands.
I make eye contact with each of them in turn. “All of you.” And it's true. It was the one sticky issue I failed to account for. What if in playing this game to protect myself, I ended up falling in love with more than one man? I'd decided that was a problem for future Livia. It was a bridge I would cross when I got to it. And here's the bridge, looking far more rickety than I'd originally imagined it would.
None of them betrays any feeling they may have about this proclamation on my part.
“I thought your goal was to date and not be tied down until you found the right man and he proposed. You didn't want to be in the Girlfriend Trap while a man kept you on the hook indefinitely.” He recounts this to me as if he's somehow revealing a lie somewhere.
“That's right,” I confirm. This feels like the recap of a reality show and part of me wants to look around for a camera crew.
“But you love all of us?” he clarifies again. Seriously, is he wearing a wire?
“Yes,” I say.
“If one of us proposed marriage, would you accept?”
I only hesitate a moment before I say, “Yes.” I can't let my feelings cloud things and cause me to lose sight of my real goals. One man that loves and provides for me. But in the past few months in their company I've gotten greedy and haven't wanted the ride to end.
Sitting face-to-face with all three of them it's only now sinking in just how ruthless these men are and what fire I've been carelessly playing with. These aren't college boys or blue collar plumbers. These are powerful men, very used to having a harem of women hanging all over them, but no doubt unused to dating a woman pulling the same power play on them. And suddenly I feel like the checkmate is coming, and it's not me winning the game.
“Okay, so let's say one of us proposes. What about the other two?”
“I'd end it with the other two.”
I'm not sure where this is going. Are they going to arm wrestle for me? Such an outcome seems unlikely, especially considering the venue.
“Well,” he continues unruffled, “Here's the thing. We don't just all know each other. We pledged the same frat in college in the same year. We've been in some strange and interesting situations together. We've shared many unconventional experiences, and we are quite accustomed to sharing our women.”
I've just taken a sip of water when he says this and nearly choke on it.
The predatory way the three of them are looking at me makes me want to get up and flee the restaurant. I glance around to see if guests at nearby tables have heard any of this because I'm certain right now my face is the same color as my dress.
While Griffin is giving this speech, I have the feeling he isn't giving it because he's some agreed-upon de facto leader of the group. It's more because tonight was his date night with me, so it seems only right that he do all the talking. Dayne or Soren could have just as easily carried this speech with the same intensity.
“So here's the deal,” he says. “We've decided we're a package deal. You will marry one of us legally—we'll put on the respectable show for all of our friends and family—and you will have binding private contracts with the other two. And then the four of us will live together.”
Wait, what?! All three of them? And I notice nobody is asking me to marry them. It has been declared. I have been claimed. And instead of competing for one of them to win me, they've decided they'll all enjoy the spoils. How nice for them.
This idea sets my body on fire. The place between my legs flares to life in the most visceral way. It's been a long bout of celibacy—a level of self control I'd deemed mandatory to get my happily ever after without over-attaching too soon to one man and hormonally bonding to some loser while overlooking all his flaws.
I thought I had every angle figured out—every possible way of protecting myself from narcissists, losers, players, commitmentphobes, and general all around dirtbags. But this possible outcome never occurred to me. And while my mind screams no, my neglected body is all in.
I rise on shaking legs. At least half of this shaking is arousal, not fear or anger. But I'm not about to play into their hands. For all I know, they've decided this is the way to win, conquer me, get me to lower my guard in some marathon orgy, then laugh and discard me the next day. If that's their plan it would break me completely.
If they did that I would have just had three players playing the long game on me. No, thank you. No way am I doing all I've done just to have the same ending... Again.
“I most certainly will not!” I practically hiss at them.
I can't do this. It's insane. And even if I could, it would break every pretense I've set up that I'm some kind of classy lady who doesn't just share my body with anyone. I can't give myself to all three of them. It's too fucked-up even for my twisted fantasies.
“Sit!” Griffin says.
People at nearby tables actually turn and stare. I'm torn between fleeing—which will only call more attention to myself—and just sitting back down. I choose to flee.
Livia
When it rains it pours
One year ago. Last June.
When I tearfully packed up my stuff and left my boyfriend last year I decided then and there that this would never happen to me again. I'm not completely sure he even was my boyfriend. We just sort of moved in together. And stupid me thought that meant something. He wasted two years of my life in this situationship.
Before him, three other men wasted: eight months, a year and a half, and three months respectively. I'd slept with all of these losers because we were exclusive and I thought somehow I was on the road to an engagement ring, the wedding of my dreams, and my happily ever after. I wanted something serious and real, and I'd thought I was doing everything right.
After a couple of weeks crying into pints of ice cream and torturing myself with rom coms,
I decided I was done being played and used and kept as a placeholder in some guy's life until something better came along. I started following different dating coaches online until I happened upon what I was sure was the solution to all my problems with men.
Men had game? Well, I now had Lady Game. And it was air tight. No man would ever screw me over again because I had decided instead of focusing all my attention on one man at a time while he waited around and kept me on the hook and made me crazy wondering if he really wanted me like I wanted him and if this was going somewhere, I would date multiple men. Indefinitely.
And I wouldn't sleep with anyone until someone put an engagement ring on my finger. I know that sounds crazy and extreme, but I was fed up and I had about seventeen testimonials of women this had worked for. And if it didn't work, I'd planned to get about five cats and settle into a cranky cat lady future.
I've been keeping a rotating dating roster for the last six blissful low-stress months. I never have to wonder anymore... where is this relationship going? What did he mean by that text message? Why didn't he call me? I just don't care. I don't have to find a way to make it work with the one guy all my focus and energy is on. Because it's not just one guy. I have other options.
And if one treats me poorly or just isn't that into me, I drop him and find someone to replace him. Men have been dating this way forever, and it's fucking brilliant. If men dated like women, honing in and falling into accidental monogamy by the third date we'd have total romantic gridlock while the whole world lived lives of quiet desperation with the wrong person.
Yes, I am now the CEO of my own life. Since I started this new strategy I've been taken out on real dates, treated with respect, and wondering why every woman in the world hasn't figured out the magic of keeping several men in rotation. When they know you aren't just seeing them, somehow magically the check gets paid without complaint or making me feel like a supervillain for just wanting to be cared for.
But it does get exhausting. I found out the hard way that five men is just way too many. I had to drop a couple of guys I actually liked to make it manageable. But three works. I can handle three.
But tonight is a night off from dating. It's just me at a new opening at the downtown art museum, nobody else. And I find it strangely relaxing to be out for a night in my own company. I meander through the recent exhibits and bump right into probably the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life.
“Excuse me,” I say. I manage to steady my glass of champagne just in time before the contents can escape the elegant flute to assault my new lavender dress.
He isn't nearly so lucky and unscathed.
“I think you owe me a date for the damage,” he says, pointing at the wet stain on his jacket.
Well that's forward. I'm not sure what to say to this. When it rains it pours. Apparently the universe has decided I need another man to date. Oh, that's a fun side effect of dating like this. You never look desperate or hungry, so of course men are intrigued by this uber confident energy you're throwing off. It's almost like I put some kind of pheromone into the air now that men latch onto as I drift breezily past them.
But even though I'm already shuffling things around in my mind to figure out how this could work, the words that come out of my mouth are: “I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly go out...”
“I don't see a ring. Do you have a boyfriend?”
I have a roster.
But I don't say that out loud. “No... but...”
“Ah. I see. You normally date super multi-billionaires, and I just don't make the cut?”
Any other man might make this sound passive aggressive and angry, but he somehow says it in the most endearingly playful tone. Just banter. Nothing serious. He really is nice looking, and he probably does have money. And one of the guys on the roster hasn't called me in a week; maybe he's realized I wasn't kidding about no casual sex and dropped me. It wouldn't be the first guy who's fallen back when he couldn't con his way into my panties.
And if that's the case, there's room for this man who is a definite step up. I'm not saying it's easy being celibate because it isn't. And I've seen this roster dating thing done in such a way where one doesn't have to act like a blushing virgin, but I can't take the risk again of falling for a douchebag, of betting everything on some piece of shit who will just string me along indefinitely wasting my time and all my good years and eggs.
If men think many of us are marriage and baby hungry, it's only because year after year we watch as man after man wastes our time knowing he has all the time in the world, but we don't. If I hear one more smarmy asshole talk about how women are focusing on their careers and waiting too long to settle down and make babies, I might have to punch someone in the throat. That is not why we are “waiting”. We aren't waiting. Men are just stringing us along because they can get the pussy for free and see no need to commit to it. It's a free pussy gold mine out there. The hookup culture is ruining our lives. But we're all pretending it isn't and that we feel empowered by this treatment.
They've figured out they can be our boyfriend for ten years and refuse to settle down, and we have no cards to play.
I look back to this new shiny prospect standing in front of me with a wet champagne stain on his dinner jacket.
“I really do owe you for that damage, don't I?” I say, playing along with this ridiculous date debt. I ignore the voice in my mind that says he's definitely going to want sex by the third date. It's an opportunity to improve the roster—just to have a taste of something a little fancier even if I have to let him go in a few weeks.
He nods gravely. “I'm afraid so.”
What the hell? Why not? “I'm Livia,” I say, flashing him what I hope is my most demure and charming smile.
“Soren,” he replies.
Two minutes later I am somehow on a date with this guy. Right here, right now. I thought he'd get my number and call me later, but nope, he's now squiring me around the art museum as though we planned this in advance. What was supposed to be me time has turned into an interview for the position Charlie just vacated. Maybe. We'll see.
Livia
Persuasion
Six and a half months ago. Early December.
I don't know how I've run three blocks, both because I'm wearing heels and this isn't the best dress to run in, and because I'm not exactly an endurance cardio girl. I duck between two buildings and lean against the wall, trying to get oxygen to circulate properly through my lungs again.
It only takes a couple of minutes for me to realize just how fucking stupid this choice was. I could have and should have hailed a taxi to go home. But I was so flustered I couldn't think straight. I just needed to get away from them. I needed to move. I needed to get somewhere so I could think.
Well, mission successful, I guess.
They are definitely playing me. They're pissed that I've dangled my pussy over them like some virgin being auctioned off to the highest bidder, and you can bet they're all calculating their money and time investments and what they think I owe them. I'm sure they want to lure me in, gang bang me, and dump me—and this time without even the lame girlfriend title that I might otherwise have had if I'd stuck to standard-method good girl dating.
I'm about to go back out onto the main road and get that taxi when a broad dark figure fills the opening of the alleyway. This cannot be happening to me.
I start to back away, the heels that allowed me somehow to run three blocks suddenly deciding they don't even want to let me awkwardly stumble backwards now. The alley is a dead end. Nowhere to run. The stranger advances, and I move deeper into the darkness—as if this is a legitimate escape route.
I am going to die in this fucking alley because I couldn't just stay in a nice restaurant and have an uncomfortable conversation. I scream at the top of my lungs before he reaches me. Maybe he'll decide a shrill shrieky screamer isn't worth it. But this stranger who may want to mug me, murder me, rape me, has decided he's good with screaming.
&n
bsp; He continues to advance in that slow lumbering horror movie way, and I just continue to scream because short of uselessly beating at his chest, there's not a whole hell of a lot of other options. My purse isn't substantial enough to even pretend to use it as a weapon. It's one of those tiny clutch bags that you can only fit a wad of emergency cash, a cell phone, and a lipstick in.
Just before he can do whatever he's decided he's going to do, someone pulls him away from me and then three men—my three men—are beating and kicking the shit out of him. The mugger/murderer/rapist manages to crawl out of the alleyway and go back to whatever den of iniquity he slunk out of.
Dayne rounds on me, breathing hard. “What in the fuck did you think you were doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
All three of them look livid, and suddenly they seem far scarier than the stranger who almost accosted me.
I want to scream at them, but the tough act has drained out of me, and all I can do is cry and shake like some half-drowned lap dog—even though it isn't even raining.
Soren steps forward.
I instinctively step back. He looks wounded by this, but he removes his suit jacket and wraps it around my trembling form, then without a word leads me out of the alley to the waiting limo with the other two behind me looking like hulking bodyguards. They apparently all traveled together tonight. The four of us get in the back, and the limo lurches forward.
I'm not sure where we're going—probably not back to the restaurant—but I'm wrong about that. The limo stops. The driver gets out and waves off the valet when the man tries to take the keys. Then our driver goes inside the restaurant. Fifteen minutes later he comes out with to-go bags, and we're driving again.
I stare out the window. I'm still quietly crying, huddled in Soren's coat. Nobody speaks. A few minutes later the limo stops to drop us off in front of a high rise. Griffin's penthouse. It makes the most sense. It's the closest. Dayne takes the bags of food from the driver and we all silently go inside.