A Throuple of Fashionable Friends

I loved being a thread in the fabric of a throuple! It allowed me to be me while still connecting unconditionally with a select set of others. We were not a tawdry one-night stand – we were indefinable. It’s like you always had a backup. When one of us needed a time out, there’s another to fill that void. What a RELIEF! Often when enthralled by whatever intellectually enchants or challenges me at the moment I’ll sink into myself; become vacant and unavailable to those who care. If one fraction of this threesome was physically or emotionally unavailable then another lover would be there to fill the emptiness while we were attired in the fabric of our triadic throuple cloaks. In three we struck balance. Our throuple was a simple triple-ply cloth warmly and protectively shrouding us. And now thrice, we have spoken thy name.

The first time we three hooked up physically as a ménage à trios was a night after dining out. As usual, Z and C placed the order for our meal. Because lately, while sharing food in local restaurants they’d begun canceling whatever junk food I’d requested from the waitstaff; telling the person serving the three of us, “Scratch his order, he’s having what we’re having!” What the pair of them normally consumed were healthy salads and such. I must admit, over the months we’d been hanging out I not only began to look forward to those salads but dropped some pounds. Overall, I was feeling much better. I’ll also confess to how good it was to have been adopted by them. The way they took care of and looked out for me.

Those two had hooked up with one another for a time before the three of us met. We were generations apart in age. C was only twenty-six, and Z had just turned thirty-two at that time. I was then sixty-seven years old. The thought that this duo of attractive young redheads whom I’d known now for a little over a year, and met only because they worked as waitresses at a restaurant I’d often frequent, would want to spend any of their precious free time with an older man such as myself was, one could say, a sweet surprise. After all, I was pretty much a loner; a lone wolf whose life revolved around working with my clients in the entertainment field, writing, and doing my damnedest to age gracefully. That these girls liked me enough to socialize after their long shifts serving food and beverages just blew my mind.

Oh, by the way, keeping in this spirit of abbreviated appellations, you may refer to me simply as B.

I remember a time when my generation thought we could change the world. Now, I understand and accept, that if you change your socks, change your underwear, or change as many of your own bad habits as you humanly can, then at the end of the day, as they say, you’d unquestionably made a change in life. Your life, that which should be the central object of your attention. Once you ace that, then get back to me about the world. Okay, good talk!

Yeah, I lived through a lot and we three were generations apart. The age gap bothered them less than I. Always on my mind’s horizon, a dark cloud hung, pregnant with a hard rain threatening to fall; its wisps and furls festooning the sky were the threads and fibers of reality that stitch heaven to earth. Forever I’d remind myself that this throuple was doomed to be ephemeral. I was old, and getting older. Ask any senior citizen. Time travels faster the more you age. Whereas perhaps not demonstrational by neither chronological nor empirical means, nonetheless, the older you get annually and realistically, the more rapidly the deterioration process progresses.

I was sixty-seven when we met. Now, at the time of writing, I’m sixty-eight. An age where I best live by the wisdom proffered by Edward Cole, the character portrayed by Jack Nicholson in “The Bucket List”. In particular, rule numbers One and Three. One: Never pass up a bathroom, Two: Never waste a hard-on, and Three: Don’t trust a fart. We old guys know – we’ve learned the humiliatingly messy way. I’m no longer the man I once was.

So, I accepted this inevitability of my inevitable fate. It is what it is until it just ain’t no [sic] more. Much like me, and eventually like us all; you too will break down one paper cut at a time. That’s life. Still, the sad and fearful reality was that within the following days, weeks, months, or years, my lovers could potentially be jettisoned into the unforeseen and unplanned position of being my caretakers. I’d rather they abandon me than be the ones who’d be relegated to wiping my nose, miscellaneous body parts, or nether regions. Much like an animal, when my time approaches to fall apart and die, I’d prefer to do it alone beneath the darkened porch as opposed to some illuminated bedroom or living room, particularly with anyone present. Blame it on being a lone wolf, I guess. But the last thing I ever wanted to be was anyone’s disappointment; especially Z and C’s, my girls.

Aging, illness, degringolade, and death: the flies in the ointment of life. An irritating, random hair stuck upon the tip of a tongue which we’re unable to free ourselves from, or even swallow. The pebble one senses in their shoe while walking the path that connects cradle to grave. A daily declension of dreams, destruction of cells, mutating mitochondria until finally we meltdown and must forfeit all power. The ticking time bombs, when eventually exploding, would end us all. Ask any of the elderly if indeed these are not the thoughts dwelling rent-free in our dimming minds…

Think about it. It never occurred to me I’d be anything more to these beautiful babes than a good tipper, or a few laughs. The first time invited out there was more than an almost certain chance they’d tell me no – and that would be that. And Z and C made no secret they were more than mere friends with one another. Come on, we met during the spring of 2021 when the rainbow-colored flag of the LGBTQ community had fully unfurled and flapped as free in the wind as any other. It was far from a bone of contention. The intention of my invitation solely was to further discuss literary ideas related to whatever I was penning at the time, or other topics we’d chat about while they worked at their eatery. And I swear, it wasn’t to just get into their pants. So when the pair agreed to go out for dinner the next evening: BOOM – mind officially blown!

That first time we got together somewhere other than where they were employed, they were two hours late. Since I’d never seen either of them drink alcohol while on the job, I sipped several seltzers with cranberry juice during the first hour because I always felt more comfortable being on the same wavelength of consciousness, state of mind, and sobriety as those along for the ride. Since I didn’t own a cellphone, I’d given them the restaurant’s number in case anything arose, and this was an establishment where I was already well known. So the staff would surely pass along any messages to me. It was annoying they hadn’t phoned to let me know what was up. But as the beginning of the second hour began, a new addition to the staff carrying a smartphone, someone I’d never seen nor had been seen by before at the Court Street Bar and Restaurant, stopped by where I waited to inquire as to my name. After replying, I was told a C and a Z had called several times and they were now on the line again as he handed me his mobile device. The girls apologized profusely and explained there’d been a last-minute rush on tables at their place, but they should be able to get there in about twenty minutes if I still even wanted to wait for them. I said I would. Hey, they’d waited on me, or at least on my table at their restaurant/bar, enough times in the past that I could wait for them at least a little longer.

While I stuck around I’d begun scribbling down song lyrics about anticipating their arrival and which included their names, as well as some lines about coming out to play or coming out tonight, in order to channel irritated uncertainty into creativity. A tune I’d play for them prior to these ladies adding me into the mix of their lovemaking that first time. Twenty minutes came and went. Almost ready to pay my bill and go home hungry toward the end of the second hour, Z and C finally, and breathlessly, burst through the Court Street entrance, direct messaging apologies via body language and facial expressions as they approached my table in the barroom adjacent to the dining area.

As the girls fluidly cut their way through the crowd I’d stood up in anticipation of moving, at last, toward being seated at our table. Once at my side, I was showered with choruses of “We’re sorry”, an abundance of kisses on my cheeks, and warm bosom buddy hugs. Suggesting we go grab that table the fine folks of the Court had left in limbo and kept reserved for us all night, they slipped their arms around my waist as we prepared to enter the dining area. Well, what else could I do but hang an arm around each of their shoulders as we made our entrance? Oh, and what an entrance it was! Each head at every table turned our way to watch the three of us walk into the now suddenly silent salon. With inquisitive expressions of expectation and reverence on some faces, as if our trio was comprised of celebrities at an exclusive opening-night gala, and while those in the room stared unabashedly as the cute, curvaceous carrot-tops and I were escorted to our seats, we entered.

“Well, we seem to be the center of momentary attention tonight,” I commented to no one in particular. From the side of one eye, there could be seen a woman who was doing an awfully poor job of surreptitiously snapping pix of us on her phone.

“And we haven’t even begun to misbehave – yet!” added C with a Cheshire Cat grin pasted on her pretty painted lips.

“The night’s still young, and it’s always fun to be the cause of a flutter in public…” concluded Z as she winked an eye-shadow-hued eyelid. They both really looked extra-lit, fit and bop this evening. The two only wore light applications of facial makeup while they worked. Tonight, with this additional attention to their lips, cheeks, eyes, and attire, it was evident they’d paid more mind than usual to the appearance of their dress and look.

Once seated, the crowded room’s conversation, chatter, and buzz began slowly returning to their previous level. We shared the wine list and agreed on a bottle of red for the table as opposed to cocktails, and then chatted comfortably as we scanned the Court Street dinner menu for our evening’s repast. Over the time I’d been one of their customers at the place where the girls were employed we’d exchanged information about ourselves. So, this first time meeting outside of where we’d usually encountered one another felt more like a gathering of old friends reuniting anew as opposed to a first date. First Date? Please recall that my goal had not been to bed these babes, but to share some fine fare and a few laughs. Thus, eat, drink, and be merry we would.

Following the first glass of the Malbec Dos Minas we placed food orders with the establishment’s attending server as I refilled our long-stemmed goblets. C ordered a baby mixed green salad that arrived with gorgonzola cheese, candied walnuts, halved pears, and a generous drizzle of balsamic dressing. Z requested the tricolor salad, which included endive, radicchio, arugula, brie cheese, wedges of orange, toasted almonds, and topped with a raspberry dressing. I wanted the steak frites, presented with a huge lump of heart-attack-inducing gorgonzola butter melting atop the rare, barely cooked beef, with truffle oil shoestring fries. In addition, for a table share, we decided on a dozen of Court Street’s renowned jumbo U-12 shrimp that were summarily spritzed with fresh lemon wedges and then dunked into a bowl of horseradish-heavy, tangy cocktail sauce.

After everything was gobbled up and the second bottle of wine we’d ordered earlier had nearly been depleted, the subject of dessert was discussed. I still had room for a slice of flourless chocolate truffle cake served with strawberry sauce, or a piece of apple pie a la mode, but my companions declined to consume any further comestibles. They both had a dance class to attend mid-morning, and it was getting late. We were now just about the only table still occupied in the almost empty eatery. Therefore, I signaled our server for the check. Z and C had been invited as my guests for the evening, yet, each offered to pay their portion of the bill. An offer that was declined, but very much appreciated.

“Why don’t you let me call the car service which my company maintains a corporate account and get you each back to where you live? It’d really be no problem and our bookkeepers will end up using it as a tax write-off,” I joked.

“That’s okay. I’m crashing at C’s place because of dance class tomorrow morning and we’ll just drive over to Jersey City in her van tonight,” answered Z.

“Besides, B, you’ve done more than enough for us this evening. Do you need a lift anywhere?” offered C.

“No thanks, I only live a few blocks away. I had a really great time with you two; hope you’re both up for a rerun in the not too distant.”

“Only if you let us pick up the tab next time,” Z said as I helped them on with their jackets.

“We can negotiate on that, that next night out,” I promised.

There was the next night out, then a next, and another, and another. And then there was the one where they invited me to join them as they made love.

Frequently after local excursions, we’d end up back at my place to chill. After all, C lived in JC, Z in Brooklyn, so it was merely a matter of convenience and locale. Often, we’d catch films and programs on Netflix, or I’d play songs for them on my guitar, read aloud new material I’d recently written, drink wine while devouring olives, pickled peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, unsalted raw nuts, fresh fruits, or just talk throughout the night, many times past dawn.

When we’d view something on Netflix, the three of us would watch from my bed; Z usually on the left next to the wall; C, who was normally in the middle; and I on the outer right side edge of the mattress. They felt no qualms in making out with one another or exhibiting other forms of publicly displayed affection, in my presence. In fact, they later shared that the voyager aspect of being viewed had spiced things up for them. That first time we throupled was on my bed after enjoying “Pulp Fiction” (I couldn’t believe they’d never seen this Tarantino classic!). As the final credits began to roll, C took Z into her arms and they locked lips. From open mouths, I could see their tongues dance and snake as fingers dug into one another’s backs and shoulders. Nothing out of the ordinary here, at least nothing I hadn’t seen them do before.

But that night, C’s hand had found my left thigh, stroking it softly as they made out. That hand, gradually moving higher up and along my leg, teased and taunted. When they broke their kiss she’d turned my way, found the back of my head with her other hand, and brought her lips to mine, along with an open mouth and a slippery wet tongue. The buss was lazy, long, and languid. When it ended, I could see Z had already worked open the buttons of C’s blouse as she took my hand and guided it over the blue satin bra cup, while she caressed and kneaded the other breast.

This is not porn, chief! So the only other details I’m willing to openly divulge are we lost what clothes remained upon our bodies, slipped beneath the sheets, and had the time of our lives. I know, because I was there. The three of us spent the entire night entwined as if a litter of newly born kittens. Needless to say, nary one of us slept much at all that night of our initial carnal collision.