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  • 1.

    The scene: Golds gym. Near the free weights.

    Him: Oh that guy. Not available. He’s part of a trouple.

    Me: A what?

    Him: A trouple. Like a couple. Only with three people.

    Me: You mean like a ménage a trois?

    Him: Yes. But more than just sex. A committed relationship.

    Me: Who has to be in the middle?

    Him: You mean who gets to be in the middle?

    Me: I meant. Sleeping. In bed.

    Him: Oh. I thought you meant sex.

    Me: Are there any limits?

    Him: Like what?

    Me: Like. Can you also have a quadrouple? A quintouple?

    Him: Sure why not? But you know. At some point, it's just called being slutty.


    One day. I was showering at the university gym, when I looked up, I saw a man staring at me, the way a hungry wolf stares at a hare.

    As I was dressing in the locker room, the man approached me and gave me his business card. He was a professor at the Medical School.

    Intrigued. I called him, later that same day, and agreed to meet.

    He picked me up in a silver sports car, a convertible. He suggested. We drive back to his place so I could meet. His lover.

    Intrigued. I agreed.

    He lived in a wealthy neighborhood up in the hills near Palo Alto. The road was wooded. Dappled sunlight. The wind against my face. The scent of eucalyptus. Grass.

    His place. A mid-century house. Like something from a design magazine. It perched atop a hill, overlooking a vast vista of rolling hills, velvet green, with the recent rain.

    I saw a red-tail hawk. At night, he said, you could hear the coyotes.

    It was like living in the wilderness. Hard to imagine that the suburban sprawl of Silicon Valley was less than thirty minutes away.

    We sat on the deck, watching the view, chatting, as he poured me glass after glass of chardonnay from Sonoma.

    When his lover arrived, also a physician, an anesthesiologist, they grilled some wild salmon and prepared an arugula salad with cherry tomatoes.

    His lover poured me another glass of chardonnay.

    My head was already swirling, tipsy from the wine.

    Then. They invited me into the hot tub.

    It was my first three way.


    Many years, later, when I moved to the City, I would attend parties that devolved into sexual orgies, writhing masses of men, intertwining, in all sorts of permutation, the gymnastic of desire, the contortion of lust.

    These experiences always left me cold (like my first experience with the physicians).

    For me, the idea of a polysexual encounter was always more titillating than the actual experience.

    My astrologer explains that it’s because I have a lot of libra signs in my chart.

    It makes me a romantic sap.

    Give me moonlight serenades, candlelight whispers, a bouquet of lavender, lilacs,

    white roses, everywhere. Give me swans by a lake, a chateau, waltzing with

    violins. Give me daydreams, under a fig tree, luscious with fruit, with the scent of

    your hair, your cozy head against my shoulders. Give me the plucking sound of

    a guitar, your trembling voice, the roving clouds of your beard, a sunset as red as your

    pomegranate lips, your Botticelli face, sculpted like a seraphim.

    But please don’t offer me just a wiggling phallus. A naked buttock.

    Seduce me first. At least with a glass of chardonnay.
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