Science suggests that the male obsession with threesomes stems from a psychological desire to please two women at one time, like some sort of affirmation our manhood. Ironically, my ménage à trois story came about in order to please just one.
Léa Decambre. We called her Princess Léa back in eleventh grade, of course. The teenaged Léa: bifocal granny glasses, wispy hazelnut Afro, perpetually braless, complexion of eggshell, thick French accent by way of Guadalupe. The late-twenties Léa: sleeker specs, unkempt dredlocks, svelte frame, cleavage forced forward push-up-Wonderbra style, her French lilt subtler and sexier, a clove constantly smoking between thin lips.
Every guy brave enough to run roughshod through the girls’ locker room is rewarded with at least one image good enough for a lifetime of masturbation material. For me it’s Léa Decambre removing an aquamarine swimsuit around her ankles, her wet vanilla skin goose pimply, peach tips grown stiff. Surprised at the sight of me Léa quickly covered a breast in each hand, overflowing fingers squeezing tight. This was the fantasy image that flashed clear in my mind the minute I saw her a decade later at the Eyedrum gallery.
The gallery opening resembled any number of others: white wine, Brie, and fresh-vegetable finger food, Atlanta’s art elite sauntering around in casual interest. Gallery assistants in black, trays in hand, offered up chardonnay and sushi. Among them was Léa. She stood out even before I recognized her, a potential model: tall, lean, and busty, tanned with Nordic features tinted African.
Later that week, Léa filled me in on her life post-high school. Her beau at the time was not making the grade in some way or another and would soon be removed from her world. My lips locked with his girlfriend over fudge brownies, my heart doing hand-in-the-cookie-jar palpitations. She lit a clove soon after and admitted cloves weren’t all she smoked. We hatched plans for a session at my place.
Léa popped by the next day, her chest buoyed up by the bow of her twisted-and-tied shirttails. Lying on my mattress, talk turned sexual. I’d already sucked a telling mark onto her swanlike neck, her dainty fingers finding their way down into my briefs, loose silver bangles jangling against my belt buckle. The summer sun had set and sex was on the table. Léa had good news and bad news.
The Bad News
“We can’t have sex. I’m still with Federico. I’m not free like that.”
I knew she’d had some female sex experiences...
“Okay. Of course we don’t have—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just, it’s bad enough that I’m here with you now at all.”
“No, I know. But I am tempted to steal you away from your man. Just to let you—”
“Yeah, but even if I leave him, I can’t just jump into something new like that. Seriously. I don’t know if you can handle that. You might want to ask, like, an ex or somebody for sex. My body needs a rest. One boyfriend to the next like that? That’s not me.”
“I can wait, it’s not that serious. I’d rather wait to be with you than to—”
The Good News
“…in fact, I wouldn’t mind watching you and your ex-girlfriend.”
At this, Léa took a slow, deep pull on her rollie. As she explained how her voyeur tendencies came to be (hearing her brother’s sexual escapades as a teen and later, watching her college roommate have sex), my mind raced through the Rolodex of my past lovers to find the right girl to cast for the big performance.
Coco Nathaniel. I met her the night Biggie died, a Saturday evening DJ Nabs spun his heart out over at Club 112. Coco danced at clubs that don’t even open till two in the morning, where they shake out talcum powder on hardwood floors and don’t serve alcohol and people sweat hard and dance dance dance to house music till noon the next day, girls and guys knocked out on couches to catch a second wind. Frances was fine, the thickest, heaviest-set girl I’d ever dated: big smile, big curves, big booty, big chest. Navel ring in the center of her baby-fat belly. She took an African dance class or three and whipped out those moves at a moment’s notice for some “Din Da Da.” I loved to shoot Coco.
I thought of Coco because 1) when we first met, she expected me to be sexually super-adventurous for some reason and was always waiting (hoping) for my freak nature to come out, 2) I knew she’d had some female sex experiences, and 3) she was the rare ex I could still call and not get cussed out.
Nine ½ Weeks was a trite seduction pick, I know, but I was what, 27? By the time Kim Basinger sat on the slide-projection clicker pleasuring herself, Coco had her head in my lap while Léa sat watching at the top of the bed.