Chapter Five

- Seven Years Later -

It took seven years for me to find more moments like that. There went half my life - again. No one affected me, got me, the way Number 2 had. She raised the bar so much, it was as though she was an Olympic highjumper and everyone else was doing the limbo. There were no circles.

As my powers of verbal persuasion developed, my fear and shyness receded. Taking the initiative with women was no longer intimidating. I took my lumps, but the nights I didn't made it all worth it. Love, profound love, was not part of my life. When it found me, it found me unawares - so much so I fell in love with two girls at the same time. Complication and I are now old friends, but back then I was still new to fucking up my life.

My mind, fresh out of a stint with my best friend's ex-girlfriend (a bad call on so many levels), switched into spring-cleaning mode. I was twenty-one and in an up and coming band. Along with our rising fame came opportunities - the kind of opportunities that aren't best taken advantage of when you still live at home. Changes were afoot and the first one, after cutting my hair way too short, was to move into my first real pad.

Dumb sweet luck landed me the best living space in town: an enormous loft in a former furniture factory that now served as rehearsal studios, my agent's office, and home to my band-mates and me. The building sat smack dab on the border between Hispanic gang turf and the city's , which made for some interesting Sunday mornings. In exchange for managing and cleaning the place, we got huge living and rehearsal quarters.

After moving in, our home sweet home turned into an after-hours hotspot with blinding speed. When the bands with rented spaces downstairs weren't throwing their own parties, we filled in the calendar hosting pre-rave era raves upstairs. Bar managers frequently showed up at our doorstep after closing time bearing cases of liquor and carloads of friends. We were THE place to be for those in the know. It was the happiest time of my life.

I met Number 3a on her seventeenth birthday. I had a crush on her Best Friend, but my best efforts failed to achieve the desired results. The time spent together did produce a decent friendship, though. We'd met at some disc jockey's birthday party and had a lot of laughs in the months following. In lieu of sleeping with me, she'd 'help' me line up the girls that she felt I ought to sleep with, only to sabotage the deal by getting all kissy-faced with me in front of the target. She thought it was great fun. My aching blue balls didn't appreciate her imaginary version of my sex life.

My actual sex life generally involved a cocktail waitress after a show and one of us out the door as soon as possible. Between that, the band, and my friends, I led quite an agreeable existence. That anything other than money could improve my life hadn't occurred to me when Best Friend introduced me to her cousin's girlfriend, the soon to be 3a. I might have been a little young and myopic.

•••

Hotties, real hotties, are in short supply in most Midwest towns (sadly, it's true), so club owners do whatever it takes to lure the few available through their doors. Fantasy's (I hate when businesses, especially chain restaurants who specialize in wings and taco salads, add an apostrophe-s to a noun to create a possessive name) was a dump of a basement rock club located on the outskirts of Milwaukee's ghetto. The club was dark and dank, and every corner was permeated with the bouquet of stale cheap beer - in short, my kind of place.

Best Friend snuck her cousin's underage girlfriend into the club to see her new favorite band - mine. The girls' looks caused doormen everywhere to look the other way (generally the direction of their gravity-defying breasts) when the subject of I.D. was raised. In my post-show haze and the club's dim light, Best Friend's little friend made no immediate impression on me. Then I escorted the girls out to the well-lit lobby.

Pow! Zowie! Holy cow!

Best Friend was a hottie, but her friend's startling beauty went beyond the call of duty. Her facial features were softly sharp, and though she only briefly looked me in the eye, when she did her gaze was piercing. She wasn't given to nervous smiles when meeting strangers, like so many girls I knew then. Under a fitted leather jacket, she wore a sheer navy blue t-shirt over a black push up bra that emphasized her slender curves.

My local rock star status granted me a certain amount of latitude in situations where more polite behavior is customary. Straightaway, I parted her jacket to get a better look.

“Gosh,” I said holding her sides. “You’re stacked.”

This is where angry girls slap and curse me, shy girls retract in shock, and willing girls give me the green light. The soon to be 3a simply riveted my eyes with hers and said, “Gee, thanks,” without a hint of disparagement. Instead of retracting from or leaning into my hold on her, she calmly held her ground. She looked to Best Friend for assistance, but there was none to be found, so she pierced me again.

“Think I could have my chest back?” She was unimpressed and that thoroughly impressed me. At that moment I didn’t know she would be assigned a number at all, but I did know this was not the last she would see of me. I let go of her for the moment.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” I contrived to Best Friend as I escorted her and 3a to their car. “Since you and I hang out so much, and since she’s is practically family, why doesn’t she start hanging out with us, too?” Smooth.

3a was game. Her sarcastic wit was an easy fit, and before long we three were attached at the hips and formed our own perfect triangle.

Well, maybe not quite an equilateral triangle. They raised my stock and I did my best not to lower theirs. With those two on my arm, I was suddenly on every club’s a-list -- no more waiting in lines, no more cover charges. Club owners actually called for me to bring “those two chicks” to their club. We were an attraction. We gave people hope. Please -- If a Joe like me could pull not one, but two pieces of eye candy like them in a town like that, anything was possible.

Men are funny creatures. Those who inhabited the same clubs as us had absolutely no respect for the sanctity of our circle. If I turned my attention away from the girls for even a few seconds, some guy would inevitably wedge his way between them and me, peddling his wares. It always backfired.

“Wanna dance?” The Romeo wanna-be would ask both of them.

“Wouldn’t you rather just fuck?” Best Friend would say, scaring the shit out Romeo.

“That’s what we’re going to tonight,” 3a would add, rubbing her breasts on my arm as I gathered our drinks from the bartender. Romeo cracked a nervous smile, unsure if the girls were fucking with him.

“That’s cool,” Romeo said. 3a surprised me with a kiss when I turned back to the group.

“Honey, is it okay if we fuck him tonight?” She asked. Best Friend mashed her tits into me, begging, “Can we? Can we?”

I gave Romeo the once-over.

“Well,” I said, “You’re free to do whatever you want with your bodies. You know that.” I felt each of their breasts. “It’s up to you.”

“You’re the best,” 3a said, biting my ear. The girls started gathering their coats. Romeo couldn’t believe what he just landed in.

“Wait a minute,” Best Friend said, tossing her jacket back on the barstool. “I totally forgot something.”

“What?” Romeo asked.

“How big is your cock?” Best Friend asked in earnest. Romeo had no idea how to respond and looked to me for an explanation.

“Uh,” is all he could get out. Best Friend rolled her eyes.

“Here,” she said and grabbed his crotch. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I'm not sure if you’re up for this.”

“Let me see,” 3a interjected and grabbed the poor guy’s dick from the other side. “I see what you mean,” she lamented, as if they were discussing the corned beef at Benjamin's deli counter. Best Friend crawled on top of me and started stroking my thigh.

“You’d need to be at least half as big as our friend here before we’d even consider fucking you,” she told Romeo. 3a let go of Romeo’s package, climbed on my other side and slipped her hand inside the waistband of my jeans.

“Sorry, buh-bye,” she said and then kissed Best Friend. I looked at Romeo and shrugged my shoulders. I almost felt sorry for him.

Basically, the same thing happened if some other girl made a remark about me to them in the ladies room. Or there was a variation if a girl hit on me. And that’s how stories got started and we became hot gossip. I was the stuff of legends, the guy that other guys hated/envied. Girls who wouldn’t give me a second look were now curious. And my girls ate it up, pouring on the public displays of three-way affection. Nothing tickled their fancies more than the gawking faces left in their wake as they rubbed various body parts on each other and me.

•••

Things escalated. Best Friend had dated (euphemism) a guitar player in another band (hell, she did everyone in town except me -- bitch) and loved to yank his chain by crawling all over me while he watched helplessly from on stage. Not to be outdone, 3a would climb on and before I knew it, I would be gleefully making out with two of the best looking competitive girls in town.

For my part, I encouraged them to explore their impulses. I guess there’s strength in numbers, because I could always talk them into doing things together that neither would do alone. It was just fun little things, like some good old public girl-on-girl action.

“Not bad,” I’d say after they’d followed my instruction to kiss, “but this time open your mouths a little bit and use your tongues.”

Best Friend would have a broad reaction -- maybe a hearty laugh, followed by a loud, “What the fuck,” and then she’d dive in head first. 3a would look me in the eye, paying close attention to my directions. You could see her mind working as she absorbed the concept and visualized the details of what she was about to do. Once she had committed to my Evil Plan, her focus shifted to Best Friend and the task at hand. I was for the most part out of her loop.

“That’s great,” I encouraged them as the Evil Plan unfolded. “Now pull back very slightly, so I can see your tongues wrapping around each other.” Without missing a beat, they complied. 3a improvised and felt up Best Friend over her sweater.

“Nice touch,” I told 3a when they finally took a break.

“Yeah,” she understated, wiping her mouth, “I think that worked.”

Everyone who caught a glimpse of what had just taken place got enough whacking material to last a lifetime. That includes me.

The girls and me; me and the girls. I was so deliriously happy. The good times rolled on and on. Did I mention that this was the best time of my life?

•••

Beyond our club assaults, there were plenty of quiet nights spent in the loft just drinking, talking, or reading stupid sex surveys in magazines -- nothing out of the ordinary. As we moved closer to each other, in from the corners of our triangle, the lines between us softened and curved into another perfect circle.

One of my most pronounced psychoses is my dread of staying home doing nothing. But somewhere along the line, the mundane, as long as it involved the two of them, acquired a lot of appeal. My time with the girls was precious. 3a had been spending so much time in this circle it was inevitable that her relationship with Best Friend’s cousin would end. Simultaneously, my crush on Best Friend faded. As much as I liked Best Friend, 3a was just seeping into different pores. We bonded on so many levels other than her considerable sex appeal and my thoughts on how best to come to grips with an erection.

“I’ve tried to get through these short stories by Chekhov,” I said one night offering her the book from my shelf, “but even his short stories are so...” I searched for the word.

“Thick?” 3a finished my sentence for me.

“Exactly.”

“If you think he’s a tough read,” she continued, “you should try Proust.”

“I’m getting into more quirky stuff like Bukowski.”

“Have you read ‘Garp’?”

“Yeah. I like John Irving, Tom Robbins...”

“I loved ‘Cowgirls’,” she gushed, grabbing my arm to punctuate her point.

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Best Friend interjected. 3a and I simultaneously just remembered that she was in the room.

“Just some books,” I tried to tell her without too much ‘nothing to worry your pretty little head over’ in my voice. We tried to include Best Friend in the conversation, but it kept drifting back to topics that held no interest to her. Eventually, 3a and I bored her right to sleep and carried our conversation on long into the night.

The last time I’d spoken to a girl that long about anything other than fucking her was when I was sixteen. We both worked at a really crappy fast food place near my high school. I was on break reading Winnie The Pooh. Laugh it up, but then go back and read it as an adult and tell me it’s not a great book. My fast food coworker was also into Pooh and we spent many a night discussing it and other subjects that weren’t sex. She was the first girl since Number 2 that I sort of, like, listened to. 3a was the second. And while I truly enjoyed 3a’s conversation, I was eager to get to the mind-warping sex I was sure was in our near future. For the time being, I settled for her absolute attention and the new openness in her eyes that invited me into her thoughts.

And then something happened.

•••

We always traveled in my car because, scarily, it was the cleanest. Since Best Friend knew me first, she rode shotgun.

“I can’t hear a word you two saying,” 3a protested from the back seat. I was tired of always repeating myself in our conversations.

“Get up here, then,” I proposed. 3a shimmied up between the bucket seats and rested her slender rear end on the console next to me, her shoulder pressed to mine.

“You were saying?”

That’s how we rode from then on. The girls took turns between the relative comforts of the passenger seat and the semi-padded console riding up their crotches. Operating the gearshift required my arm to intermingle with the left leg of the girl on the console. I was fine with the arrangement, but then Best Friend pointed out that 3a had been hogging the spot next to me. Really? I hadn’t noticed, but her comment certainly caught my attention. I was unaware (chronically, it seems) the console had become the seat of honor.

“You’re imagining things,” 3a answered Best Friend’s complaint.

“I will be so pissed if you two ever sleep together,” Best Friend blurted out of nowhere.

“That’s rich,” I laughed. “You won’t fuck me, but you’d be pissed off if she would. What’s that about?” It wasn’t about who sat on the damn console.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I just don’t want you two hooking up.”

Her words were concise and potent: I couldn’t have her and I wasn’t to have 3a, either. Rather cheeky of her to tell me who I could and could not sleep with. It was probably also unwise of her to tell a girlfriend what to do with her body, though that could work in my favor.

“I’m sorry,” Best Friend said. “I just can’t have you two together.” The seed was planted, watered, and fertilized.

I want to think that what followed wasn’t so much in response to Best Friend’s outburst, as much as her words were a reaction to something that was already alive. I needed for Best Friend to be expressing a feeling that she got about a preexisting condition between 3a and me, but I could never be sure because everything changed that very moment.

With Best Friend’s words still lingering out in the air, I glanced at 3a. She looked me directly in the eye a way she never had before. There was an acknowledgement, intensity, and questioning that wasn’t there a second before Best Friend’s edict. We would never look at each other the same way again, none of us. Best Friend would never again sit in the middle on the console of my car, either. 3a saw to that.

For the time being, I just drove on and changed the subject. My mouth pretended nothing happened, but my mind stayed frozen in that moment. I focused on the road, but all I could see was that look in 3a’s eyes.

Questions raced through my head. Was there something tangible that Best Friend sensed? Did 3a make an offhand comment to her in private that tipped her off? And what if 3a and I did hook up? Would it destroy what the three of us had? I was so happy with our arrangement, but I also had this huge thing for 3a. Would it be worth losing all this to be with her only, if that was the price? But before any of that could even be an issue, I needed to know if 3a felt the same as me. Did I see what I thought I saw in her eyes, or was I letting my imagination run away with me?

I needed to know, but I lacked the guts to stop the car and simply ask. To disengage the clutch, release the accelerator, and gently apply pressure to the brake pedal was too bold for chicken-shit me. Then 3a’s hand found its way to my leg, which raised more issues than it answered. A single word from me would have put an end to it, but I held my tongue. I wanted this to happen. It was all I could do to keep driving and burn slowly. The conversation in the car carried on, blissfully unaware of the tête-à-tête going on between her nail polish and the fabric of my pants.

Life continued normally, sort of. 3a was starting college soon. She and I didn’t rush into anything, prolonging my agony. Nights generally began and ended at my loft. In between, the three of us went out to mess with people’s minds as usual, including the requisite groping and laughing. By then 3a started copping additional under-the-table feels and and behind the back kisses, outside of the view of Best Friend. Things were whispered in my ear.

Nights ended so late it was just easier if they stayed over. My bed was big enough for three to sleep comfortably with a little affectionate snuggling, and perhaps a little more from one side than the other. Did I mention this was the happiest time of my life?

And then it really happened. Almost.

•••

There was this one night. While the girls and I did a bunch of nothing up in my loft, one of the downstairs bands threw a raging party. Best Friend had her eye on the lead singer for a while and unceremoniously excused herself to go fuck him. I was furious. Not jealous that she fucked the singer, just angry that she left the circle. My crush on her was completely gone, but she shouldn’t have left 3a and I there unsupervised. It was rude. On second thought, it was all the opportunity we needed. Almost.

3a read my anger as me being hung up on Best Friend. I had yet to say out loud that my feelings had changed. I should have told 3a weeks before but I hadn’t. To say it now would have seemed insincere.

With the sound of the party pumping up from underneath, I jumped the gun and made a clumsy attempt at taking whatever it was I thought we had further.

“It’s always been you,” or some other equally profound words came out of my mouth. She wasn’t biting. I tried to kiss her, but she wasn’t having it.

“Why are you doing this?” she started, “She’s down there.”

But I wasn’t down there. My heart was solidly in that moment with 3a. This was playing out like a bad scene in a John Hughes film: Molly Ringwald goes down to be with the guy she wants while John Cryer tries to nail the girl he really wants, only the girl thinks he’s hung up on Molly and shuts him down. All the while, the plaintive 80's New Wave theme song keeps wafting in from the party. In a rare burst of clarity, I saw the right road and took it.

“I'm exactly where I want to be and with the person I want to be with, but this can't work unless you are, too,” I said, pulling back before any serious damage was done.

At least I hoped and obsessed for the next week no damage was done. A short road trip with the band prevented me from seeing the girls. When I finally did, it was only briefly. They stopped by on their way to a concert I couldn’t attend. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as I feared. Best Friend was unaware that anything had passed between 3a and me. There was no weirdness on 3a’s part; no secret looks passed between us. Our almost night apparently didn’t move us any closer, nor did it destroy our friendship. At least I had that.

A minute after they left, my doorbell rang. 3a had come back while Best Friend kept the motor running.

“Left my purse upstairs.”

I escorted her back up the long flight of stairs to my loft. Halfway she stopped and faced me. There in her eye was that same look she gave me in the car that night: The same intensity, the same questioning. I fumbled for something to say. Before I could utter a syllable she grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my mouth to hers. Our lips had met many times before in the course of our game playing, but this...

God, I love a first kiss. The uncertainty that precedes it, the tiny snap of electricity when lips meet for the first time, the moment you spend adjusting to each other’s mouths. I love all of it. Mostly, I love how time freezes for a first kiss like it does for nothing else. I love that hypnotic moment and then, once the blood rushes back to my brain, the realization of how lost I’d been.

I don’t know how long the car horn was blaring outside before I came to and let go of her.

<-Go Back

Turn The Page ->