The Almost Threesome

Writer’s block is finally gone!  Enjoy!

One night in Vegas I almost had a threesome.

But it wasn’t the right kind of threesome.  If you know what I mean.

Alright, perhaps I should explain.  My buddy Tripod and I were at this bar off The Strip called The Beach.  The Beach was my favorite spot in Vegas until it closed down a few years ago.  It was a solid mix of tourists and locals, so it wasn’t a total tourist trap but there were still enough young out-of-town girls looking to make some poor decisions.  The staff at The Beach were all bikini-clad girls and board shorts-clad guys, so there was eye candy for all.  It had a giant dance floor right in the middle, with the entire upper level surrounding and overlooking the floor so you could ogle the girls if you didn’t feel like wading in.

The dance floor itself was hot and steamy, with a constant supply of bar napkins being hurled into the air and fluttering down upon the crowd.  The bikini girls behind the bar and working the beer tubs were also available for “body shots,” which consisted of them spraying dabs of whipped cream on their ass, stomach and cleavage, followed by a test tube full of weak liquor between their boobs.  It was nothing short of a hedonistic delight.

(On my first-ever trip to The Beach I was so drunk from drinking triple gin and tonics –known to the rest of the world as gin on the rocks– that when they announced a limbo contest on the dance floor I immediately volunteered.  I made it through the first round because I’m pretty sure the bar was still higher than my head.  The second round though, with the bar around my nose, I was so hammered that when I tried to lower myself six inches I somehow managed to fall flat on my face.  And so began my love affair with this magical place.)

On this night, Tripod and I were already well sauced when we got to The Beach around 9.  Like most Vegas bars, it really didn’t get busy until after 11, so for two hours we didn’t do much but drink and stare at the bikini girls.  But soon the place started filling up, and we quickly found out that there was a big NASCAR race in town that weekend.  I’m not a NASCAR fan myself, I have too many teeth to be accepted into that club, but surprisingly we found a couple of NASCAR girls that weren’t bad looking at all.  There were two of them, both blonde, and Tripod pounced upon them as only he can.  Unfortunately, we discovered they were there with two guys.  Two very NASCAR-y guys.  Shirts, hats, chew in the back pocket of their Wranglers, the works.  These guys couldn’t have been older than mid-20’s, but they were well on their way to being the stereotypical middle-aged NASCAR redneck.

Tripod was undaunted though.  He waded into the fray, chumming it up with the guys (I’m fairly certain neither of them had ever spoken with a Mexican before, and absolutely certain they’d never done shots with a 4’4”, 240-pound Mexican).  In short order Tripod discovered that one of the girls was indeed dating one of the guys, but the other (the hotter one) was single, although it was pretty clear that the second guy was very interested in her.  Retreating for a quick strategy session, it was determined that I should run interference on the guy while Tripod tried to work on the single girl.

And I tried.  Swear to God, I really tried.  But I could barely understand what these guys were saying.  Now, I’m no snob, I grew up in the Midwest, and I’m proud to say I’m a product of the “flyover states.”  But these guys were at a whole ‘nother level of redneckedness.  They said things like “fixin’” and “You better don’t.”  And they were utterly clueless when it came to football, which was really my only hope of distracting them.  (I had been looking forward to a heated debate of SEC versus Big 10 football.)

Eventually I realized I had little hope of distracting him, so I moved to Plan B.  Acting like I was stupid drunk (not much of a stretch) I stood between where Tripod and the girl were sitting and where the NASCAR guy was sitting.  Then I swayed and staggered, shifting from side to side in order to block his view while Tripod worked his game on the girl.  The guy would lean to one side to try and look around me, I’d pretend to drunkenly stagger a step or two in that direction to block his vision.  It was fun.  And effective.

But at some point the alcohol got the better of me and I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on, because the next thing I knew Tripod was telling me the four NASCAR people were heading to a strip club and he was going to tag along with them.  “I think I can nail her,” he said.

I may have been shitfaced, but I knew this was a bad idea.

“Dude, you can’t go off with them, you may never come back.”

Tripod assured me it was cool, the girl wanted him to come with them.  I told him that was irrelevant, the jealous guy and his friend may just decide to beat his ass and leave him in the desert.  But Tripod was adamant.  Details are sketchy, but I think I refused to go in hopes it would deter Tripod from going.  But that failed miserably and soon I was all by myself at the bar while Tripod was off in a cab to the strip club.

Alone at the best bar in Vegas, I proceeded to drink even more and stumble around the place to check out the girls.  And did I mention I kept drinking?

It was sometime after 3 in the morning when I met a girl at the main bar, nursing a drink by herself.  She wasn’t anything special, skinny but without much shape, brunette with a cute face but a bad set of teeth.  But she had a couple tattoos poking out of her black tank top, which I always take as a sign of sluttiness.  I bought her a drink and we chatted for a while.  I discovered she was a stripper at a place I had never heard of in Vegas (which is to say, not one of the better strip clubs), but as I had never banged a stripper before I thought this would be a great opportunity.  I mean, twenty years down the road when I tell people “I banged a Las Vegas stripper,”  people aren’t going to interrogate me on how hot she was, they’re just going to be in awe of my prowess.

At last call I felt like things were still going well, and being in Vegas (where there are no rules) and being utterly hammered, I just went right in for the kill.  “So, you wanna go back to your place?”

“Maybe,” she answered.  I thought she was just being coy.

But then she dropped the bomb.

“I just have to check with my boyfriend first.”

A long, drunken pause as my mind tried to process this.  “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s the DJ here, I’m waiting for him to get off.”

The look on my face must have been more confusion than disappointment.  She elaborated, “It’s cool, we have an open relationship.  I just need to see what he’s up to tonight, but I’m sure you can come back with us.”

Now, there aren’t many moments in my life where I regret drinking as much as I do (other than the hangovers), but this is definitely one of them.  My gin-soaked mind simply couldn’t process where exactly this was heading.

Does she want me to fuck her in front of her boyfriend?  Does she want him to join us?  Does she want to be double teamed?  Or does she want to double team me?

Had I been less hammered or had she been more hot I might have explored this further, asked the questions to ascertain what exactly was on the table.  But I wasn’t sober and she wasn’t that hot, so I quickly extricated from the situation.

And just as I was walking for the door, I got a call from Tripod.  He was in a cab, by himself, and so drunk he couldn’t remember what hotel we were staying at.  I told him, but then he admitted he also had no money to pay the cabbie.  “Well,” I sighed, “just have him come here and pick me up and I’ll cover it.”

A perfect end to a perfect night.  Tripod struck out, I struck out, and we went to bed alone.

Not all Vegas stories have happy endings.

An Easy Girl

Her name was Hailee.  She had a great body, long legs, nice ass, toned stomach and great breasts.  Unfortunately, Hailee had a face that could stop traffic.  She was in her mid-20’s but she had acne like the worst 16-year-old you’ve ever seen.  It wasn’t pretty.

I hooked up with Hailee one very drunken night when we all wound up at her place after the bar closed.  There were about a dozen people in her tiny studio apartment, playing drinking games until the wee hours of the morning.  Details are extremely hazy because I was drunker than three Indians on payday, but somehow as I was getting ready to leave I found myself making out with her.  (I think I made the first move but I honestly don’t remember.)  I took a step back into her apartment and kicked the door shut on my friends (the international sign for “get lost”) and we stumbled to her bed.

Once in bed I got her top off and discovered that her breasts were even better than they appeared under her shirt.  They were above average size for someone as skinny as she was, and so perfectly shaped I couldn’t be completely certain they were real.  (I consider myself a connoisseur of the breast augmentation business and can usually tell the difference with ease.)  And to top it all off, she had these spectacular eraser tip nipples that stuck out nearly a full inch.

I was so mesmerized by her rack that I was ready to forget about her unfortunate face and dive in… until my hand crept down inside her panties and found a string hanging out.

Sonuvabitch.

Well that sucks.  So we made out a little more, I played with her boobs a lot more.  I tried to get her to blow me but she wasn’t having any of it.  So I tried to get her to jerk me off but she was as inept at it as most girls.  So I passed out for a couple hours on her tiny bed before making the mile-plus walk of shame with no coat in the middle of December.

It might have been the coldest walk of my life.

But the story doesn’t end there.  A few weeks later a man named Blackout moved to town.  Blackout and I immediately hit it off and became drinking partners.  A few weeks into his arrival in Utah we were shitfaced at a bar and he was lamenting the lack of available females in this godforsaken wasteland we call home.

“You want some ass tonight?” I asked.  “I can deliver it to your door!”

Blackout hadn’t known me for very long, but it was long enough to know I’m no ladies man.  So he was skeptical.  But as we were piling into our designated driver’s car I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hailee.  It took about two minutes and three texts to have her lined up.  Our sober driver swung by her place, picked her up, and dropped the three of us off at Blackout’s apartment.

Once there, I helped myself to a beer and hung out for about five minutes, just long enough to make sure everything was going smoothly.  Then I feigned like I needed to get something at my place (I lived in the same complex about a hundred yards away), said I’d be right back, and went home to bed.

The next day I asked Blackout how it went.  “Good, I think.  I don’t really remember.  Don’t think I fucked her, but you’re right, she has a great rack.”

But the story still isn’t over.

A couple weeks after that we once again found ourselves at Blackout’s apartment after a long night of drinking.  This night was an absolute trainwreck; I don’t remember where we were, who we were with, or how we wound up at home with Hailee in tow.

Here’s what I do remember.  Blackout was sitting in his recliner chair, chugging a beer.  I was on the couch chugging a beer.  Hailee was on the end of the couch, between us, chugging a beer.  It was cold out and she had on this long sweater that was almost like a dress, hanging down so low it practically covered her ass.  She had some kind of black tights on that probably would have shown off her ass quite nicely were it not for that sweater.  After the three of us had chilled for awhile, Hailee got up and went to the bathroom.  And when she came back she wasn’t wearing her tights!

I was bewildered.  Hammered and bewildered.  She slid past me on her way back to her spot on the couch, and as she did I could just see under her long sweater that she wasn’t wearing anything else.  Just a bare ass and an uncaged beaver.

So… what do you do in a situation like this?  She didn’t say a word, just sat back down between us and started drinking her beer and staring straight ahead at the TV.

Is this what you're looking for?

A million thoughts were racing through my drunken head.  What the fuck is going on?  Does she want us to take turns on her?  Does she want to get tag teamed?  Is she just totally fucked in the head???

I wanted desperately to confer with Blackout about this situation, but obviously that couldn’t be done with her sitting there.  Even worse, he was so fucked up he wasn’t even aware that she was now sitting in his living room with no pants on.  I was frantically trying to get his attention without alerting Hailee, leaning back in the couch and trying to make eye contact behind her back.

'Cause this ain't happenin'!

Now, I’m not going to say that I was down with the idea of having the wrong kind of threesome.  But I will say that I would have loved to have that conversation.  “So… you want me and Blackout to both fuck you?  At the same time?  Exactly how would you like this to work, which hole do I get?  Oh, and by the way, are you completely out of your fucking mind?!?”

But, alas, Blackout was totally out of it.  Short of me standing up and boldly announcing that there was a pants-less, classless, respect-less whore in his living room, nothing else was going to get his attention.  (In retrospect that’s exactly what I should have done.)

After what seemed like an ungodly length of time (it might have been just 5 minutes, but in my state time doesn’t have much meaning) Hailee huffed angrily, got up and stormed back into the bathroom.  The moment the door shut I whispered, “Dude!  That crazy bitch isn’t wearing any pants!  I think she wants us to run a train on her!’

Blackout stirred the tiniest bit, as if deciding whether this interested him, but then he slouched back in the chair and told me I could have her.  About that time Hailee came out of the bathroom, but instead of re-joining us in the living room she just helped herself to Blackout’s bed and passed out.

“Dude!” I whispered again, “She’s in your bed!  I think that means she wants to fuck you!”

Again, a half-stir out of Blackout, but then he shrugged and curled up in the recliner chair.  “You go for it.  I’m just gonna sleep here tonight.”

Now my bewilderment was making my head spin more than the booze.  “You want me to fuck her?  In your bed?”

“Sure.  I’ll clean the sheets tomorrow.”

To my great shame and embarrassment, I must admit I actually contemplated this.  I stood up, walked into the bedroom, as if to assess the situation.  I might have even called out to see if she was awake, I don’t remember.  But she didn’t stir, certainly didn’t say, “Oh, Single White Alcoholic, come fuck me in Blackout’s bed!”  So I decided the best course of action was to go home to bed.

The next day Blackout had no memory whatsoever of the incident.  When I recapped it for him he was just as intrigued as I had been.  “Do you think she wanted us to gangbang her?  Dude, that chick is nuts!  We should probably avoid putting anything inside her.”

“Agreed!”

Anyone for a Threesome??

Well, my blog is almost three months old and I’m sad to report that I am not yet as popular as Tucker Max.  My 50-60 hits a day barely register as a blip on the blogging landscape.  My buddy Gotham has been tutoring me on the fine art of Twitter and using it to drive traffic, but so far response has been pretty soft.  (Please refer to my very first blog for my true feelings on Twitter.)

But I am slowly learning.  For instance, I’ve been tracking how people are finding my site.  Outside of friends, family and my loyal subscribers (all 3 of you), I’m getting the majority of my hits from search engines.  And over 80% of those hits have come from one search word…

Threesome.

I made one off-hand, joking reference to threesomes in my Free Agents of Love blog.  And that one word is responsible for nearly all of my hits from strangers.

So, obviously, what America really wants to read about is threesomes.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any stories of my own about threesomes (much to my chagrin), so I guess I’ll have to do the next best thing.  I’ll just throw in the word “threesome” as many times as possible in all my future posts.

In other news, the first weekend of the NCAA tournament was entertaining as always.  I picked Kansas to win it all, and although Illinois gave them a good run Sunday, their threesome of Markieff Morris, Marcus Morris and Tyshawn Taylor were just too much.

In hockey, my beloved Buffalo Sabres looked unbeatable Saturday night in dismantling Atlanta 8-2.  And they were cruising to another victory Sunday against Nashville, leading 3-1, when they gave up a threesome of goals in the final 2:27 of regulation and then overtime.  The Sabres should still make the playoffs but expecting them to make any noise in the first round is probably wishful thinking.  It will be another short-lived playoff beard for me this year.