Sex in the Cam: Week 3

This week I am on my period: no sex for me, only cramps and a personality reminiscent of Frankenstein’s monster, the Hulk and the manic Nyan cat riding a roundabout rapidly increasing in speed. According to the Bible, God punished every daughter of Eve by making childbirth absurdly painful, but I think the truly sadistic move was to make our (well at least my) monthly peak of horniness perfectly coincide with the time that blood gushes from our only sex organs. God is one sick bastard. You might think that this affliction would mean nothing of note this week but you, like me, would be wrong.

It was Sunday night and I wasn’t going to let low blood-iron and a wad of cotton in my vag stop me from going out. In Fez’s smoking area (I’m usually a Life kinda gal, but it’s good to mix it up a bit), I bump into two guys on my course. We’re the kind of mates you would stop to talk to outside Sainsbury’s, or at hang out at a house party, but with which there is no active friendship. No one-on-one drinks or coffee. As you do, we end up on the topic of orgies. A friend of mine – well, a girl I know who likes to churn every gritty detail of her life out into the vicinity and I happened to be in the fallout zone – recently had a foursome, one of the participants being a very attractive older boy in my college, though from her description it was basically just her having sex with the less hot one while the other pair had sex in the same room. I’d never really thought about orgies before hearing this story, and it seems that with the right amount of alcohol they could be pretty fun – sex times three (maybe even greater than the sum of its parts – sex squared? Sex cubed?!) …  At this point in the conversation my friends exchanged a look of complete understanding.

One cheekily took the plunge: “We’d have an orgy with you.” In a cartoon-like fashion my jaw dropped; I was gobsmacked. The only thing I could think to say was “But that wouldn’t be an orgy, it would be a threesome!”

“Well in that case, we’d have a threesome with you,” the other chimed in. I still had nothing to say. Was this really the next logical step in the conversation? Maybe this is what happens when you hang out with the kind of people who go to Fez (I was once getting off with a guy in the corner of Fez and when we paused there was a random bloke’s face about an inch from ours. He asked if he could join in, we said no, he shrugged – ‘worth a try’ – and ambled off). Yet my booze-infused brain started to consider the possibility. Though not my type, they’re both attractive guys and, if there was such a thing as the perfect level of friendship for orgies, they would be it.

I snapped out of it: I was in no state to make such crucial sex life decisions. And anyway I had my get out of sex free card: The Period. In terms as delicate as elephant ballet (best of a bad job), I explained why it wasn’t going to happen. And on that conversation bulldozer I suggested we head back in to dance.

We’d been upstairs about ten seconds when, to my complete astonishment, one of them grabbed my face with two hands and kissed me. Before I could ask “what about our third wheel?” number two firmly placed his hands on my waist, spun me around, dipped me towards the floor then kissed me hard on the mouth. I couldn’t believe how choreographed the whole thing seemed: just a prop, I was totally out of control as I was passed between the two of them in a seamless rally. It was amazing.

It’s exciting when one person desires you; to have two competing for your attentions is exhilarating. I was completely dissolved in the bundle, every bit of me pressed up against man. While my mouth was occupied with one, the other grabbed my thighs and bit deep into my neck. Everyone was getting a slice of the action cake and eating it – even the boys had a go, though they possibly didn’t enjoy it as much. In hindsight, this sandwich of grinding, snogging and groping must have looked pretty shocking to passing revellers. Not your average sneaky dancefloor pull.

But of course it didn’t leave the dancefloor: I was, after all, holding the floodgates shut. It’d been fun but we all knew it wasn’t going anywhere other than creating four very blue balls. All parties departed in good (and hazy) spirits. When I saw one of them a couple days later after a lecture, there was not a hint of revisit to our almost-threesome. I’m sure it would have been less easy to carry on as friends if more than one kind of bodily fluid had been exchanged. My only punishment for my most outrageous pull to date was a lovebite of country-sized proportions. Cheers get-out-of-jail-free card, cheers God!