Apparently the Banana is the most Romeo-Don-Juan-Cassanova of all the fruits. Maybe just Cupid in disguise. It’s 3am or something – I’m pretty buzzed, but not too buzzed that I’m imagining the Bananaman picking up on the other side of the dancefloor. It’s Halloween so it’s probably not a hallucination.
A non-fruit woman writes something on his arm – I can only assume it’s her number. It could be a recipe for banana bread for all I care. These characters are the parentheses around the sentence I am focused on: one beautiful girl standing between them who I am enjoying that coy, sexual tension filled eye contact with. I gesture at the scene in front of her – as if to share in the absurdity of a fruit getting lucky.
I don’t expect the beautiful girl to take this as an invitation to so confidently cross the dance floor, to meet me at the other side of this disgusting nightclub and strike up a conversation. I don’t feel so confident when she stops in front of me, gorgeous smile beaming, doe-like eyes staring into mine. Fuck, she is stunning. What do I do now? She’s said something. Jesus Christ, I think to myself, her mouth makes the most beautiful movements when she talks. I hope I didn’t just say that shit out loud. I tell myself to stop staring at her stained lips.
I find it easy to flirt and play with men but women scare the shit out of me. I don’t know why this is. I don’t think she notices how nervous I am during our conversation. I feel like a duck on the water – calm up top, but churning that lake down below. It’s probably the rum talking, but I feel like I’m hitting home runs. She’s funny. We laugh. She touches my arm. She cocks her head. Our body language is mirrored. A young man joins us sometime later and I discover this is the beauty’s boyfriend. I am disappointed but more than a little relieved that tonight isn’t going to get real after all. Or is it?
“Is this your boyfriend?”. She nods. Those eyelids flutter. She isn’t embarassed and doesn’t hide that she’s taken. Maybe she wasn’t flirting with me at all.
“That’s a shame. I would have loved to take you home tonight”. I’m so goddamn cocky when I’m drinking. I’m puffed up with bravado. I think I’m so clever.
She doesn’t skip a beat. “You could come home with us…if you wanted”. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. The air rushes out of me and I’m speechless, probably with a slack jaw, wide eyes. Unsure. Did a threesome just get put on the table?
I’m not attracted to the man in the least, but this doesn’t matter to me. Does it not matter to me because I don’t have to be attracted to men to sleep with them? That’s a fucked up thought to think further about another time.
I manage to gather control of my face and mouth: “Yeah, I’d love to”. Am I smiling or grimacing? Oh God, I hope the former. The words come out just as the excitement of having a threesome overtakes the fear of having my kidneys removed and waking up in an ice bath the following morning.
I think the beauty can see through my facade so adds something about not feeling obliged to come home with them: “Only if you feel comfortable!”. She’s sweet as hell in addition to being smoking hot. Like some sort of chocolate vindaloo.
She gives me several opportunities to back out before we’re in a maxi-taxi, taking a 45 minute awkward drive to Fremantle where they live. Two of their friends are in the car with us – it’s weird. I know that they know that in less than an hour, the three of us are going to be writhing around naked together in the same house they’ll be passing out in. The two other people and I don’t speak much – I don’t think we even exchange names. I want to pretend they don’t exist right now.
I feel like a toy that’s just been purchased: I’m a package, eagerly anticipated but unable to be opened until we get home. Batteries not included. This idea excites and disgusts me at the same time. I’m halfway to Fremantle and I want to back out. I’m halfway to Fremantle and I wish I was there already. A couple searches for a girl to share tonight and they’ve found one. As easy as pie – just a question asked and an affirmative reply. Is it this easy for others? Is this how threesomes generally happen?
I’m so nervous when we get to our destination. They ask me if I want a drink. I’m not a big drinker and all they have is XXX gold. No. I can’t think of anything worse. I am visibly uncomfortable standing there in their kitchen under the unflattering, bright lights: less flawless makeup at a club and more insecure stranger, all shuffled feet, waiting for the relative safety of the darkness in their bedroom. Isn’t that bizarre? I feel more comfortable with the idea of being naked, in the dark with a couple of strangers than I do standing in their kitchen, having a conversation with them.
The idea of a sexual experience with two people instead of one, being romantic, seems odd to me. But that is how it goes. It is a loving, intensely erotic night between a solid couple and a random girl they’ve met that evening. I’ve always wondered how I would deal with the dynamics of being the third – the invited – the outsider. I do not feel unwanted at all. I feel welcomed, completely. We have little sleep and spend more of the night laughing than anything else. It surprises me that it takes only a minute of being naked in their collective presence for me to be completely, unreservedly comfortable with the situation I find myself in.
A few hours of sleep and here they are, driving me home – all the way to Leederville. A peck on the cheek for the beauty and a friendly hug for the beauty’s boyfriend and with a click of a few buttons, we’re all facebook friends. Does that mean there’s the expectation or chance of round two?
Modern dating has come so far. I wouldn’t even need a Bananaman the next time.