My Steamy Threesome with Married Daddies Changed My Views on Love
Here were two seasoned gays, roughly fucking me, a recently-out otter. Our sex wasn't just phenomenal, it also revealed a new type of relationship, a new way to love.
Original illustration by Eduardo.
I originally wrote this piece in October 2015, immediately following the experience. It was the first time I ever documented a sexual encounter in an essay format. AURORE published the piece in March 2019.
Nine years later, I have reworded and edited the piece, elevating the prose but keeping the events (and my feelings) honest and intact.
I arrive at exactly 6:30. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves, being late to a casual fuck. Convenience is the name of the game, and if I’m waiting for you, you’re playing the wrong game.
The Uber drops me off in front of a brownstone in the South End. I had never known someone who lived in this area of Boston, and no one I know could even dream of affording a place like this. I ring the doorbell and hear him ungracefully clomp down the staircase.
He looks at me intently, assessing my facial features.
“You are cute,” he eventually says in a thick French accent. I hug him, smile, and respond, “Thank you.”
He tells me Husband isn’t home yet, but we can have a drink while we wait. Opening his apartment door, I’m struck by wealth: twenty-foot-high ceilings, a grand piano in the living room, and contemporary glass figures of amorphous blobs.
I turn to see his face. His long, auburn beard hides his wrinkles, but his crow's feet reveal his true age: late forties. He’s bald but shaves his head to make it appear like a choice. He wears a little skull cap to hide his shame.
His big brown eyes stare into mine, and he doesn’t blink. His fiery gaze reveals a yearning. Not only does he want to consume every part of my flesh, but he also wants my soul.
We begin kissing deeply, irresistibly drawn to each other. He the bear; me the honey.
Quickly, we undress and find ourselves on his couch, which costs more than five months of my rent. I’m wearing purple athletic Puma boxer briefs. He’s wearing a jockstrap. I pull his strap down to see what’s underneath: thick, pierced, and gauged. Very gauged. Right through the tip. (I can’t stop myself from imagining a needle puncturing his most prized possession, and I reflexively cup my family jewels.) He has a cock ring at the base of his shaft and another piercing above his taint.
He is my first Prince Albert, and it makes me feral.
But I figure I should be a good boy. “Do we wait for your Husband?” I ask.
“Yes, we probably should.” I back off him and take a deep breath. My sympathetic system is in overdrive, and I want to pounce and gag. I want to be grabbed and held down. I want to be fucked. I want to be loved, but I have to wait.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Anything brown,” I reply, hoping it makes me sound more mature.
He bends over to go through his liquor cabinet. I see his hairy ass pop out of his jockstrap, and my cock encourages with blood. (One deep breath could not contain my arousal.) He pours me a glass of whiskey, and I kiss him, our tongues swirling.
When I sit on his couch, he takes the lowball glass out of my hand, pulls down my briefs, and starts sucking slowly. I moan and caress his bald head, smoother than a freshly waxed bowling ball. He looks up at me with his big, brown eyes, making aggressive eye contact. Even with me in his mouth, I can see his smile—a naughty smile.
When I hear loud keys jingle and the doorknob turn, I start to panic. But Prince Albert keeps going, bobbing his head up and down. The door unlocks. I turn over to see another Frenchman smiling.
“Hello!” I laugh.
Prince Albert gargles, “Hermooo.”
“What do we have here?” Husband asks.
Prince Albert stops and gives Husband a big smooch on the lips. I go over and do the same.
He, too, appraises me just as his better half did.
“You are cute,” he says. I smile and reply, “Thank you,” fighting the urge to return the compliment.
That is enough talk. Prince Albert and I are in the middle of something, and we want it to continue.
But as we begin pulling off his pants, he stops us.
“Hold on. I need to eat. Zach, are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“I was going to make chicken tikka masala,” he says, opening up his fridge. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, that sounds great.” I am slightly disappointed by the lack of immediate sex, but do love me some tikka masala.
Prince Albert and Husband ask each other about their days, kiss tenderly, and start speaking in French. I can’t help but grin as they interact. They are a cute couple, and I hope to one day be in a relationship like theirs.
He takes the chicken out of the fridge and starts boiling the sauce. Meanwhile, Prince Albert pushes me onto a stool in front of the kitchen island, directly next to Husband. Still naked, he puts me in his mouth, deepthroating me the way only a hairy European Daddy knows how. I then get on my knees and return the favor.
Before we met, I mentioned I top. And that’s correct; I do top. But with everything going on, topping didn’t seem right. Besides, my nerves might get to me, like they often do.
I get up from my knees, put my elbows on the metal stool, and prop my ass up. He grabs a condom and puts it over his gauged dick. Husband stops stirring the sauce to come over and kiss me while Prince Albert enters. I am tighter than a constrictor knot. It’s been a long time since I’ve bottomed sober. Finally, he fits. I make him move slowly at first, but once I’m relaxed, I tell him to use some force. Husband is kissing me and playing with my nipples.
Then, a piercing sound. The smoke detector. The chicken is burning.
“Shit! Shit!” Husband says in an adorable French accent, as he frantically waves his arm below the smoke alarm. We laugh together as Prince Albert continues fucking me.
“I could cum,” he whispers in my ear.
“Don’t. Just fuck me real slow.”
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