It wasn’t until she emerged the next morning, mascara strewn down her cheeks and the smell of Fireball still emanating from her pores; it hit me Sarah’s boyfriend had been in the house while my girlfriend I and were having a threesome with her.
That’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.
For several reasons – not the least being, a mere handful of years ago I thought I was straight. (Then again, I also thought my credit card debt would go away if I ignored it long enough, and swore I’d never regret plucking my eyebrows into oblivion.)
“Don’t f*ck your friends” is a rule pretty much as cardinal as “Don’t chew with your mouth open” and “Only leave an empty toilet roll in the bathroom if you want your housemates to tamper with your toothbrush”. But if I’m honest, Sarah isn’t the first friend I’ve tested the rule with.
In high school, I wrote a cringey erotic letter to my best friend following a drunken party pash (after which, she told me, “I’m not into girls” and promptly became too busy to hang out); and in uni, I slept with a bi-curious classmate (it didn’t ruin the friendship, but she went back to dating men and never spoke of it again).
In hindsight, the shame and disappointment that followed my hook-ups with female friends explains a lot about why I repressed the fact I was gay for so long.
But Sarah was different.
I met her after I was already out, and she was confidently queer – the kind of woman who wore her sexuality loudly, like it was a new dress she wanted to show off.
“I’m bi with a strong preference for women,” she told me when we first met, an upturn in one corner of her lips that suggested it was a pointed message.
Her friendship didn’t come with the same parameters I was used to. At parties she’d often playfully throw her top off and spend the night walking around in her bra, and sometimes sans-bra, inviting people to touch her tits like it was an episode of Oprah’s Favourite Things.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to try anything. I know you have a girlfriend and I respect that,” she’d say, as if sensing I’d picked up on the sexual tension that seemed to hang in the air when she was around.
I wasn’t worried. I was finally in the healthy, fulfilling relationship I’d always dreamed of having with another woman, so I had no interest in Sarah, or anyone else, for that matter.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a burst of erotic energy in her presence.
Sarah was strikingly attractive, with doll-like features and boobs that defied gravity when she flung her bra across the room at parties. And she appeared to have a taste for chaos.
“Do you guys mind if I take my bikini off?” she asked casually one night, as though inquiring about the weather.
Sarah and her boyfriend had come to stay with my girlfriend and I the evening before they were due to fly out for a trip, and we were celebrating with cheap Prosecco and Fireball in the outdoor spa.
“Is that a trick question?!” my girlfriend joked, her pupils widening with excitement and ethanol.
It seemed like only moments later Sarah’s bikini was dangling, dripping from a nearby hedge, and it was just the three of us left in the spa.
“You guys have fun. One of us has to be sober in the morning!” her boyfriend had teased, mopping the water off himself as he closed the sliding door to the house behind him.
Though it was never verbalised, I knew this was a kind of green light.
Sarah and her boyfriend had an open relationship and were known to dabble in sex with other people in tandem and separately, depending on who it was – if Sarah was sleeping with other women, it was usually on her own, unless there was an explicit invitation.
“You two should make out,” my girlfriend proposed flirtatiously, topping up the shot glasses perched on the side of the spa with the last dregs of Fireball.
“Really? Won’t that make you jealous?” I asked.
“No, I trust you. And I think it’d be sexy,” she replied, shooting back a reassuring smile. “You know you’ve always wanted to.”
“I’m game,” Sarah joined in, the corner of her mouth upturning in a familiar way. “But only if you’re sure.”
“Okay,” I answered, letting her loop an arm around my waist and pull me in tightly toward her naked body, her breasts sitting just above the water.
I tossed the shame of fumbled hook-ups with friends who’d pushed me deeper into the closet of self-denial out of my mind, and kissed her deeply, the flavour of cinnamon still dancing on her tongue.
“You should both take your tops off now,” she coaxed, nudging the strap on my bikini with her fingers.
Perhaps it was the Fireball, or the exhilaration of living out a pornographic fantasy, or perhaps it was the newfound confidence being in a safe queer relationship had bestowed on me, but I gave in to the moment.
Instead of the jealousy and insecurity I expected to feel watching Sarah straddle over my girlfriend as she wriggled her bikini off, their naked bodies glistening with water while they kissed, I felt explosive arousal – like something primal in me was being emancipated.
There were few words spoken after that. It was essentially one long surreal ache of pleasure, and fingers and tongues, and taking turns bringing one another to orgasm.
I’m not sure when or where the night ended. I only remember the deafening thud of the hangover that woke me the next morning while Sarah and her boyfriend manically packed, realising they were running late for the airport; and the familiar smile Sarah shot us as she hurried into an Uber, seemingly unbothered by what had happened just hours earlier.
That’s a story I never thought I’d write, for obvious reasons.
But also, because I’ve only had one regret since that night. And that’s believing I could still drink Fireball.
Nadia Bokody is a queer sex columnist, YouTuber and professional over-sharer who no longer drinks Fireball. Follow her on Instagram for more.
Feature Image: Instagram/@nadiabokody
