Linda Alvarez - The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

I looked around his bedroom. His style was minimalist, mostly from lack of need. A queen-size bed, covered in white sheets and a down comforter contrasted a dark wood chest of drawers, and two matching night tables. He had a bottle of water propped up on his nightstand and book casually left open. Nothing was out of place, everything had a purpose. He must have thought my place was a tornado disaster area.

“You should eat something,” he said, in a tone that seemed sud denly formal.

His words startled me. I realized I was standing there dissecting it all in silence.

“I’d rather eat you,” I said playfully, turning to face him. I stepped over to him, grabbed his crotch, and kissed his neck, taking in his Mediterranean blend of olive soap and tobacco smell.

“Don’t,” he said, unhooking my hands and placing them at my sides. His eyes darted back and forth in thought. All the sexual energy from before had been drained from the room.

“Don’t what?” I said.

“Later, Anna.” He said it in the way a woman might if she had a headache.

“Fine,” I said, audibly pissed.

“We have all the time in the world to make love.”

He always said that. “Hacer el amor” instead of follar, fuck, which I liked to say now. Like in the Almodovar movies. He liked to correct me on this, disapproving of my crude Spanish. “We don’t fuck Anna, we make love ,” he’d say with a smile.

I always rolled my eyes at this. The thought of making love all the time killed the mood.

“Let’s put some food into you, OK? I pre-prepared our lunch.”

Though he was going through the good host’s manual step by step, he was still acting a little weird. I started to suspect he had second thoughts about me coming.

“I’ll freshen up then.” My voice came out a note higher than usual.

I turned to fidget blindly with the zipper of my suitcase, his eyes still on me. And just as that feeling of exasperation of being in this unknown place was rising, the hot tears ready to roll, David came up behind me and hugged my bent body, clasping his hands over my uterus. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he whispered in my ear.

Once he left the room, I went into the bathroom and unpacked my toiletry bag. There was a stale smell of old plumbing that turned my stomach, and I breathed through my mouth instead. Con fronting my appearance in the mirror, I got back what I expected to see. I was green from a week’s worth of little sleep and anxiety.

After brushing my teeth with my Tom’s of Maine mint toothpaste (David teased me about it, calling me nature chica), I dabbed on some lipstick and debated which of David’s fragrances to put on to liven me up. Lavendar, Vetiver, Musk, Figuer. The latter was a high-end French cologne that smelled of dirt and figs. I remember thinking this was funny. Figa, in Italian, is slang for pussy. I hadn’t known him to be a perfume wearer in New York. I went for the Figuer, in tribute to its symbolism.

Finished with my mild grooming, I went back into the hallway and walked towards the sound of banging dishes in the kitchen. On the way, I saw what seemed to be his study. I decided to dip into it before re-encountering him so soon.

On an old rickety side table adjacent to a big beige comfy reading chair sat a pair of framed photographs, the only ones I had seen in the house so far. One was of a thin, bearded man in a dress shirt and high-waisted slacks. He was standing in front of a bookstore with a proud look on his face. It was almost a smirk. It had to be his father.

Then there was the other photo. Two twenty-something boys in matching white T-shirts and jeans laughed hysterically, tears running down their faces, with their arms tightly enwound around each other’s waists. Sergi and David, long haired and tanned, posing with that barely perceptible femininity in their stance that only I could clearly see. Sergi towered over David, who was nestled into the crevice of his armpit. Physically, Sergi was way more striking than David had ever suggested in his descriptions. And it was obvious he held the reins.

From what I gathered, Sergi was David’s ringleader, his pimp. David was always under his tutelage in writing and when it came to getting laid. Throughout their teens and twenties they’d date the same women, bed them together, and get off on the group sex. Watching the other pump. Lending a generous hand, patting each other’s backsides in brotherly support. I never had the nerve to ask David if they’d engage each other during these threesomes.

An unwanted vision of David’s thin lips around Sergi’s cock appeared in my head. My hands clamped up around the edges of the cold wood frame, my heart beat faster in panic. I wanted to throw the photo against the wall and smash their big smiles to pieces. Why the hell was I jealous of a man? What did he have that I didn’t? I thought I already knew the answer.

“Anna, come to the balcony,” David called out from a distance. The balcony spread along the back end of his apartment so you could enter it from various parts of the house: from his bedroom, the study, or from the hallway. He had quite a spread of Spanish culinary cliches awaiting me: olives, jamon serrano, Manchego cheese, grilled squid, tortilla espanola.

“You doing OK?” he asked as I stepped out into the dry, yellow sun. A comic vroom vroom of a motor scooter from the side street below answered his question before I could.

“Sure. Just feeling a little woozy. Probably hunger.”

It was somewhere in the early after noon, and David was pouring us glasses of full-bodied Rioja. I could still feel his tension and I was grateful for the upcoming intoxication.

He dragged out a metal lawn chair for me to sit down in and slowly, as if with arthritis, eased himself into his seat. The sky was monochromatically blue and the sun’s rays were penetrating my scalp. David had his sunglasses on so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could tell his wheels were turning; he was pushing out his mouth in thought.

It was the quiet before the storm.

“So we’re not alone, huh?” I ventured first. His silence was irritating me.

He sighed a sigh that weighed half his entire body weight. “Yes, Anna. I wanted to tell you beforehand, but I didn’t want you to rearrange your plans or decide not to come or something crazy.”

“Sergi’s here, I know,” I said.

David reached for his glass and took a swig. I reached for one of his Lucky Strikes, focusing on the bomb target symbol on its packaging. Neither of us had touched the food.

“Listen, I want you to meet him. He’s part of my past. Yes, he’s been a pain in the ass all his life, but he’s family and I can’t shut my door on him. He’s harmless. God, why do you hate him so much?” His voice was whinier than usual. He looked at me, his upper lip in a curl, his mouth slightly ajar. I had never seen him look so annoyed, so nervous.

Then he put his head down, resting his elbows on his splayed knees, staring at the ground. He looked defeated. I caught a whiff of the Manchego.

I have to confess that his weakness gave me a whole new sense of strength. Sergi was obviously a touchy topic, and David was beginning to seem half the man I fell for in New York.

“Listen David,” I said calmly, using my best phone operator voice. I was good at concealing the pain when I had to. “I thought we had agreed that he was going to stay somewhere else while I was getting settled in here at least. You told me this.”

He sat up in his seat, “His plans fell through with some other apartment, OK? And he has to be here for a few Diada de Sant Jordi book events. Lord knows I have enough extra space in this place. What’s the big deal? What do you have against someone you’ve never even met?”