It Happened to Me: I Burst Into Tears During A Threesome
In one night, in a bedroom, I lost him, then her, and then an all-expenses-paid trip to Miami.
By: Jasmine Glass
Back in the Roaring Twenties—no, wait—back in my roaring 20s, I had more than a few adventurous sexual experiences. Sometimes they were planned. Other times, I was out for cocktails with a female friend, got frisky, and made an impromptu call to someone I knew would be down to join us.
That evening, it was a man I had a situationship with—during the 2010s when we still called it “seeing someone.” He wasn’t even home (or technically available) when I pitched the idea, but that wasn’t going to stop him. He told me where to find the spare key and said we could let ourselves in and make a drink at his bar while we waited. You’ve gotta hand it to him—he understood the assignment.
It sounded like a fine plan, but I had a better one.
When my friend sat down on his barstool, I spun her around to face me, parted her long, minidress-clad legs, and went to town on her.
At this point in the night, the vibe was totally sexy. His 3,000-square-foot open-concept suite was decked out with vintage leather furniture and expensive art on exposed brick walls. My knees pressed into a luxurious Persian rug. Edison bulbs glowed from chandeliers, bathing the space in golden light. Teetering between playfully tipsy and messily drunk, I kept pleasuring my friend while we waited for my almost-but-not-quite-boyfriend to arrive.
The front door opened, and suddenly, we had an audience.
Cool as ever, he poured us each a stiff drink—scotch on the rocks—an unspoken toast to the night ahead (...at least, the version he had in mind.)
Before long, we moved things to the bedroom. She and I touched and teased each other while he watched from the edge of the bed—until watching was no longer enough.
First, he reached for me.
Then he turned his attention to her.
And that’s when an unexpected guest showed up at the party—my wounded inner child.
Wait…is he paying more attention to her than me?—No way, you’re being silly.
No…he’s definitely ignoring me. It’s like I’m not even here. What the Hell!
You’re being insane. Just fucking chill for a minute.
I can’t breathe. Oh my God. I can’t breathe. I have to get out of here.
Tears welling in my eyes, I bolted from lover boy’s bedroom in a last-ditch effort to avoid making a scene.
Too late.
When I reached the couch and realized no one had even noticed I’d left, all bets were off.
Face in hands, I began to violently sob.
What happened next is a bit of a blur. At some point, both of them appeared standing over me, trying to figure out what the heck was going on. But I was too upset to explain, even if I’d possessed the self-awareness in those days to recognize what had happened.
In short: I got triggered.
Shame and embarrassment each had a hand around my proverbial neck, threatening to choke the life out of me. All I could do was extract myself from the carnage and live to fight another day (…not to be overly dramatic or anything!) With tears pouring from my eyes, snot from my nose, and shaky hands, I stumbled around his apartment collecting the various pieces of clothing I’d so seductively strewn about earlier—a time that now felt like it belonged to a different person in a different universe.
If dignity was hiding under the bed with my panties, I sure didn’t find it.
My friend, seemingly speechless, had taken a seat in the living room. I looked at her with bloodshot eyes and pleaded, “Please, let’s go.”
Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.