Threesomes & Moresomes: Artful Hedonism

Growing up in Wichita in the forties, I didn't even know gay people existed until I moved to New York City in 1950. I'd just turned twenty. A year later when I enrolled in the Art Student's League, a woman in my class had a crush on me. When she flirted it made me uncomfortable, so I mostly avoided her. Still I was curious, so one night my girlfriend Cindy took me to my first gay club. The Purple Stem had one floor for men and another for women. After dancing and drinking a lot with many different women, I ended up back at my place with a big breasted lesbian and we had very drunken sex. The memory is still terribly vague, but I do recall her boobs were like soft pillows. I had enough problems without being a lesbian so I put that experience in the "forget" file.

By 1966, my primary lover Grant and I begin talking about having a threesome. I felt more comfortable doing it with a girlfriend I knew and liked. Revealing my interest in three way sex to my friend, Ginger O'Keefe, came easily. We'd known each other for three years and I'd recently told her some of the details of my new non-possessive sex life. Energetic and fun loving, Ginger was a handsome woman in her early forties who'd been recently divorced. That night over dinner she told me that having a threesome was one of her favorite fantasies, but confessed she'd feel too insecure to share her boyfriend with another woman, and she knew he'd never consider doing it with another man. Just when I asked if she'd like to get together with Grant and me, the waiter came over. Ginger winked at me, asked for the check, and said, "Let's have dessert with Grant."

As I dashed off to call Grant and tell him to meet us at my place, I knew an erotic dream was about to come true. Since we were all ménage a trios virgins, we fumbled around with different combinations, but the final arrangement was best. My box spring and mattress were on the floor, which made a low bed. While I was lying on the bed, Ginger was draped over the edge going down on me, while Grant was kneeling on the floor, fucking her from behind. Meanwhile I could see the whole scene, and so could he, while Ginger was busy at both ends. We were one sexual body as the energy passed through us in waves. Starting with me, then Ginger, and finally Grant, our orgasms came one after another. We were elated and full of enthusiasm for the possibilities of three-way sex.

The following week Ginger wanted me to have a threesome with her gynecologist. The idea that a Park Avenue doctor was up for that kind of intimacy softened my heart toward the medical establishment. It was Dr. Matthew's first time with two women, and although he was a dignified, older man with white hair, he radiated the youthfulness of a young bull. With me sitting on his face and Ginger riding his cock, he had himself one hellova rousing orgasm. When I saw him to the door, Dr. Matthew said, "Make sure Ginger has an orgasm. She's never sure whether or not she comes, which probably means she never has, but I'm sure you'll know what to do."

He acted as though I was some kind of an expert when it came to making love to a woman, but I was actually a novice. As I walked back to the bedroom feeling anxious, Ginger started chatting away admitting she'd been turned on to him for nearly ten years. Every so often she'd proposition him, but he always refused until she told him about our threesome and that's when he propositioned her. Tossing her strawberry blonde pageboy off her face, she smiled at me with her vibrant blue eyes sparkling and said, "I'm still turned on, what about you?"

Acting very blasé while my heart felt fluttery, I announced, "I'm going to go down on you." As soon as my tongue touched the moist satin of Ginger's vulva, I was lost in the feeling that her body was an extension of my own-I was making love to myself. Keeping my tongue wet and going slow, I did what I liked having done to me. Abruptly Ginger sat up and pulled away looking distraught. "I can't come with oralsex," she blurted out. "In fact, I'm not even sure what an orgasm feels like."

Reaching over for the new Oster electric scalp massager that Grant had given me, I plugged it in and slipped the coils onto the back of my hand. Then I told Ginger to just lie back and forget about coming while I gave her a vibrator massage. As I gradually moved from her breasts to her belly, and finally to her clit, she gasped and the dance began as I followed; dipping with her, rising with her, staying with her every move. She twisted and turned, trying to escape pleasure while I pursued her relentlessly. All of a sudden she became quiet. Her breathing deepened and I knew this was the real thing. As I watched beads of perspiration form on her upper lip, she gripped my hand, holding tight as her body curved up at both ends just the way Reich had described- just like mine did. Yes! Yes! Orgasm! This time there was no doubt.

When the ripples of pleasure subsided, her eyes popped open, and we both squealed with delight- hugging each other joyfully. The first thing she wanted to know was where could she get one of those machines? I explained they were supposed to keep men from going bald, but Grant had been smart enough to figure out they'd be good for sex and bought one.

Then she got thoughtful. She said she was an educated woman who was married to a brilliant lawyer and they raised two children. The whole time, sex was a mystery. Oh there was the occasional thrill which might have been an orgasm, but she never knew why or how or when it was going to happen again. I told her it was clitoral stimulation, consistent stimulation in exactly the right place, with exactly the right amount of pressure for as long as she wanted it, whether it was five minutes or two hours. The next time she was fucking with her boyfriend, I said if she reached down and did her own clit that she'd come most every time.

That night when I made love to myself, I replayed the scene with Ginger, feeling both excited and grateful that I'd finally had conscious sex with a woman. I'd been aware of my erotic curiosity toward women for years, but reaching the point of actually having sex with a girlfriend had been an incredible struggle. It was the same thing I did with my art. I constantly denied sex its full expression by censoring myself. Now when a lesbian fantasy drifted into consciousness, I didn't worry about it; I let it fill my mind as I joyfully masturbated to orgasm.

Still one for equality, Grant and I had agreed to try a threesome with a guy so I could see what it would be like with two men. I picked a man I didn't particularly like in case it was a bust. That night, there was one humorous incident that I remember better than the actual sex. Since most straight guys avoided touching each other, all the sexual attention was on me which wasn't an authentic three way dynamic. It was regular sex with one voyeur waiting for his turn. At one point when Grant and I were getting it on, Bob disappeared. Moments later, he sat back down on the edge of the bed and started noisily chewing on a cold piece of fried chicken he'd found in the refrigerator. Grant and I looked at each other, broke up laughing, and called it a night.

That winter of ‘66, Grant and I read an article about groupsex and we were both fascinated. The reporter said this kind of sexual experimentation wasn't new, but it was a first time middle-class couples had gotten involved. I'd always been intrigued by the idea of Roman orgies and Bacchanals since art student's days studying the old masters. I would secretly masturbate while I fantasized being made love to by many men, beautiful women and satyrs with furry legs. We finally discovered one couple who'd been to several sex parties. Wayne and Julie were barraged with questions over dinner one evening: What were the people like? What were the rules, etiquette and quality of the sex? Julie finally threw up her arms and said "Enough!" She invited us to a party the following Saturday night so we could find out for ourselves. Grant and I grinned and in unison said. "Oh yes!"

Later that night, I unexpectedly plummeted to my bottom line fear: What if all the other women looked like centerfold models? My body was in pretty good shape, but I had small breasts and the dreaded cellulite on my ass. No matter how sophisticated with years of drawing nudes, being a wallflower at an orgy was a terrible prospect. Each time I thought about keeping groupsex a fantasy, I reminded myself I wanted to go through with this for the sake of my erotic art.

We arrived at an elegant East Side townhouse owned by our host Alfonso, who was an art dealer. Big bellied, he looked like the statue of Balzac I used to see every day when I lived on the Left Bank in Paris. Wayne and Julie were the stars. He was our Tyrone Power and she was Rita Hayworth. The other guests appeared to be married couples in their late thirties and forties. They were all well dressed and it was like any social gathering of about sixteen people sitting around sipping drinks getting acquainted. After what seemed like an eternity, everyone was invited to the second floor. I knew the orgy was about to begin.

We entered a large, dimly lit bedroom, and as if there'd been a shot fired from a starting pistol, everyone undressed in a flash. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low light and when I turned to look for Grant, he was already stretched out on a sofa with our hostess Maria. Nearly frozen with fear, I slowly removed my new black lace panties and put my carefully folded clothes in a neat pile under a bedroom chair- a typical Virgo at an orgy. Just as I stood up and faced the room, I saw Balzac walking toward me, naked, fat, hairy and smiling. Mental chaos! "Oh shit, what am I going to do now? He's definitely not my type and I have no idea how to say no." He was within inches when I made a decision to embrace my frog who turned into a prince of a lover.

Alfonso gently put me in the center of his king sized bed and went down on me. Surrounded by bodies, the visual was so intense that I had to close my eyes and just take quick looks. My clit was teased by his wet tongue as a wave of excitement rolled over my body. The scent of perfume, sweat, and sexual juices mingled in my nostrils, making me feel giddy. Sounds of sucking along with moans, and other strange, wet gurgles filled my head. Someone touched my breast. A hand gripped my leg, and an arm wrapped round my waist. Undulating through body parts, I climbed higher, sweating, gasping until I had an orgasm that shook the mountain of flesh that surrounded me.

When I opened my eyes, faces were smiling and there was Balzac between my legs, grinning with pussy juice all over his face. He let out a hearty laugh and I sat up and kissed him tasting myself on his lips. That moment was a milestone! I was beyond the notion of someone being "my type." I'd just had my first Democratic Sex and I knew I'd never be a sexual snob again.

Later on I circled the foot of the giant bed, surveying the main arena. I was afraid to blink for fear I'd miss something. My eyeballs burned from being so starved for images of sex. Then I spied Grant on the floor near the bed, going down on a woman whose name I'd forgotten. Her full mouth, small breasts, and lean hips were bathed in the soft light of a nearby candle. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with feelings of tenderness for them both. As I pulled alongside, I gently touched her heated body. She reached up drawing me to her, and as we shared sweet, soft kisses, Grant triggered her orgasm. There was no competition, no jealousy, only a tender sexual sharing between two women and a man who just happened to be my lover. He wasn't mine. He was himself. She was herself. And I was myself. Yet we'd become one during our shared sexual interlude.

The activity momentarily paused when succulent food was brought in on large silver trays by two young women, followed by a youthful Adonis, dressed in a black flamenco suit, playing a ballad on his guitar. When the melodies ceased, I was on overload so we thanked our host and left the party just as it went back into full swing.

Back home, I discovered that while I was having a huge orgasm with a total stranger, Grant had struggled in vain to get an erection. He finally just relaxed into the pleasure of oralsex and enjoyed all the wonderful sights and sounds. When he pointed out there was a single sexual standard in groupsex with equal opportunity for both men and women, I couldn't resist pointing out that women might be a bit more equal since we didn't have to worry about erections. One thing I appreciated was how safe I felt in a room full of people. The expression, "there's safety in numbers," never had more meaning. When I saw his boner I pounced on him and we made elemental love until the morning light broke through the velvet drapes.

At the end of my first year as a non-sexually exclusive couple with Grant, I'd only logged in fifteen different experiences with men, two threesomes and one groupsex party. In going back over these encounters, only two out of fifteen men were what I'd classify as "good lovers." A couple of premature ejaculators blamed me when they came fast, telling me I was too sexually exciting. To avoid ejaculating another man kept saying, "Don't move," every time I got close to coming, which stopped my sexual build-up. One guy lost his hard-on in the middle of fucking and expected me to do oral sex to give him another erection. He reminded me too much of my ex-husband so I ended the date early. Three men enjoyed giving me an orgasm, but when it was their turn they didn't seem to be feeling any pleasure as they silently ejaculated. A married man said he loved me and wanted me to be his faithful mistress, but he fucked so hard with his huge penis that my insides were sore the next day. There was an extremely handsome guy that had a three inch penis erect, but since he wasn't willing to do manual or oralsex he had little to offer except his good looks. Another guy had a nice fucking technique but he couldn't come unless I played dead by not moving a muscle so I masturbated after he left.

Claiming the freedom to have as many sex partners as I pleased was an education on the state of male sexuality in America- far from an ideal picture. One obvious reason society insisted upon women remaining monogamous was to keep us from sexually comparing men- how they fucked, their oralsex techniques, the different sizes of their cocks, how fast they come and how long they could last. No wonder a sexually experienced woman was threatening. The first priority of a male dominated society is to keep women ignorant about male sexuality in order to protect their fragile egos as well as never having to change or learn new sex skills. Meanwhile a confident lover like Grant was willing to go to any lengths to help me actualize my full sexual potential.

Group sex was obviously the best way to continue exploring sex with both men and women. It was safe, I no longer had to spend an entire evening with someone just to have sex, and if a man did something I didn't like, I could just move along to the next one. I was definitely becoming a bisexual hedonist.

Originally, I thought a "hedonist" was a crazy person who was sexually driven and out of control. But now the word had taken on its true meaning. Philosophical hedonism saw pleasure as the ultimate good and psychological hedonism said pleasure actually motivates human actions. The only thing desirable, in and of itself, is a pleasant state of mind. The only undesirable thing is an unpleasant state of mind. The hedonist position didn't only mean physical sex. The pursuit of knowledge and a creative project is also desirable since these activities provide intellectual pleasure and satisfaction. Many distinguished philosophers such as Epicures, Locke, Hobbes, Hume, etc. held this view, so I was in good company.