Excerpted from The Reluctant Metrosexual
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Mark and I did not get as far as working out an elaborate system of hand signals, but when Tina excused herself to the bathroom, we did attempt to devise a plan of action. We both staunchly agreed that, as a general rule, the avoidance of any male-on-male contact was of the highest order, and this called for us to utilize a divide-and-conquer strategy, whereby one man would fill in only where the other man was not. Creating well-defined borders seemed a good idea, and the most logical way to venture forth was to employ an if-you-take-the-top-half-I'll-take-the-bottom-half rule of thumb, with Tina's belly button serving as our Maginot Line. Unfortunately, logic and tequila-induced groping do not always work in complete harmony.

Upon her return, Tina and Mark started making out near the kitchenette, leaving me in the lurch. Memories of being the last boy standing during “Stairway to Heaven” at a middle school mixer washed over me, and I felt a tad self-conscious. Uncertain as to protocol, I moved in and began rubbing Tina from behind. Her moans seemed an indication that the decision was a good one, though the moment felt more like an Up with People group hug than it did a scene from Bob Guccione's salad days. Within a matter of minutes we were all undressing, and that's when Ibegan to consider the wisdom of my brash and bawdy great leap forward.

Getting naked in front of complete strangers, particularly when they are expecting you to be the centerpiece of their erotic banquet, can be an uncomfortable undertaking. I was nervous, in a foreign apartment (which, to be frank, had seen one too many visits to IKEA for my taste), and uncertain as to exactly what direction this boondoggle was about to take. To make matters worse, the unseasonable October heat had inspired Mark to turn on his air conditioner. And as any man who has ever gone swimming in a frigid lake knows, coldness and penile prowess do not go well together. Shrinkage is the last thing a man wants when he's swinging for the fences, about to get his freak on with two oversexed strangers met via the Internet.

But I persisted, and soon Tina, now completely naked and perched on the edge of the bed, was manually manipulating both of us. To her disappointment, there was an incomplete response on my part, though Mark was able to rise to the occasion. I tried to lose myself in the moment, but unfortunately I was saddled with a mean case of performance anxiety (inspired, in no small part, by the proximity of the penis to my immediate left). This was both embarrassing and, quite possibly, a serious violation of the swinger's code of conduct (I am still expecting a letter of reprimand from NASCA). I was useless, and I felt like a fraud (this kind of thing never happens to me, for the record).

“Take a break and have a beer,” Mark said with the encouraging tone of an assistant coach briefly benching a starting point guard off to a slow start. “You'll be fine in a few minutes.”

There I was, naked and seated on a starter-apartment futon, nursing a warm Budweiser, watching two strangers have sex. I've got to start setting some more ambitious goals, I thought to myself. And while the voyeurism was exciting at first, I soon grew bored and began wandering around Mark's apartment, examining his book and CD collection (men who swing apparently like El more Leonard and Matchbox 20) and rummaging through the pantry for a snack (I settled on some cool ranch Doritos, in keeping with the Tex-Mex theme established earlier). Had there been enough light I would have read the issue of Fortune on his countertop as I waited for them to finish (a cover line on options trading had caught my attention).

My “situation” had improved during the respite, and I was determined to step back aboard the boat. Moving to the starboard side of the bed, I began caressing Tina as she and Mark continued their efforts. Slowly but surely I was able to get my rigging in shipshape, a combination of Tina's feminine dexterity and the fact that I was now somewhat relaxed. Staying true to our game plan and showing himself to be a gentleman, Mark exited the cockpit so that I might have a turn at skippering the craft. Things started off well, and I was making a good run, tacking downwind with the authority of an America's Cup captain. Tina seemed to be enjoying herself--though, uncomfortably, it was Mark who complimented my stamina and size, urging her on with bedroom chatter that referred to my mast in the third person.

Mark's grammatical liberties notwithstanding, I ventured forth and we were able to achieve what, in my limited experience with adult films, seemed to be an industry-standard threesome position (medium degree of difficulty but a good use of the overall bed space). Like some X-rated regatta crew we were working well to gether, and the sense of camaraderie was palpable. Safely humming along at a brisk pace, we made a mutual decision to switch things around, to resounding success. I had my sea legs now, and was ready to come about.

But while my libido was racing, equipment failure forced me into port once again. Tina tried several times to hoist my mainsail, but it would not raise upward, no matter how vigorously my halyard was pulled. Dejected and embarrassed, I climbed off the bed and gathered my clothing, dressing in a hurry as Mark and Tina, still naked and visibly aroused, watched.

There was a strange moment of silence before they thanked me and suggested that we stay in touch (does Hallmark make a “nice to swap sex partners with you” line of cards?). I mumbled a few cursory salutations and tried to excuse my mediocre performance but did not move forward to embrace them (doing so seemed redundant).

“This was, you know, really great,” I said as Mark stood to shake my hand and, I presume, walk me to the door.

“Hey, no, you guys stay put,” I added, waving him down as I tried to focus my gaze solely on Tina. “Don't get up on my account.” I'd had my share of naked men for the evening. “I think I can find the door.”

I stopped in the bathroom on the way out, rinsed my face with cold water, and made my way into the overlit hallway, feeling as though I had just bungled an important new business pitch meeting, albeit without the aid of a whiteboard or a temperamental speakerphone.

The cab ride downtown to my apartment took me through the heart of my recent ex-girlfriend's neighborhood, and the voyage served as painful reminder of how sharply the intense feelings of that relationship stood in counterpoint to the base, emotion-free activities that had just taken place. The irony of monogamy from the male perspective is that when you are seriously committed, you're constantly absorbed with the distracting notion that somehow you're missing out, that there are guys out there having exciting, anonymous sex with random girls gone wild (many of whom, in our imaginations, work as flight attendants, hail from Denmark, and insist that we watch televised sports in between bouts of acrobatic lovemaking). And while such temptations may indeed exist, sometimes it takes a failed ménage à trois to come to the realization that the work required to succeed as a dedicated twosome is life's most worthwhile endeavor.

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