Two Men Are Better Than One

28 Feb

by Julia Stuart

The day after I did it I expected to feel weird or whorish, but instead I felt light, joyful and quite happy. And I think I’ve figured out why. For the first time in my adult sexual life, I did something that was total, pure fantasy, something I had masturbated to countless times—and made it real.

The setting was San Francisco. I was visiting and I had received a gift of a beautiful suite, high above the city in one of the oldest hotels in the area, complete with Shining-esque vintage bar, international flags out front, and rugs that were so thick they made your heels wobble. My kind of place, not one of those hipster hotels, but a real romantic retreat, and it was there that an ex-lover was to meet me. I had invited him in hopes of rekindling what we once had, and on a practical note, what good is a sea-blue hotel suite with a giant-glassed in shower and a view of the entire city without someone to share it with?

But he didn’t show, caught in another state by forces that I now realize were far bigger than me or him, or maybe he was just lazy. And so I drank vodka, straight, in the room by myself. Enjoyed the view. Went out with some friends I knew from the days when I lived in the Bay and had a lovely time. And headed back to the hotel, drunk on liquor and wine, and many tiny-but-not-filling tapas. They dropped me in front of the hotel and I waved them off.

Then I spotted a horde of British men exiting a cab as I smoked what I thought was a final cigarette. I ignored them and they approached. We smoked, talked travel and London, where I’ve spent much time in recent years. We had a favorite pub in common. “You’re not a typical Yank,” one of them said, which I took as a compliment.

One disappeared, three stayed and invited me to their room to dance. I said yes. They were IT guys from Windsor, vacationing in SanFran and had struck out with the ladies at the club. We danced in their room and they generously supplied me with more vodka, which seemed like exactly what I needed, thirsty as I was.

One crashed on the bed, leaving two: a tall, blonde, muscular boy of 6’2″ and a shorter light-skinned Pakistani with black hair, glasses and a slight paunch. They were both younger than me. The tall one was hot, the other one was funny as hell. There was dancing, there was touching of my waist, my ass, a kiss on the neck. By both of them.

Frankly I felt just terrible, as it was clear that they would both like to hook up with me and I didn’t know which to choose. I have a definite attraction to darker men, to smart men, to funny men, but I’m just a woman, and love a tall, hot guy with a muscled chest too. So I invited them back to check out my MUCH nicer room, figuring that they were friends and they could work out which one was the winner. I wasn’t going to be a bitch and choose, and make someone feel bad.

They accompanied me up ten floors, and within minutes of entering the room, I turned around from admiring the view and there one of them was naked, the tall one. Completely stripped down. I didn’t know a man could take off his clothes so quickly, quietly. I got scared as the other one had his shirt off. I started and backed off.

The tall one stood there, with what I must say was the biggest erection I’ve ever seen, and made calming motions with his hands. And in his inimitable British way convinced me that he wasn’t going to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. I took a deep breath and decided to believe him. The darker one stroked my arms, my back, and said he wasn’t going to take off any more of his clothes—when I was ready I could take them off. I could keep my clothes on for as long as I wanted, we could just dance for a bit, we had as much time as I wanted. I said I needed to be in control, that I couldn’t deal with surprises, that if we were going to do this, then I had to know they weren’t going to hurt me. They promised. My gut said they were trustworthy.

I closed my eyes and swayed to the music, and they drew in closer, the tall one’s cock brushing across my waist, the dark one kissing my neck, caressing my hair, then moving under my dress, pulling my tights down and then my dress up. I raised my arms like a complacent child and was lovingly undressed, sweetly touched. Everything was slow, my iPhone played Bjork through the stereo in the room, and we moved to the bed. I felt totally comfortable, safe, and in charge. Warm between two bodies, which seemed to have just one purpose—to make me feel good.

I don’t remember it all, but I remember most of it. I know that I didn’t actually have sex with either of them. I drew the line at that. They tried, but didn’t push it. I remember they complimented me—on the room, on my music, on my body. As I crawled hands-and-knees across the bed, naked, towards the tall one, who was reclining there, he shook his head and said “Fuck all those bloody stick girls in magazines, you have a banging body.” But I would have gone down on him anyway, and I did, while the other one made me come with his hands from behind. Then they changed spots, magically I remember thinking as it happened so quickly and smoothly, and I repeated my work, and the tall one made me come with his hands, thicker fingers, a less gentle touch, but I was so turned on, so incredibly wet, that I didn’t care. After that I laid back on the bed, panting, thinking of the two men’s sperm intermingling in my stomach, and I smiled. And laughed. They were happy too.

“This would never happen with American boys,” I said. They asked why, and I told them that most of the guys I knew—even the enlightened ones—were so homophobic that they would never get naked with another guy—even with a woman. “Stupid Yanks,” they said. I told them I had always imagined being with two men, but that I never thought it was going to happen. They said they had never done this before either, but that it was “good fun.”

The tall one left after kissing me deeply goodnight and thanking me, and the dark one led me to the shower, where we washed, and I told him about the beautiful man who was supposed to have met me that night, but hadn’t, how he had truly broken my heart. He told me of his ex, who had recently left him, and we washed each other’s backs gently, silently. When you’re single, you rarely have the opportunity for a proper back wash. Afterwards, I curled up on the bed in my giant fluffy hotel robe, and he left, closing the door quietly behind him. I passed out immediately.

A few hours later, at around 7am, my phone rang. From the nest of the bed I answered, confused about who was calling this early. It was the tall one’s voice on the other end. “Just calling to inquire whether you’d care for a morning orgasm?” I laughed, and my head hurt. I had no desire to see them again. I was hung over and I preferred to leave my threesome with the British boys to the long dark night before. “All right then,” he said. “You were a bloody good time and thanks for last night.” I told him he was welcome, and to enjoy the rest of his travels.

Julia Stuart (Contributor) is a nom de plume. She is a published author who is obsessed with travelling, writing, men with accents, and doing things she’s never done before.

One Response to “Two Men Are Better Than One”

  1. woodynyou March 1, 2010 at 4:22 pm #

    Looking forward to reading more…

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