Three really is the oddest number

Courtney Weaver addresses an issue that is near and dear to everyone's heart. Bisexuality.


Courtney Weaver
July 1, 1996 11:00PM (UTC)

I'd like to address an issue that is near and dear to everyone's heart. Bisexuality.

At some point in your life, you've probably run up against this issue in one form or another. Maybe you're a confirmed hetero but have always been curious about what it would feel like to make love to someone of your own gender. Maybe you played Post Office or Doctor with your best same-sex friend in your toddler days. Maybe you still do.

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What's odd about practicing bisexuality is that it's one of the few activities that is good for the goose but not for the gander. Talk to anyone about female bisexuality, and you hear the phrases, "It's more natural for girls," or, "If I was a girl, I'd sleep with girls, too," with surprising regularity. On purely aesthetic grounds, the female body, with its moist, curvy softness, seems preferable to a hard, hairy member.

It's not just about aesthetics, either. My heart goes out to you if you're a bisexual guy. Chances are that in this age of AIDS, women will not sleep with you once they learn of your proclivity. And men will assume you are gay and just haven't owned up to it.

Why does female bisexuality seem easy and natural, while male bisexuality makes people nervous? Part of it is conditioning: The idea that it's okay to like and admire the female body is culturally ingrained, in women as well as in men. Glance in any women's locker room and you'll see naked girls sprawled out, pinching the inside of their thighs and discussing their tits. Translate that to the men's locker room, and immediately a scarier sexual element enters the mix. Maybe you have to get Freudian to explain it: the very first body you knew was your mother's, and the very first sensual experience you had was sucking her breast.

For most straight people, the entree into bisexuality is the threesome -- and the equation usually is two girls, one guy. Biologically speaking, the opposite grouping seems to make more sense. But two guys and a girl can be threatening to both genders: to the men, who may be nervous about the proximity of another hard, hairy member, and to the girl, because of the possibility that she could be overwhelmed.

I'd always been curious about what it felt like to kiss a woman. Another thought: would it turn me on to suck and grope on a tit? Still another question: would I be good at going down on a woman simply because I knew what I liked?

One night I got the opportunity to find out. Minta and Graham and I were lying around her apartment. Literally lying: Graham had his head on my chest, Minta was lying on top of him. We were talking about -- what else? -- sex. Next thing I knew, we were in Minta's bedroom and clothes were being shed left and right. We all hopped into bed and began touching, kissing and fondling, in between fits of laughter and really dumb jokes. It all seemed so ridiculous and natural and awkward at the same time.

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Naturally, I wanted my questions answered. Here was the perfect opportunity. While Minta and I explored each other's bodies, Graham inserted himself on either side of us. I kissed my best friend: shocking how soft a woman's mouth is. I buoyed her breasts in my hands: another shock. Cushy, like water balloons. And her nether regions: well, I have to admit a bit of confusion down here. It didn't matter that I'd explored my own pussy on numerous occasions; I was a stranger in a strange land, a traveller without a map or compass.

At one point, I looked over at Graham. "I've died and gone to heaven," he pronounced. Jealousy, it seemed, was to be put on hold for the evening.

Later, I fell asleep while those two went at it. When I awoke an hour later, they were still going strong. "I've got to go home," I said. It was time. I didn't want to risk ruining what had been an extremely touching and almost sweet experience. Though it wasn't fully awake, I could feel the old green-eyed monster shifting inside, palpable. The power dynamics were turning faster than I could keep up with. Minta and Graham protested, but I was firm. "I want to sleep in my own bed," I said truthfully.

The upshot? All three of us were threesome virgins, and we agreed that it was one of the more interesting experiences of our lives, emotionally complex and physically fulfilling at the time. It also solidified my friendship with Minta in an unprecedented and inexplicable way.

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Would I do it again? Probably not. It was like playing some exotic parlor game. Despite the laughter, the strange positions and my intellectual appreciation of the female anatomy, I realized that three really is an odd number. And personally, I prefer the hard, hairy member.


Courtney Weaver

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