Three Things - 1. Three Things

Looking back, there were three things I shouldn’t have done that night:

I shouldn’t have said yes.

I shouldn’t have had that last drink.

I shouldn’t have left.

She was so much thinner than she had been the last time I saw her. I, on the other hand, was way fatter. Like we had switched body types, though her tits were still huge. She said she’d started pole dancing. ‘Not for exercise. I’m actually a stripper now. It pays good money.’ She laughed. ‘My girlfriend does it, too. Half Persian, half Somali Muslim lesbian who pole dances. How hot is that?’

I laughed. ‘Pretty hot.’ I felt a little bit heartbroken. I’d always had a bit of a crush on her, though I had never meant to act on it. (We’d kissed a few times while drunk.) Still, hearing that she was taken hurt a bit, even when she later said that it was an open relationship.

She stubbed out her cigarette and we went back inside. Our party had dwindled, most of our friends gone home. Soon it was just the two of us, and that guy. I’d known him for a long time. I’d known her for longer.

She got handsy when she was drunk. In a good way. If I’d told her I wasn’t into it, she would have stopped immediately. She’d been through enough to understand the importance of consent. And besides, I loved it. She massaged my neck, ran her hand up my thigh, teased me. Attacked my neck with lips and tongue and teeth. Then she pulled my hair, hard.

‘My girlfriend likes that, too,’ she said. ‘She likes it when I take charge, tell her what to do in bed. One time, I gave her a spanking, and then I lubed up my fingers, stuck them in her ass, and made her ride them. It was beautiful.’ Then she kissed me. A lot, and for a long time.

How he could watch all that and not feel like a fifth wheel, how he could think that we’d want him to come with us to party after, I will never be able to understand. We weren’t putting on a show for him. But I guess in his male gaze-addled straight boy head, that’s exactly what we were doing. And I should have realised. It was so clear that he wanted to fuck her. Not me, I wasn’t that interesting, but her. Her, he wanted to fuck.

He cornered me outside the toilets. ‘Do you two want to party alone? I mean, is it okay if I join you?’ He looked unconcerned, like he didn’t really care what my answer was, but underneath that I sensed anxiety. I felt kind of bad for him.

‘I mean, if it’s all right with her, it’s all right with me, I guess,’ I told him, and forced a smile. I’d rather be alone with her, but it’s not like I had any claim on her.

I shouldn’t have said yes.

She was staying at a friend’s place while she was in town. He was away on holiday, so she had the place to herself. She was leaving in two days. On the way, we took a detour via a dealer she knew to get some weed. I didn’t smoke weed. I didn’t start until years later, when we were dating, and only ever with her.

They smoked, and we talked, and then we went inside and she mixed us some drinks. Vodka and apple sour with way too much vodka. They weren’t very good, but I was already fairly tipsy, so I didn’t care. Another drink was fine.

‘Wanna see my stripper moves?’ She turned on the music and danced. I watched her, in awe of the way she moved her body, the sway of her hips, her half-lidded green eyes focused entirely on me. She gave me a lap dance. He scooted over and stole it from me, commandeered her attention away from me, like the entitled straight white man he was.

Our little after party didn’t last very long. We were all drunk and tired. We took the bed. He took the couch. And I wanted. God, I wanted to reach over, pull her into my arms, kiss her. I wanted to make love to her. I had wanted it for so long. But she seemed a bit standoffish now. We didn’t even kiss, and I was too insecure to make the first move. Besides, we were drunk. The room was spinning. Stupid vodka apple sour.

I shouldn’t have had that last drink.

I woke up alone. It was around four in the morning, and getting light outside. From the living room, I heard hushed voices talking. Pulling on a t-shirt, I got up on the pretence of going to the bathroom. They were lying on the couch, spooning, talking quietly.

‘Hey. You guys okay?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, it’s all good,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just needed to talk about some things.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

I wanted to ask her to come back to bed. I didn’t. It was my turn to feel like the fifth wheel. Maybe I’d misread the signals? Maybe she wasn’t interested in me, but in him. She liked men, too. She liked mostly men.

Years later, when we were dating, in a poly relationship, that heteronormative thinking would fuck everything up. I’d always feel like I was playing second fiddle to her boyfriends, even though we had been together the longest, even though I was the one she came to when she was at her lowest, even though I’m the one she said she loved. But it seemed natural that she should want them more, so in my head she did. It was stupid. It was the same insecurity that had made me not take my chances that night. She would have wanted me to.

I went to the toilet, pissed, rinsed my mouth, which tasted like apple sour and cigarette ash and death. Primarily the latter. Then I padded back to bed. They were still on the sofa. They looked cosy and snug, and like they belonged.

For about ten minutes, I tried to get back to sleep, but now I felt wide awake, and all my insecurities flooded my brain. I didn’t belong here. I was in the way. The two of them would rather be alone. So in the end I gave up. I got up, got dressed, made sure I had my things, and went out into the living room.

‘Hey,’ I said again. ‘I think I’ll head home. Trains will start running soon, and I think I’d rather sleep in my own bed. And anyway . . .’ Anyway, looks like you two would rather be alone.

‘Mm, okay, sweetie,’ she said, and waved me over to plant a chaste kiss on my lips. ‘We’ll e-mail, okay? Promise?’

I smiled. ‘Of course.’ Then I picked up my bag and went out the door.

After I left, he’d make a pass at her. She would turn him down, and he would yell at her. Claim she’d been leading him on, that he’d wanted to have sex with her for years and she never gave him the time of day, and what a bitch she was. She would cry, and eventually he would leave. He’d never apologise for any of it.

When she told me, a year later when she was back in town again, what had actually happened that early Sunday morning, I blamed myself. I hated myself. I should have just told him to piss off, that I wanted her to myself. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink, and maybe I would have been able to keep a clear head, or I would have been able to keep her in bed with me by making love to her, the way I wanted to. But most of all, of all the stupid things I did that night . . .

I shouldn’t have left.