Men, riddle me this: When did you all become so kinky — and brazen — on dates? Seriously.
I made this discovery last Thursday night after foolishly meeting up with an ex — one who’s always been a bit of a red flag. (God, I have bad taste!)
We’d tried to make a go of things in the past, but he was fresh out of a divorce and firmly in his sad, angry, bitter phase. Anyone who has dated a man post-marriage knows this stage well: We suddenly become their sounding boards, therapists and punching bags while they unpack the trauma of their ex daring to leave them.
One weekend away, after hours of “Why do you think she left me?” chats, I’d had enough. What was supposed to be a romantic getaway became a therapy marathon. Instead of naked romps, we were dissecting his marriage.
By the end, I felt like I knew his ex-wife better than some of her friends.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t want to.
Fast forward to last week. He texted out of the blue, saying he was in town for business and staying in the penthouse of a swanky hotel.
Now, in the spirit of owning my mistakes, I’ll admit this one was on me. I’d had a few martinis with friends and thought, “A romp in a penthouse? Yes, please!”
So I hailed a cab and headed over.
We met for drinks, then upstairs to “christen” his fancy accommodations. So far, so good.
But then came the twist: as I lay on his chest, enjoying a merry post-coital chat, he took a call from another woman.
She cheerily announced, “I’m free now if you fancy company.”
And just like that, he invited her over — no heads-up for me, no consent from her, just pure audacity.
“What the heck?” I said. (OK, it was more colorful than that.)
He smirked and responded, “What? I thought the three of us could have some fun!”
Another spoiler alert: I was not on board. I doubt she was, either.
To be fair, if this were something we’d done before, maybe I’d understand. But we hadn’t.
Our past consisted of very bland, missionary-based encounters. Snore.
So, I did what any self-respecting woman would do: I leaped out of bed, unleashed a flurry of swear words and stormed out.
Two days later, he called. Still fuming, I hung up and sent a one-word text: “Nope.”
His reply? “Can we chat? I think there was a misunderstanding.”
No misunderstanding, mate.
You thought you could sneak your way into a threesome, and shock, horror, I didn’t rip my clothes off in anticipation. What annoyed me the most was that he didn’t reveal his bold plan until after we had done the deed.
So, I decided it was time for some boundaries. My parting shot? “You have this uncanny way of making me feel worthless after every interaction with you — and it’s not my job to make you feel better about it. Jog on, d–k.”
He responded, “You can swear at me on the phone if you like, but I just want to chat.”
Reader, I blocked and deleted him. Enough was enough.
The next night, over dinner with my girlfriends, I told them about the attempted surprise threesome. To my shock, they had similar stories.
Apparently, this “trend” is more common than I thought.
One friend recalled dating a guy who invited her to his farm for a weekend getaway. She arrived to find his best friend there but figured, “Oh, well, the more the merrier.”
After dinner, her guy suggested a hot tub soak. Fine, she thought — until his best friend started rubbing her feet, and her guy began massaging her leg. That’s when it hit her: they’d planned this all along.
She made her excuses and left the next morning.
Another friend told me about a nightclub hookup gone wrong. Mid-pash, the guy casually suggested they leave — and why not bring her best friend along for a “sleepover”? Classy.
It got me thinking: Are men watching too much porn and mistaking its scenarios for real life?
Let’s be honest, porn has a way of presenting things like surprise threesomes as effortless, spontaneous and, apparently, the default setting for a fun night. But here’s the thing: real life isn’t a browser tab labeled “Hot MILFs Surprise Babysitter.”
In real life, a threesome isn’t a casual “Why not?” moment. It’s a conversation — a proper discussion where everyone agrees, sets boundaries and is equally on board.
It’s planned, not ambushed.
Porn might make it look like the pizza guy shows up, everyone’s instantly down, and boom — it’s on. But gents, newsflash: the rest of us didn’t get that memo.
For most women, the leap from cuddles to a ménage à trois without so much as a heads-up isn’t sexy — it’s awkward, presumptuous and borderline insulting.
Will I have a threesome at some stage in my life? Probably.
But not with a man who thinks I’m a prop in his fantasy without bothering to ask.
So, here’s some advice: When it comes to threesomes — or any sexual escapades — planning is sexy. Clear communication is sexy. Respect is sexy.
Surprise ambushes? Not so much.
