I’m not sure why it is I’ve never pulled off a successful threesome despite many opportunities arising (and that includes combos of female/female/male and male/male/female). Because my leanings tend to be more heterosexual in nature (I played the lesbian thing in the minors but never went pro) the majority of situations opening themselves to a little three-way action have included myself and two guys. For some reason though I’ve always pulled out (as it were) at the last moment. I’m not sure if this is due to a psychological reason, some sort of catholic guilt, being frightened of not being able to be in complete control of the situation or just overwhelmed at the realisation of a sexual fantasy.

There was one night though I committed to a threesome. My friend at the time was dating a barman and so we sauntered down to his place of work to keep him company and abuse the privilege of free drinks for the evening. After about 8 hours of solid drinking home was beckoning (actually it wasn’t but the bar was closing up and we had no option but to change environments).

I had for my part of the evening played the dutiful friend, keeping my mate entertained (not so much singing for my supper as dancing for my drinks) while knocking back cocktails and keeping the seats warm when she went out to join the new fella for his intermittent cigarette breaks.

But it was Friday night and as any good singleton knows when finishing work and going for end of week drinks it is not so much Friday night but Fuck Night and by 3am I still retained that goal. Many may think I wasted my evening by being a companionable third wheel but any club on a Friday night is filled with men and women mirroring my intention. Thus the 8 hours hadn’t gone to waste, all that it meant was when the lights went up and people began pouring out into the London streets I had to work a little harder, linger a little longer and find a suitable partner to complete my night.

And with relatively little effort I did. I was coming on for 30 (only a month or two short), he said he was 21 but looked significantly younger. I’d have placed him at 17, he was extremely fresh faced but there was a distinct edge or attitude to him that gave him a maturity to what I suspect was his teen years. He was tall at 6’2 and very lean with Aryan good looks – short cropped blonde hair, almost frozen blue eyes on flawless skin. When he opened his mouth I was unsurprised to catch his east European accent – he was Polish. He was confident but not arrogant – boldly asking who I was with, where I lived and whether or not I wanted to carry on the party. He was demanding but not overbearing – draping an arm over my shoulder and assuring me he could guarantee a decent party if we carried on. I can’t say at that point I had any intention of not carrying on…until he waved his friend over.

Forgive me but I can remember neither name of the boys – not because they were both foreign but just because when you’ve clocked up 100 dicks it’s more 83 and 84 as opposed to Bazyli and Dritan. To flex my creative muscles instead of referring to them as numbers it’s easier to settle for Polish boy and Albanian boy.

So Polish boy’s friend was introduced to me. He was Albanian and whereas Polish boy had the sort of looks a Nazi would’ve gone crazy for, Mr Albania was dark and swarthy looking. Shorter than his friends he was barely 5’8 which meant in heels I matched his height. He was broader and more masculine (that’s code for hairy) and had intense brown eyes and a cute smile that spread wide over his face. Unlike his barely legal companion, the Albanian was easily in his mid 20s. Of the two he appeared to be the brawn, his Polish friend the brains – or perhaps his English wasn’t as strong so the Polish boy took the lead in terms of conversation and making plans. I saw him quite obviously eyeing me up approvingly and was suddenly unsure if I was not about to palmed off from the Polish boy to his friend as some sort of sexual leftover or cast off.

I was left in further confusion as to who I would be fucking when after a brief introduction to his Albanian friend, my Polish boy began pinning me against a wall, kissing me deeply and grinding his hard cock against my stomach. He dragged me away from my friend and her boyfriend. As luck would have it my mate’s boyfriend (called Zippy…or was it Zibby…of all things) was Polish and between themselves he somehow assured  Zippy/Zibby that he would escort me home and guaranteed I was in safe hands.

The three of us began walking and I quickly went over in my head the potential outcome of the evening. In my mind I decided to commit to the threesome. After all I was coming up to thirty and I needed to tick it off my sex list. Tonight was the night. Both were suitably good-looking and I couldn’t see how I would regret spreading my legs. Until we arrived at the rather bright orange used gangsta-esque car and a third member of the gang. A three-some I was up for; a gang bang I wasn’t so sure of. He was Albanian as well – not as good-looking as his cousin whom he was chauffeuring around that evening. He was also significantly older. He looked in his early 40s. Short, dark, furry and generally physically revolting. I began to waiver and wonder what was the best way to avoid having to deal with all three cocks.

I dragged my Polish boy to one side. His lips were all over me and when he stooped low enough for me to whisper in his ear I managed to bleat, ‘I don’t want to sleep with your friends. Is that okay?’

He pulled back suddenly and put his hands on my shoulder. It suddenly felt weird looking to someone who wasn’t old enough to drink for sexual reassurance. ‘You’re not going to sleep with them. I’m not into that and I don’t want someone that’s been used like that.’

We squeezed into the not-so-roadworthy car and headed from the West End of London to my pad in Stockwell. Parking the car was a nightmare. I was a public transport user (who wouldn’t be living so centrally) and had no knowledge of where one could or should park near my gaff. The guys managed to sort it out. I let them into the house and we traipsed up the stairs to my semi-studio.

Unfortunately living alone in central London and on a tight budget due to minimal wage, my studio didn’t have a personal bathroom and the front door opened straight into my double bed. There was a second room (with no door) to the kitchen. But the main room or living area was the double bed and I couldn’t quite see how I was going to have the privacy to get laid.

With so many people squeezed into the small living space I was unsure how exactly the party would continue. I had no food, no drinks, no space and a rather uncool music collection. But the Polish boy was ever resourceful and asked where the nearest corner shop was. In the wee hours of Saturday morning I assured him that we wouldn’t be sold alcohol because they weren’t licensed. He smiled knowingly at me and assured me he’d be back with some vodka and orange juice. He nodded at the Albanian chauffeur who was edging closer and closer to me on the bed and told him to accompany him to the shop, thus leaving me in the care of his more reliable and better looking Albanian friend. The minute the door closed and we heard the outer front door shut Mr Albania laid back on the bed and stretched out. I saw his shirt rise up and noticed the dark hair trailing from his flat stomach down to the button fly on his jeans. I have a feeling even though he looked as if he were dozing he could feel my eyes drinking in his dark beauty. He rolled over on the bed and faced me saying nothing. I could taste his pleasant scented but heavy aftershave. I could actually feel how badly he wanted me and my lips found his. He let my fingers unbutton his jeans. Despite the dark unruly mass of pubic hair a thick uncut penis protruded from his cotton boxers. My hand gripped it and I moaned at the thought of how it might feel filling me up. It felt so good I began to straddle him.

He pushed my skirt up and pulled my knickers to one side. I ground down on his cock and he felt how wet I was for him. We mimicked sex without penetration our hands beginning to reach under garments. Had he moved his cock, had I repositioned myself we could’ve gone all the way. What little English he did possess in his vocabulary he knew enough to be wary of actually fucking me properly – his Polish friend was obviously not  a boy to be crossed. He murmured that he really shouldn’t be doing this but he began pulling me by the hips more forcefully and his cock began rubbing further at the slippery entrance to my vagina.

His mobile phone rang. He swore (in English), answered the phone, then hung up quickly and jumped up even more quickly adjusting his clothes saying he was going to let the boys back in.

Sombre as ever the striking looking Polack entered saying he was only able to obtain Russian vodka and was disappointed there was no vodka from his country of origin available. From the kitchen as I poured the drinks and listened to how effective the threat of a teen Polish mafia type and his Albanian heavy with a ten pound tip for the trouble of serving out of licensing hours was, I realised they were rather a motley crew and quite menacing. I was quite interested in how they actually made their money (or what they did to supplement their wages to afford the clothes and the upper class West End clubs they frequented). Dangerous sorts and all locked in my bedroom; on the whole I was pretty defenceless.

But the baby faced man with a plan obviously had an idea of how to make the night work and set about it. For his two friends he poured very large vodkas with barely a drop of juice and handed them their glasses as they sat cross legged on the bed. My more modest drink was left for me in the kitchen. The beautiful, tall, considered youth  rested against the doorframe between rooms chatting to his friends and occasionally throwing a look and smile my way. His intention was to ensure his friends dropped off and the quadruple vodka meant they were soon snoring gently on the bed. His plump lips curved into a smile at the sight of the two rugged manly men asleep almost in each others arms.

He strolled back into the kitchen and took my glass from my hand and put it on the sink as he began to kiss me. I knew what had to be done but not sure exactly how. There wasn’t a door to close so we were forced to softly move to the back of the kitchen where the partitioning between the rooms blocked out any observers from the bed. There was no blanket or anything for the lino but he seemed unmoved by the less than comfortable environment. He had already removed his jeans and was wearing tight legged pristine white Calvins. His prick was lengthy, moderate in its girth but against his tightie whities it looked like a porno cock and I licked my lips at the thought. I had dropped to my knees and tugged at the shorts and he let me suck him for a while. The lack of pubic hair made me wonder just how long it had actually been since he hit puberty, but his cock was not that of a boy. He pulled himself out of my mouth and got to his knees, his hands were powerful and literally tore my knickers off. Part of me was slightly perturbed because they were quite costly but I kind of like the idea of being ravished by a hungry, young foreigner.

My skirt was pushed up and he removed the remainder of his heavily labelled clothes. Because of his age his cock was standing to attention and was so long the head of the cock almost touched his belly button. He pushed me straight down on the lino and climbed on top ramming himself straight in me. I cried out in surprise and he put his hand over my mouth and began to fuck me fast and furiously. It felt great. He was young and full of energy. His icy exterior remained in tact as did his strong sense of Catholicism and decency as he ensured we were unlikely to be interrupted. I began trying to pull away from his cock. It was long like an ice lolly and was beginning to hurt. The minute I pressed against his hips to shallow his thrusting he withdrew and gently tugged my hair and put a firm hand on my hip inclining me to get on all fours.

It felt weird someone so young being so demanding and so sexually and physically potent in his prowess. He entered me roughly again and as he ploughed into me he pulled my hair as a warning not to cry out. So he fucked me hard like a dog on heat, getting deeper and deeper, only when I started to buck and struggle against the hand that held my hair did he very quickly pull out and cum over my bottom. He smeared it in and gave my rump a quick slap. Then dressed himself quickly and assisted in making sure my clothes looked decent.

‘I’m going to have to go soon. I have school tomorrow (21? Yeah right!) and I need these two to wake up to drive me home. It’s been nice though – you were good. Sweet girl (Girl! I’m turning thirty in less than sixty days!).’

‘And are you a sweet boy?’ I asked.

‘Yeah I think not and I think you know that. I’ve got your phone number from the club. I’ll pass it to my friend. He wants to fuck you, but…tonight you’re mine. Another time if you want you can have him. If you have him, you’ll not have me again.’ (His friend did harass me via the phone for some time and with great persistence but he looked better alongside his friend as a package deal, he didn’t warrant my attention in terms of a one on one night.)

‘But I may not ever get you again anyway.’

‘Perhaps not. But I like how you move and I like how you feel. I love how you fuck little Australia.’

‘I’m not sure you could call me little.’

He shrugged, not complimenting me but refusing to participate in my self deprecation.

‘What is it you do anyway?’ I couldn’t help but want to solve this enigmatic babe to some extent. How could someone so young possess such confidence and magnetism, and assert so much authority with such ease over all those he interacted with.

He looked at me icily and smiled taking the chill out of his inevitable departure as he called to his friends to get up and move. They headed out the door sleepily and he went to follow. Leaning down he kissed me affectionately on the lips and for the first time he looked like the little boy I suspected he actually was. He pointed at my washing machine.

‘I saw this while we were fucking. Your spin cycle only goes to 1000. That’s actually considered really slow so I think your machine is very old. With a slow spin cycle you don’t get all the water out. You don’t have a drier so in the winter your clothes will smell of damp. I know these things. My father managed a shop that sold these types of electrical household things, I learned a lot. Talk to your landlord about installing a new washing machine, it’s out of date.’

That parting advice was the most disappointing and anti-climatic moment I’ve ever encountered on a one night stand. Here was I thinking he was rampantly ramming me because my sexual prowess had forced him into a lusty trance, when in fact he had been slamming his shaft deeper hoping to fuck me across the lino to get a closer look at the washing machine which was infinitely more appealing than me. I’m crushed to confess he then left without a goodbye or thank you. They were his final words and I never saw him again. I suppose in his mind the expert assessment and advice on my kitchen was the equivalent of a goodbye – better even because it had real value that could improve the quality of my life. I wish the fucker had said nothing. Sometimes the allure of mystery surpasses the honesty of reality.