Any chance we could get this one to go?

A good time to ask your significant other for something outrageous is in mid-booty knock. Logic and reasoning take a back seat whenever penile penetration is involved. And, if you get laughed out of the room, you can always blame it on the lack of cranial blood flow.

I wasn't planning on asking Tim for a threesome. But the way her flat stomach breathtakingly gives rise to her huge round breasts robs me of my inhibitions, filling me with euphoric invincibility, the kind that drives drug addicts to jump out the window, thinking they can fly.

I was fucking her, and just as the action reached its sweaty climax, I said it.

"Do you wanna see me fuck someone else in front of you?"

"Mm-hmm," she says, nodding weakly.

Sure, she said yes. But for this kind of request, you need an enthusiastic yes, a HELL yes. The yes she gave me was the kind I get when I ask if she is done with the ketchup.

I know better than to push it. I took my shot, and she obviously wasn't interested. You certainly can't blame a guy for trying, right?

"Were you serious about that?" she asks me later, peeking over the top of a Maxim magazine. Yeah, she reads that. Is this girl wife material or not?

"About what?"

"About what you asked me?"

"About what?" I know, of course, but this is no place for a misunderstanding. Plus, hearing her say it is going to be a turnon in itself, a hardly-believable acquiescence to my perverted fantasies.

"A threesome."

I go instantly hard, even though I just orgasmed a few minutes ago. I have to be careful not to seem too eager, though: She is probably going to be pretty self-conscious about it, and making a big deal about it might sour her on the idea. Or maybe it won't, but when in doubt, aloofness rules.

Now it is my turn to be blase. "Yeah, of course!" I say, quietly.

"OK," she says, disappearing back behind her magazine.

Wait. That's it? Don't you want to hear my list of physical requirements for a threesome partner? I'm not going to be fussy, but on the other hand, if you walk in with some scrawny, tattoo-blanketed chick with an infected lip ring, Mr. Happy might just go limp in protest.

Better still, could I see a group of candidates? Perhaps a blowjob contest is in order to thin the field a bit! Or how about a reality show: 'Who wants to fuck a sex addict?' or, 'Steve's Threes', in which we feature a different guest booty every week?

Friday, October 21, 2005, 6:30pm
Baton Rouge Bistro restaurant

Tim's been bugging me to try this place for weeks. Her friend Jim from culinary school is the sous chef, and supposedly, even his teachers were in awe of his cooking skills.

"He'll probably hook us up," she says, "but if not, it's my treat."

I'm sitting on an easy chair (yes, an actual easy chair) waiting for Tim, when I see the door swing open. In she walks, In a tight, shimmering blue dress, her thick, shiny blonde hair cascading down her back. There's a girl following her, so closely behind that it almost seems like they're together. But Tim didn't say anything about bringing a friend.

I stand up to meet her. "Hi sweetie!" Tim says, hugging me and kissing my cheek. The girl stops behind her, watching us, smiling.

"Steve, this is my friend Keisha. She helps me out sometimes with my catering jobs. Keisha, this is my boyfriend Steve."

Keisha is attractive, but no one I'd normally be interested in. Her skin is a dark brown, the color of a Hershey bar, and her chestnut-colored hair is pulled tightly into a bun, held into place with what looks like a chopstick. Her wraparound dress stretches all the way to her heels, adorned from top to bottom with Chinese symbols.

She's got deep dimples, and perfect teeth, straight and white. Her eyes, while a bit narrow, are a nice dark shade, which contrasts nicely with her skin.

Her tits are huge, absolutely massive. They pop out from her chest impossibly far, like a diving board, and my eyes can't help but be drawn to them. She's short, smaller than Tim, and with her girlish waist, one wonders how she can even stand upright. I guess her rap video-ready booty provides a useful counterweight.

"I've heard so much about you," she says, fakely, hugging me so that our cheeks touch. Her skin is soft, and she's wearing just a touch of blush.

We're following the hostess to our table when it suddenly occurs to me that this might be the girl Tim has recruited for the threesome. I make eye contact with Tim as we sit, and she gives me a big, seductive smile.

Yep, this is the threesome chick, all right.

Tim is a genius. She's giving me every man's fantasy, a threesome, but she's doing it with someone who, while not ugly, is certainly not on her level attractiveness-wise. She has found another girl for me to fuck in front of her, a sexual accessory, but an accessory that could not possibly work on its own. She's showing me how much she wants to please me by giving me a very memorable gift, but she's doing it in such a way that she isn't threatened. It's perfect!

Keisha is nervous. She keeps folding and unfolding her arms and shifting positions in her chair, and shooting glances at me before turning quickly back to Tim.

Jim, the sous chef, comes over to say hello, shaking Tim's hand briskly with his two massive, meaty paws. He's a huge guy, 350 pounds easy, and the walk across the floor has winded him. He breathes heavily throughout the whole conversation. "Taste the wine," he says, uncorking a bottle for us.

I really hate the pretentious, snooty-ass way people sniff and slurp wine. I don't drink it very much, and I usually don't order it when eating out, because I feel silly when they bring it over to you and stare as you swirl it around in your glass and take dainty little sips.

Tim knows that I hate the whole ritual, but she keeps begging me to do it, because she says I will really learn to love wine if I do. So partly to indulge her, and partly not to insult Jim, who is giving us a free meal, I sample the bouquet as expertly as Dr. Frasier Crane himself, then sip it gingerly.

It's horrible. For a moment, it actually seems as if something is wrong with the wine; my lips instinctively pucker with the foul bitterness, like when I get shampoo on my tongue. Now, how do I explain this to Jim?

I look up at him, and open my mouth to speak. "No good, huh?" he says.

"Was it that obvious?"

"Bitter, right?"

"Yeah! How did you-"

"You don't drink coffee, do you?" he smiles.

"No, not really. How did you know?"

"Coffee dulls the taste buds. People who don't drink coffee find that wine bitter. I could tell by the face you made that you didn't like it."

Tim and Keisha laugh.

"I'll have another bottle brought out to you folks right away. You'll like this one much better. Enjoy your meal!"

To be continued...