Chapter 15 – A Threesome Kinda Guy
Following a brief nap of a night’s sleep during which I wish I’d dreamed the whole Malaysian midget fiasco, I woke up around noon with my tongue plastered to the roof of my bone dry mouth. In desperate need of rejuvenation that only a Gatorade could provide, I rolled out of bed – my body as sore as my pride – and stuffed my scattered belongings into my backpack. After a hasty check-out, Tim and I hustled over to the train station from where we caught a ride to Kuala Lumpur International Airport. There, we checked our bags, hit the john and sprawled out at the gate awaiting a 2:45 flight to the city formerly known as Saigon.
Before leaving KL, I’d forgotten to charge my iPod. As Tim sat there absorbed by a tattered-ass paperback copy of The Godfather, I had no form of entertainment to take my mind off the pain of my head-pounding hangover. Since I’d been too nauseous to try and sleep, I’d instead spent my time glancing around the gate, deciding who of the female population I would and wouldn’t bang.
At some point, a super sexy chick walked in wearing six-inch heels and a pair of stretchy, black, form-fitting yoga pants with diamond patterns cut down the sides of the legs, exposing the skin on her hips, thighs and calves like racing stripes. The hoop earrings dangling from the sides of her perfect face bounced with every step as she strutted along in a tiny, titty-hugging jean jacket. It was as if this girl had been moving in slow-motion – like each butt-wiggling step of her stride had been synced up with the chorus of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”
“Yo, yo, yo, Tim, you gotta check this out. Look at this chick.”
“Oh yeah, dude, she’s pretty hot…” he said, glancing up from the Puzo classic, “…total whore though.”
“Yeah, you think so?” His crude assertion didn’t seem too far-fetched. “I can’t tell. Every hot girl I’ve seen around here looks like a whore to me. Can whores afford to go on vacation? Maybe the good ones can. Who else would wear something like that on a plane? Oh my God, she’s so hot.”
“I dunno,” my man imparted before resuming his place in the saga, “let’s hope she sits by us on the flight though.”
We boarded the plane about twenty minutes before take-off. The interior of the Malaysian Airlines 737 aircraft had rows of three seats on each side of the cabin. As opposed to those of almost every other plane I’d ever been on, the seats had come in an assortment of colors you might see on a flag hanging outside a gay bar. After making our way through the rainbow array, we’d found our row. I strapped myself in the chair closest the aisle and Tim took the middle when, seconds later, the sex bomb we’d been ogling showed up to claim the window seat.
“Hello,” she said while pointing across us.
We stood up and stepped into the aisle to make room for her to get by. During this time, we started with the friendly “hello’s” and “excuse me’s” to give her the false impression that we’re actually nice guys. She smiled and nodded as she passed before setting her perfectly shaped ass down in the seat that I wished had been my lap.
“How’s it going?” Tim asked once we’d all gotten settled back in.
She again smiled and nodded.
“Where are you going today?”
“I go home,” she replied.
“That’s cool. Where are you from?”
She responded to his question with a blank stare.
“Uh, where is your home?”
“Vietnam.”
“Ho Chi Minh City?”
“Ho Chi Minh,” she nodded.
“It’s my first time going to Ho Chi Minh, what do you recommend doing there?”
She again appeared perplexed.
“What’s uh…what’s cool, what’s fun to do around Ho Chi Minh City?”
“Yes,” she repeated and smiled. “Ho Chi Minh.”
Tim turned to me.
“Yo, this girl doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.”
“Dude, keep trying. She’s so hot.”
Tim kept trying and it became clear that he was getting absolutely nowhere.
In spite of his commendable effort, basic conversation – let alone flirtation and eventual propositioning – with the sexy lady proved impossible. The language barrier was insurmountable. Well, that, or she pretended she didn’t know how to speak English since we’d stunk so bad and looked like shit from the night before. Either way, she didn’t want anything to do with us.
“Eh-cuse me!?”
“Yes?” replied the passing flight attendant in perfect English.
The Vietnamese vixen stood halfway up and pointed to a row of open seats somewhere down the aisle.
“I go?”
After getting approval from the stewardess, she and her sweet, sweet can got up and walked to a spot far enough away to spoil my hope of us getting ourselves into a mile-high gangbang. Nevertheless, our real-life failure didn’t stop Tim and I from discussing if it would’ve been weird and/or gay of us to have participated in a threesome had she been into it.
Part of me thinks it would’ve been cool – a really good story to tell – but an even bigger part of me thinks it would’ve been painfully awkward and not worth it. No matter how sexy a girl is, there’s just something off-putting about the thought of standing fuck-face to fuck-face with a naked buddy as both our plutonium rods are jammed inside the same reactor. But even before getting that far into it, how does a two-dude-one-chick threesome start? Who undresses who and in what order? Is a formal discussion held about what position the chick’s gonna be in? Is there gonna be a paper, scissors, rock match to decide who gets which hole? And what happens when one dude finishes and the other one still needs to get off? Is the guy who’s popped supposed to tiptoe out the room like he wasn’t even there or is he supposed stick around making ambient noises until the other guy’s cow has been milked? It gives me a headache to think about. The whole thing sounds like a nightmare.
The closest I hope I’ll ever come to being involved in anything resembling a threesome with Tim O’Shaughnessy – and it’s not even that close to begin with – had been during our junior year at Marquette University. Like many other drunk-ass weekend evenings in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a few others and I ended up staggering to an on-campus pizzeria called Angelo’s to finish ourselves off. Following a couple unnecessary additions to my room-tilting buzz, I ended up running into a girl I knew who I’d never gotten along with. In fact, we hated each other. On this frosty winter night, however, I guess we’d both been so hammered and so horny that we set our differences aside. I don’t know how it happened, but I remember we’d been all but fucking each other in the middle of the bar.
After going back to my place and sleeping with the enemy, I laid in my bed unable to doze off. Tossing and turning, I’d been quite bothered by the spiteful boning session I’d just went half on. To calm my nerves and get my shit sorted, I went downstairs to fix myself a late-night omelet made entirely of ingredients I “borrowed” from my roommates. As I crushed the fourthmeal up in my private quarters, the girl laid sound asleep in my bed. Curled up around my blanket with her bare ass facing outward, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get my spoon on. I know my hairy hot dog wouldn’t have minded spending the rest of that cold night wedged between those warm buns, but I was thinking about the morning after – how I didn’t wanna start a new day in the presence of someone that I didn’t care for and, judging by all previous interaction, didn’t care that much for me either. Striving hard to overcome the interests of my penis which had led me astray earlier in the evening, I set aside my eggs, collected any errant female garments strewn about my room, walked across the hallway and then threw them all on the floor of O’Shaughnessy’s perpetually unlocked bedroom.
During our time living together, I’d seen Tim passed out in some pretty ridiculous positions – the most notable being the time when I found him slumped on his knees with half of his body on the side of the bed, half on the floor and the whole of his head and neck stuffed deep into a pillowcase which, like the David Carradine belt-around-the-neck thing, I’m guessing had been some sort of kinky, orgasm-intensifying, choke-n-stroke maneuvering.
On this particular drunken evening, however, Tim had been fast asleep in his bed like a normal person and looked as snug as a bug in a rug – a comfort which wasn’t about to last very much longer. Having left both my and O’Shaughnessy’s doors ajar, I went back to my room, picked the naked girl up over my shoulder like a caveman and then gently placed sleeping beauty on top of his snoring ass before sprinting back into my room and barring the door.
As far as the threesome goes, that’s pretty much the extent of it – me tossing a naked chick on top of Tim as he slept. No more than thirty seconds later, he began pounding on my door and, at an increment of volume normally unacceptable for four in the morning, demanded that I “get this fucking bitch out of my fucking bedroom right the fuck now!”
After hearing his desperate cry and angry rapping on my chamber door, I couldn’t help but feel Tim had gotten a raw deal. Stooped in guilt, I decided to help him out of the jam I’d gotten him into by, at the very least, assisting him in the removal of my evening’s slam piece from his bed. Too lazy to once again pick her up over my shoulder, Tim and I each grabbed one of her ankles and tugged her off the edge of the bed, causing this girl to faceplant on his bedroom floor. As it happens, the impact had woken up my drunken date and the problem had yet to be solved.
During junior year, I didn’t have a car in Milwaukee. It was about ten degrees outside and I had no intention of weathering the conditions just to be Mr. Romantic and walk my new gal pal all the way back to her front door. I also didn’t want her walking home by herself in the wee hours through the borderline ghetto of a campus on which we lived. At the same time, she had to go.
During some point in my shitfaced contemplation, I gave myself permission to borrow my roommate Murphy’s car. Driving at at least three times the legal limit, I managed to get this girl home without incident. When I got back, I parked the whip like Helen Keller and went to bed.
A few hours later, someone else had been pounding at my door. It was Murphy. He’d gotten wind of my test spin and wasn’t too happy about it but since no damage had been done, was willing to let it go if I returned his keys. Murph needed the keys because he was due to drive back home to Chicago that day for a familial obligation he was supposed to attend. I couldn’t produce them. I was too drunk to remember where I’d thrown them the night before. I spent the next three hours tearing the house apart looking for those keys but never found ‘em. Murphy was unable to get home and, needless to say, had been more than a little bit chafed by the whole affair.
After landing, paying our twenty-five dollar “stamping fee” to enter the country and exchanging some currency, Tim and I stepped out into the sweltering heat. Outside the terminal, a large crowd of Vietnamese stood in a wall-like formation. The majority had been awaiting the arrival of relatives coming to town for Tet, but a few had been waving signs with the names of tourists. Sifting through the thick of the mass, we began looking for the guy holding a sign with my name on it.
According to the official Vietnamese government website through which I’d purchased our visas, our courier was supposed to be fluent in English and teeming with historical information to “satisfy the inquisitive needs of the curious tourist.” I couldn’t wait to ask him all about the food and the Tet festivities but once I’d spotted the guy hoisting a sign that read “Jimothy John Lally,” I had a pretty good feeling I wasn’t gonna get any of the answers I’d been looking for. Besides the “hello” and the “goodbye,” the only English we got out of the guy as he dipped and weaved his way through the insanity of Saigon traffic was that, “It New Year, big party in park.”
Later that day, Tim’s older sister Kathleen – who’d also attended Marquette University – was to come and meet up with us in HCMC. After graduating, Kathleen had gotten a job at Hyatt which means that not only does she get to stay for free in most Hyatt hotels around the globe but also that it’s considered work to the effect of testing and gauging the quality of the stay at the given location. Taking full advantage of that perk, Kathleen hooked us up with two free nights at The Park Hyatt Saigon – a five star accommodation and undisputed forerunner in luxury, style and elegance.
When we rolled up to the Park Hyatt, two tux-clad bellhops that looked like Oddjob came to our assistance. One of the guys grabbed our bags while the other held open the front door for Tim and I to make an entrance. Upon stepping into the first set of doors, my skin was struck with a heat-cutting blast of cold and a feeling of refreshment I didn’t think could’ve existed beyond Zima commercials. Even though we’d both been wearing basketball jerseys and had stunk like booze from the night before, we were treated like royalty.
After we’d checked in, a young woman with an hourglass figure had been assigned to show us our room. The girl had been wearing a tight-fitting silk tunic called an “ao dai” that had accentuated her hips, waist and breasts quite nicely, making the walk behind her a pleasurable one. We’d first been led through the high-ceilinged lobby where a blonde-haired babe in a black dress stroked the keys of a grand piano, summoning a tone of class and opulence to the likes of which I’d never experienced. We continued on and entered a hallway lined with paintings and photographs capturing the essence of the Vietnamese experience – stern soldiers, proud farmers and flame-engulfed monks were among the subjects depicted. Following a one floor lift on the elevator, our guide swiped the magnetized keycard and opened the door to our room.
“Okay. Here is your room. Here is your key. If you need anything at all, please let me know.”
We thanked her and began exploring. In addition to two pillow-strewn queen-sized beds, a big-ass flat screen TV and an iPod dock hooked up to the room’s surround sound system had been a white marble bathroom containing the most awesome multiple-headed shower in which I’d ever have the pleasure of scrubbing my little frijoles.
Beyond two adjacent sets of glass double-doors leading out the back of the room had been our own personal shrubbery-flanked patio housing a pair of chaise lounge chairs padded with ass-engulfing cushions. Outlying the territory designated as ours had been a vast courtyard bottomed by an immaculate lawn that, at the time, was being clipped with scissors by some poor sweaty bastard on his hands and knees. Looking even further in the distance, I saw something that’d immediately changed my previously conservative stance on an aforementioned issue.
Alongside a hut providing drinks and extra towels for guests had been the tantalizing, crystal clear coolness of a currently unoccupied swimming pool. The late afternoon light danced across the undulating waters just begging for Tim and I to insert ourselves simultaneously. Neither of us had been too shy about the matter as we stripped down to the bare minimum and dove right in. At the start, I’ll admit it’d been a little shocking, but once we started moving around and found our stroke, we warmed up to the situation right away. Tim ripped away, doing it doggy while I did all the smooth, gentle breast-stroking. After about five minutes of giving it my all, I’d been panting for breath and decided to pull out.
Following the dripping wet double dip, as men have been stereotyped to do, Tim and I each wiped ourselves off, got tired and passed out next to the object of our desire as it continued babbling on in the background. Our three-way romp with that alluring temptress had been such a satisfying encounter that, after a little rest, just before going out to dinner, he and I hadn’t hesitated one bit before sliding back in for round number two.