What do you bring to a threesome? Flowers? A houseplant? Some Trader Joe’s bourgie bullshit? Or do you just cut straight to the chase and offer up some lube? Is that the way to go? I’m really not sure. Never having experienced this before, I could use some assistance.
But Andy – who I’m sure has experienced this – is no help. He’s getting even more stoned, sitting
cross-legged on his crappy couch, ruminating. “Dude,” I say, “can you please be
focused for a single goddamned minute? Please?”
He blinks. Okay, it’s a start.
We’d agreed upon 7 p.m. That’s an hour away. I’m not sure if I want the
time to crawl on its belly or rush like a coyote crossing a busy road. And what
is with these
fucking metaphors anyway? I’m seized by a strange urge to paint my nails. And
what do you know, I have a tiny little bottle with its tiny little brush in my
bag. I don’t usually carry stuff like that, but sometimes providence sits on your
face.
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