The Holy Grail

It is the Holy Grail for men. It teases the dreams of adolescent boys and haunts their grandfathers with pangs of immeasurable regret.

“The Threesome,”: one guy versus two women…

Like some of the greatest existential questions, be it the blackholes in space or your older sisters’ pants, the quest to achieve a threesome is almost as taxing as the undertaking. With serendipitous timing, charm, and the right blood alcohol level, it may occur – yet even if it does it is instantly questioned and disregarded as hearsay. It is treated like an encounter with a mythical creature, yet instead of fighting off some murderous gorgon or cyclops, your fending off two sets of mammories and countless man-eating-orifices with your Spear of Destiny.

For everything pure, though, there are those bastardizations that make normal men cringe to their core. With one shift in sex-ratio, that which was perfect morphs into some fel-ritual. Yes, there is the “Wrong Threesome.” One can only imagine a normal man’s reaction if the girl you and your buddy have been working on all night gives you the ultimatum that yes, you can have a slice of that pie, but it has to be both of you…at the same time. For some reason, it instantly brings me back to a childhood favorite, Ghostbusters; when seemingly all hope is gone versus the uber-skank demi-god, Gozer, Egon presents one last desperate plan to take her down, something that the Ghostbusters (men) had been trained never to do for fear of a catastrophic meltdown:

“Cross the streams...” Ray’s face says it all – this is not going to be pretty.

(are they having a good time?)

I myself have had the fortune of having a wrong threesome story recounted to me in exquisite detail, mostly because this misguided soul was proud of it. It’s one of those stories that once heard, it is impossible to question because, hey, why would you offer the info up in the first place? You be the judge:

One night, in the waning hours after a period of intense binge drinking, my friends and I got to talking about the eternal quest for the threesome. Immediately in the corner of the room, an acquaintance, we’ll call him “Peter,” suddenly perks up; his eyes danced with mad glee as he announced to the room, “I have had a threesome.” Any and all conversation ceased as he finished the last syllable, for we knew what was figuratively "coming."

One cannot just cry wolf without proof in today’s society; to be crowned a king, an alpha male, requires a tale of equal measure. Seeing our reactions at his threesome announcement only bolstered his ego, and with a cocky grin he continued,

“Yeah, I had one alright. Mike and I tag-teamed that chick from Tulane, you know, the one that was displaced by Hurricane Katrina.”

And then there was a split-second of silence. I learned something about the human brain, or perhaps just the male’s brain, in that very instant; it was a moment where you hear something so unexpectedly wrong - something so counterintuitive to what you were hoping for, that I could actually feel all my faculties and neurological networks working to process that last sentence.

Then it hit me. Whatever biological computer that runs my brain gave up and hit the blue screen of death: this was the funniest thing I had ever heard. It was not just me either, after that dumbstruck second the rest of the room, about ten guys, convulsed into a torrent of laughter-induced tears.

Poor bastard, he thought we were laughing with him. Indiana Jones would have been right there shaking his head, for this kid had not chosen the carpenter’s cup, but one of those cheap imitations that makes the head explode. Nevertheless, Peter’s story spilled forth in like a wave of filth – verbal sewage that not only overpowered the mind but fueled the laughter. Apparently, this was the perfect storm of debauchery: Sober girl, a transfer student from Katrina-ravaged Tulane, with short-ish hair and the female version of the “Prince Albert” (red flags), the ambiance of porn blasting in the background on the computer and the stench of sweat and “Old English,” the two naked males work out a system of primitive ape-like hand signs and hi-fives to change positions – the culmination of which combined both bodily fluids and the word “adjacent.” The aftermath: girl leaves contently sticky while both boys – nay men – remain nude yet celebrating their “feat” with a chorus of cheers and dude hugs (still naked).

Once the laughter stopped – and yes, it always stops – the sheer depth of human awkwardness the story conveyed left us stunned. With a murmur people began leaving the room, each guy seeking the comfort of a shower, a meal, or some other cleansing ritual. It was “Fool’s Gold” - you know, that substance you received as a child at one of those lame-ass Safari parties as a party favor from the outdoorsy kid that always smelled like baked beans; that hunk of gold-looking rock that tricked the young mind into thinking that anything is possible and everything is affordable – that is, until you would find out it’s all an illusion and your dream of swimming in Scrooge McDuck’s pool of gold coins is shattered.

Abandon all hope ye who seek the perfect threesome – it is a fool’s dream. After that night, we couldn’t look at Peter the same way again, knowing his sexual deviances from all that should be awesome. Ghostbusters is always right: never cross the streams.