The Time I Almost Had a Ménage à Trois Niçoise
(The Raw Version)
This piece was originally published on the travel website Shut Up and Go on March 19, 2020. And while that piece was adequate in portraying my story, it was in actuality an edited version of the piece I had in my mind. While writing for the site I wanted to create work that I felt fit the audience, and I often avoided making pieces too long, too deep, or occasionally, too raw. But we’re in my house now, and I’m not holding back. This is the raw version of this piece, and I hope you enjoy.
This article contains sexually explicit content: reader discretion is advised.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
It was a late September evening. The air was bright with the scent of Mediterranean evergreens wafting through the slats of my shutters, and as the sun drove below the waves, the lights in the city of Nice flickered on one by one just like the stars in the deepening sky.
And damn was I horny.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s get some backstory; I had arrived in city of Nice to stay there until I found a longer term arrangement to live in France. I really didn’t have a ton of money and Nice is, well, Nice, so I had to work fast; my days comprised of me getting coffee at 8 or 9, writing in a notebook for a few hours, a cheap lunch at noon (I thank the gods for pain bagnat), then every other waking hour after that lying in my Airbnb on my laptop making as many digital connections and sending as many applications as my fingers could humanly type. My bank account wouldn’t allow me to just hop Airbnb’s endlessly, so with the exception of a day or so to explore the city and acquaint myself, I begrudgingly kept myself on this personal lockdown despite the flawless weather and endless sea breezes floating through my shutters. And that included not fucking any local young men until I achieved my goal of getting my shit slightly more together.
But for better or worse, I always underestimate my natural sex drive, and a few days in I knew I had to break free and meet with someone. So on that clear, idyllic night, I opened that little gold mask icon and started to search. And yes, I know, I resorted to using a hook up app instead of actually going out and meeting someone at a bar or club or literally anywhere. I’m disappointed too. But the fact of the matter is, I’m naturally shy and I was still in the process of breaking out of my shell. Every time I went to a bar by myself, I would get a drink, make eye contact with someone cute across the way, not say a word because I got nervous, then finish my drink and leave. Very suave. So I resorted to apps, because their speed and efficiency in breaking the ice is unmatched.
After a few minutes I found my guy for the night: dirty blond, 5’10”, green eyes, and less than a mile away. We messaged to get a little acquainted, and eventually he told me to meet him in La Ville Vieux, the old city of Nice. I thought it a bit odd because I didn’t think the old city was as far as his profile noted he was, but it was a quick walk from where I was staying, so I thought nothing of it. Moments later the night air was tousling my hair as I made my way from the new city to the old one, every step bathed in the gold of the street lights and smelling ever so lightly of the salt from the sea.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
Once I hit the old city I found my way to a café I had been to before and stood outside to connect to their wifi, because I am too cheap and lazy to buy a new SIM card. I messaged that I was in le centre ville. His response? “Parfait, je vais apprendre l'adresse de l’autre mec et te dit bientôt.” Which, for those not versed in French, “Perfect, I’m going to learn the address of the other dude and tell you soon.” I let out an audible putain. We hadn’t discussed another dude. I casually inquired, to which he replied that he wasn’t able to host, so he found another guy to host and we’d just have a threesome. “C’est bien, non?” Now, I have nothing against threesomes. Many people participate in them regularly and quite honestly I think they look kind of hot. But at that point in time I had never initiated or been in one, and I hadn’t mentally (or physically) prepared for one to begin in less than 10 minutes. Despite my initial hesitance, though, I decided not to back out. I was dressed, I was out, and life is for the experiences, right? He sent me the address and I made my way through the twisting 17th century streets toward this new sexual adventure.
Guy number three was lazily leaning out his window as I arrived. Opening his building door I saw this mystery guy closely for the first time; he wasn’t awful looking, but he wasn’t as hot as my dirty blond. “Il a une grosse bite” he had assured me when he sent me the address, apparently forgetting that I’m a top and didn’t really care, but whatever. Climbing a stairway that smelled of ancient plaster and opening a well worn door, we entered a stunning refurbished apartment. Hardwood floors, tasteful modern art, reclaimed vintage furniture, windows that overlooked one of the main streets of la Ville Vieux. But dirty blond was nowhere to be seen. I tried breaking the ice by talking about the apartment, which promptly backfired as my French was still rusty and his English was arguably worse. Five minutes passed, then ten. Dirty blond still hadn’t shown up, and he wasn’t answering either of our messages. By this point the awkward in the air was as thick as this guy's cologne. Son of a bitch, I thought as I leaned in to kiss him, because at that point, there wasn’t really another option.
We made out and did foreplay for a while, never getting too close to finishing as we were both subconsciously waiting for our third. And I will give credit where credit is due: la bite était grosse. But eventually we took a break, because I was getting a bored and thought if we went any longer he’d try to fuck me, which was a hard no. After a bit of broken language pillow talk, I felt my eyelids getting heavier…
I woke up about an hour later. With monsieur grosse bite asleep, I took this as my chance to just ditch this mess. Dirty blond never showed, and he was the one I had wanted to fuck in the first place. I crawled around the floor for my clothes, not bothering to lace my boots in my haste. After a couple minutes I had found everything...except my phone. Where would I even have put it other than my pocket? I stepped around the apartment trying to be graceful, only to stumble on one of my loose shoelaces and slam my shin into a coffee table. On that coffee table was my phone. A sign from the gods, or something. But the challenges weren’t over. As I went to leave, I ran into the greatest puzzle of all Americans in France: the door. A twisting knob? Never. It needed a key to be opened from the inside, the most confusing feature of historic French architecture. Back into the apartment I searched, having zero idea what it would look like or where he would put the key. Hanging on a coat rack I saw a necklace with an antique looking key on it, like one you’d see in Urban Outfitters in 2010. What are the odds I thought, grabbing it and sticking it into the keyhole. With a little coaxing, the door opened; whether that was actually the key or genuine hiptser jewelry that I forced to work, I’m still not really sure. But I was finally free. I hit the stairs and was out into the night once again, never looking back.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
The next morning, I went back to Grindr. It said dirty blond was now over 100 miles away. Intrigued, I sent him a message. “So...last night?” Barely a minute later, he responded “Hey, sorry, my phone died so I went home because I had to leave the city today and wanted to sleep.” A thousand curses flipped through my head, but I decided to just let it go. “C’est pas grave.”
Within the next couple of days, I landed an au pair gig in Marseille. As I finished packing my things and prepared to haul my things down the stairs, I got a message. Dirty blond. “Je suis en Nice encore. T’es dispo?” I cracked a smile. “Peut étre. Je peux te trouver un autre mec à baiser.”