Woman on the Verge of Paradise: My First Threesome

 

Sign reads: May you find Paradise to be all that its name implies.

Thanks for joining me on the verge of Paradise, as a new chapter of my life unfolds. This series can be found in the Paradise button to the left. While I alter some details to protect the guilty, I strive for accuracy in terms of content. This post follows from the last. I hope you enjoy.
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Maybe I just need to redefine it. Yet whenever I engage in the introspective process of contemplating the deeper meaning of “paradise” –ultimately deducing that it’s a mere abstract construct to be found within, not via a man- another stupid boy derails my path to enlightenment.

The current derailer’s exceptionally skilled. Plus I don’t mind his dark, romantic Latin presence. The guy’s so suave he can manage two women at once. I know this because I participated in a threesome with him and an adorably cute brunette two weeks ago. I’d never done that before. Admittedly, it was really fun. There was nothing awkward about it. We had great three-way chemistry. But when the music stopped, our dance was over. A round of thank you's, and we parted ways.

I slid into a chair at the little black table on which I’d placed a glass of water. Just as I started sipping, he approached for another dance.  I readily agreed. From then on, Mr. Salsa critiqued my every gesture.  

“Keep your hands lower… You’re turning too fast… Don’t step to the side... Listen for the beat…”

As if the one-on-one technique tutorials weren't enough, he began teaching me Spanish between dances. I guess he likes to teach. I shiver upon imagining Mr. Salsa in the bedroom:

“Elbows in! Lower your knees...Clap to the beat” and, even worse, “Kick ball change! Kick ball change! Kick ball change!... Faster, faster!”

The visions so disturbing, I was back en route towards enlightenment. Surely this man’s not going to offer a smidgen of paradise, what with all the ball changes.  

“Find it within. Find it within” became my mantra.

But I returned to the club last week, for further derailment. Mr. Salsa and I caught each other’s eyes the moment I entered. We danced into the night. Our partnership was hot and his didactic, limited.

Later, as I reclined for a break, Mr. Salsa headed towards me and my heart raced.

“Hey, shorty.”

“Excuse me! What did you call me?” I couldn’t believe it.

Mr. Salsa pulled a chair alongside me. He reached out in my direction, turning his hands palms up to welcome mine. I placed my hands in his, anticipating a sweet, endearing apology.

“I don’t mean anything by it. My sister’s your height. You remind me of her.”

How romantic. I let go and rose to find the exit.

Just then, a highly seductive Spanish song filled the room. Mr. Salsa stood up and leaned in closer. His tone was sultry as Mr. Salsa proceeded to translate the lyrics line by line.

Quiero hacerte el amor una vez mas, the singer expressed.

“That means, ‘I want to make love to you one more time.’” 

 Finge como si fuera otra persona.

“Now he says, ‘Just pretend I'm someone else.’” 

Entonces saldreʹ.

“That means, ‘Then I will leave.’”

“Okay, well, I’m leaving now.” I grabbed my purse and we exchanged a hug. He kissed my cheek and I departed in a strangely aroused but highly confused state.  

Entering my car, I gasped. “What the hell was that? This can’t be Paradise!”