Sex feels good. No—sex feels great. Whether you’re having a steamy one-night-stand or making love with your spouse of seventeen years, few things feel better than taking off your clothes and manipulating each other's orifices and genitals to your heart’s content.

 

If having sex with one person feels amazing, it stands to reason that sex with two people should be (at least!) twice as good. But in reality, the math doesn’t add up.

 

I understand the threesome’s appeal—two beautiful and experienced partners lusting over you, using their bodies for your pleasure in erotic synchronicity. You, in turn, work harmoniously to fulfill their needs and desires. Everyone gets their rocks off, everyone feels like a sex god, everyone has a good time.

 

Sadly, no threesome has ever gone down that way. First, there’s always one person who doesn’t know the other two as well (a third coming into an established couple, someone’s bi-curious friend of a friend, the one who isn’t identical twin sisters). This lack of familiarity always makes things awkward. They never know who likes what stuck into where or who can’t stand to have that part licked. If you’re having a threesome, make sure you say everything you want to say to this third wheel before you do the deed, as you will not be seeing them again after the threesome is over. The only use of this person is to serve as the scapegoat for when the threesome fails to live up to its lofty expectations.

 

Why does a threesome always disappoint? If you’ve ever tried cooking dinner while simultaneously watching a toddler, you know that human beings are terrible multi-taskers. Participating in a threesome is like trying to cook risotto while a needy toddler is tugging at your leg (or some other part). A threesome demands each participant person split their focus between two partners, splitting their sexual labor between two people, doubling their efforts to receive functionally the same amount of affection of a traditional twosome. If good sex takes work, a threesome is a trial of Hercules—one that results in you putting in twice the work for (to put it crudely) the same amount of cum.

And God help you if you try to hack the threesome and favor one partner’s pleasure over the other (which you inevitably will—there’s always someone in a threesome you’re substantially less attracted to), someone is going to leave the threesome unsatisfied. And if one person is unsatisfied, the whole threesome is ruined. After all, it’s hard to climax when someone is silently pouting naked on the other side of the bed.

 

I’m no prude. I believe consenting adults can and should be allowed to do whatever they want. But at my core, I am a pragmatist, and I can’t help but think that a threesome would be better for everyone if it was split into three separate twosomes, either over a period of several days or back-to-back-to-back. Have I ever had a threesome? Of course not. I explicitly tell all my romantic partners I refuse to enter into one, usually around the time our drink orders come. Rarely do my relationships last beyond the first date, but it’s all for the best, as I would dread the Sisyphean task I could potentially be entering into. And as this is my second reference to Greek mythology, I believe I’ve proven my case.

 

 

If you enjoyed today’s moot, follow Matthew Brian Cohen on Twitter and check out his new book of short fiction, A Stupid Way To Die For No Reason At All. If you are feeling generous, consider donating to the Mockingbird Foundation, Matthew’s charity of choice.