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Menage a trois in red, black and blue: an erotic tale of our times.

This is a story about sex. It's about the pushing and the shoving, the sweat and the funk, the caresses and the smacks and the back-scratching attainment of the big O. This is the about calculated flirtations and tricky negotiations that with some luck, result in a wild ride leaving you thoroughly satisfied. This is about the one-night stands, long-term losers, maintenance booty calls and fantasy flings. This is about getting yours, about getting off, getting a piece. This is about the end game. This is a story about sex.


Let's imagine a survivor of the game. She was quite a catch. This was an astute soul sister who had mastered the politics of the kinky power struggles and sleazy back room dealings. It had all become a familiar routine. So much so that her suitors had begun to take her for granted. Sure they enjoyed the hype they received on the nights that she elected one over the other. But the high of the evening was fleeting, leaving her with little more than empty promises and a wet spot. Victory parties were short-lived affairs.

One crisp November afternoon, she summoned her lovers to her bedside bistro for tea and tattle. They had passed each other in the hallway before, never stopping to speak. But a seething silent acknowledgement of the other was evident as Ron adjusted the knot of his red tie and John secured the pin of his gold donkey cufflink. The left-to-right tug-of-war left her frustrated and spent. There was an intolerable matter that had to be rectified. The sex was no good. Now she wanted something more. So she arranged a special threesome to see what she could get and who would produce.

"Well darling, we've been together a long time," started John. "Our little afternoon escapades have moved from the back of the bus to the head of the party. We have shared our passions in convention halls, voting booths and even oval offices. Why spoil all that fun now? I admit that I haven't always been a model candidate for your purposes. There have been times when I have stopped taking your calls or publicly denied knowing you. I have even forced my will on you. But I've apologized for my transgressions, like the time I lied about having sexual relations with that woman. Look, haven't I been good to you? With me you've enjoyed many positions. And there will be many more. That's because I know you. I know what you like. And when you are hurt, I feel your pain. Better yet, you know me. When you come my way, you know what you are in for. Why change that?"

And in one practiced moved, he cupped her elbow and gathered up her hand in his, almost whispering his last words into her fingertips, "You know that we are really good together. We can make this work again."

"Well hooray, hooray for the mighty ass," she chuckled as she removed her hand from his. "Only a charlatan like you, John, could simultaneously take credit for the highs that I achieved, and offer pitiful regrets for coming up short when I needed you most. Yes, I do know you. I know what you've got and what you are willing to give, which is why I'm considering taking my goodies elsewhere."

"My point exactly." Ron was swift in his agreement. "If monogamy hasn't worked for you then it must be time to diversify. Life is too taxing to stick with a fella who won't cut you a break, so try something new. Or even something old turned new again. We had our moment back in the day. Remember? You were newly freed from old bonds, and open to the potential of a new world. It can be that way again. Take a chance on me. Unlike him, I will vouch for you publicly and privately. And haven't our few recent flings been handsomely profitable for you, if not others? Don't you see? I can give you what he cannot. I can show you a new way of doing things, a new life, new adventures." Ron punctuated his appeal with a spin of a rusty penny on the marble tabletop.

"So when it's morning in America, Ron will you be there beside me?" she quipped, "Because the last time you left me in the dead of night with an empty fridge, a stack of doctor bills and a court summons for assault. Assault, Ron! You're the one who should be charged, tried and hanged for that freakish performance you call securing the homeland. The so-called payday is not worth all the drama you bring in my life. I can do better." She concluded by returning the coin to Ron's suit pocket.

"Look gentlemen," she paused, taking in a deep breath, "this just isn't working. If I can't get my needs met by either of you, I suppose that I will just have to look elsewhere."

"Have you lost your mind woman?" John was nearly out of his chair. "Remember that fool Ross, you toyed with in '92? Remember his sideshow of charts and graphs, claiming what he was going to do for you? But he never came through."

"Yeah, too bad that that giant sucking sound he bragged about was just his big ears squeezing through a turtleneck!" Ron roared.

"And what about that craziness in 2000? You are still trying to bounce back from that mess. We don't need a third wheel here. Let's face it, you just don't know where these people have been last. They aren't safe."

She sipped her tea, allowing their rants to subside before politely escorting them to the door. The sun was setting, and entertaining their desperate one-liners was becoming tedious. In fact, she was a bit embarrassed for them. What John and Ron failed to understand is that this was simply about one thing: her satisfaction. And while she had no intention of carelessly giving herself away to any Tom, Dick or Ralph that came along, faking it with her old flames would no longer do.

She knew that the key to her release had to exist somewhere. She had heard that sisters in South Africa and India had some luck. She had even heard about how some had hobbled together their own systems. They flipped the switch and produced their own natural highs. They instinctively knew that if they could create a bit of friction in the right place, at the right time, things could happen. They could ignite a fire! How very revolutionary. So she began to take matters into her own hands, and sparks flew.

Tammy Johnson is the director of the Race and Public Policy program at the Applied Research Center.
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Author:Johnson, Tammy
Publication:Colorlines Magazine
Geographic Code:1USA
Date:Dec 22, 2004
Previous Article:Playing with race: on the edge of edgy sex, racial BDSM excites some and reviles others.
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