I was at the second of three Thanksgiving parties last night with Chriso and Hornboy, discussing that I was not, in fact, able to give thanks this year for having a threesome of any kind, unless you count the imaginary kind. Chriso, so adorable you could just put him in your pocket and take him anywhere, loudly proclaimed to Hornboy and I, "Oh my god, if I wasn’t gay and had any interest in pussy at all I’d TOTALLY have sex with you two." At which moment, a man fishing around the kitchen table for, perhaps, an innocent olive or lemon twist, jerked his head around to stare at whoever the hell was propositioning the gay man in the kitchen. And maybe to see if Chriso was a lunatic, though Chriso did not notice and continued, moving on to a discussion of men with tiny balls vs. men with big balls. "Baby balls" are definitely out this year. It was a robust holiday evening.
So no, my threesome didn’t happen, not at the superhero party, nor the next evening when Hornboy and I went hot tubbing with wine and candles and Minx, whose idea it was, declined to call. The superhero party was perhaps the anticlimactic buzzkill of the whole setup — while the last party from this host was fantastic, the open to the public, no playspace party turned into a rager where few were in costume, and there was much "super puke" in the bathrooms. I was relieved to spend time with a couple that I adore, who both work for San Francisco Sex Information. While I was with the fabulously costumed Hornboy as Harvey Birdman, they won my personal prize for high-concept superhero scenario — he was the nefarious Dr. Cyclops, and she was a tough-girl heroine who had to break into his lab to steal a secret formula. 
Of course, she would get caught and have to be tortured for hours. Sadly, the party setup had their hours’ worth of role-play fun shelved for later, and their nearly 75-lb. bag of S/M gear and sex toys unceremoniously dumped in coat check. As Cyclops put it, "Absent a place to tie up and spank the crap out of cute girls, what’s the point of leaving the house?" We drank, complained and made up superhero identities for everyone we saw not in superhero garb, which kept us pretty busy. By the way, a shiny dress and stripper shoes is not a superhero costume, and clowns are definitely not superheroes. Clowns are just creepy and remind me of child murderers.
I am no longer trying to have a threesome. Too much administrative work, and it feels like I’m applying for a holiday job at Crate and Barrel, except it’s a Crate and Barrel where you hope no one has herpes and no one accidentally swallows any piercings by accident. Nope, I quit trying, officially, as of 8pm tonight I no longer "work" to have sexual adventures, I’m packing up my dildos, turning in my keys, handing in my notice, cleaning out the contents of my snatch, and waiting for the security guard to escort me out of the building. And you know, going to these sex parties, strip clubs, fetish events, all lose their luster when you go to them on a date and find out they’re boring compared to the time you could spend one-on-one-on-one — less guilty pleasure and more of an exercise in superior parking spot seeking abilities and parallel parking skills. I mean, I’m getting pretty good at finding secret parking spots all over town to go to these damn sex parties, but sex events don’t break the ice very well, and I’m not exactly the most experienced person when it comes to all the vagaries of threesomes and dating. I think getting drunk and falling into bed together would be much easier. 
See, I am filled with hope. I am looking at the bright side. I know that next week, at my book release party, or at the very exciting Good Vibes Holiday Ball, my fantasy will become reality. Within minutes of arrival the Ball, I will be handed a glamorous cocktail, whisked off to a quiet corner with Hornboy, Stephen Colbert and Eliza Dushku, where we will sit and sip, and Stephen Colbert will eat bananas while Hornboy feeds Eliza cherries and each of them take turns painting warmed Cabaret chocolate (which will actually be there) onto my bare shoulders and nibbling it off. Eliza is the most daring of our little foursome, dipping my fingers in chocolate and sucking it off with her hot little mouth, while I talk dirty to Colbert and he puts my other hand on his crotch, and then Hornboy lays me over his lap for a simultaneous spanking, my face pushed in Eliza’s lap and hands in Colbert’s. Oh, the many combinations and sexual positions we create — we watch the sun come up from my bed, sticky with chocolate, lube, smashed inflatable animals and thousands of dollars’ worth of sex toys ruined from heat and friction.
(photo of my pal Carol Queen and me from last year’s Ball)
But instead I am home on a Friday night, nursing a hangover and contemplating a trip to Superstar video, the big gay porn store in the Castro. They have some really hot bi porn, and I get some amusing stares from the gay patrons when I go in there. But at least I don’t get hassled perusing porn by guys looking for a hookup; the guys there are checking out my jacket and shoes — not my tits.
