March 1997
s m u g
bumping uglies
by Todd Levin


I distinctly remember the first time I saw a multiple sex partner scene in a pornographic film. I was 7 years old and there were three people on this huge waterbed, coiled around each other, grunting like animals in the throes of ecstasy. I didn't think this scenario was even possible; naturally, I was transfixed. I didn't snap out of it until I heard this voice calling my name - it was my dad. I was completely embarrassed, utterly humiliated. I'll never forget what he said: "Todd, you gotta move about five feet to the left. You're blocking the shot and now we're going to have to re-light the set." But that was all part of growing up, I suppose. (happy footnote to the story: my dad wound up grossing $2 million in domestic video sales and $5 million international on that film)

The second time I saw a multiple sex partner scene in a pornographic film, I was around 16 years old and in a much better position to understand what was happening on the screen. A friend of mine gave me a copy of an adult film called The Other Side of Julie (my sister's name, coincidentally), which he had pirated from his own swinging single father. In one scene, two women were really going at it, experimenting with porno-style lesbian sex. All of a sudden, a man walks in - the husband of one of the two sexually curious women who were groping each other on a Murphy bed in the front room. The man must have come home from work early. He was carrying a briefcase (but was wearing no underwear it turns out - strange). And what struck me as unusual was how he handled the awkwardness of catching his wife "exchanging recipes" with the woman next door. Rather than create an outburst, or reach for his crucifix, he merely dropped his briefcase, threw both fists in the air and exclaimed, "Yeah!" Then he took off his tennis shoes (?), dropped his beltless polyfiber slacks, and threw himself in the mix to offer up a few recipes of his own. I remember thinking to myself, as I was wiping down the TV screen, entertainment center, the wall behind the entertainment center, and a Hummel statuette of a chubby boy with a fishing pole with a handful of Kleenex, "is it this easy?"

It's not.

A recent study was published in which 14 million men, ages 15-78, were all asked whether they would rather have sex with the woman of their dreams or the woman of their dreams and her trashy lesbian friend with an ass tattoo. Shockingly, 100% of the 14 million surveyed chose the latter. Men simply cannot get over the fantasy of multiple female sex partners. I can tell you for certain that I was not included in this survey because I guarantee my answer would have thrown the curve way off. One at a time is my policy, and sometimes even fewer than that.

Alternately, I have a similar but decidedly different fantasy which would involve two woman having sex on a large bed while I sat on a stool next to the bed and changed the music every now and again. In addition, my fantasy allows that should one these women suggest that I join them in their jointless dance, I would just wave my hand dismissively and say, "I really don't feel like it. I'm just going to sit here and look for a classic rock radio station."

I can already feel the hailstorm of boos and hisses coming from all of my male counterparts on the planet. Shouts of "traitor" and "Judas," beating at my heels as I flee from my own remarks. But it's true. Every word of it. Sure, I would love to be part of a threesome, with me being in the middle like Monie. However, my fantasy as such is constantly bullied by the reality of this type of affair. I'll show you:


I arrive home from a long day of felling Redwoods. I am exhausted, yet typically randy. As I let myself into my underground high-security, military bunker-style apartment and peek around the foyer, I hear the excited giggles of my flawlessly bio-engineered girlfriend. I find this odd, since she is usually working out with her personal trainer at this time. That is when I hear another woman's voice. I recognize the voice as my girlfriend's best friend, Julie Delpy. To my shock and amazement, they are both completely nude, oiled and coiled around each other like a couple of asps coiled around a dagger on a Hell's Angels bicep tattoo. And, on top of that, they have taken the trouble of preparing my favorite meal, chocolate-covered sloppy joes, which bubbles in a crockpot just beyond the Daytona 500 stock car-shaped bed on which my girlfriend and her best friend are mutually engorged.

I hesitate for about one second, taking in the glory of the scene, and then drop my briefcase (which I am inexplicably carrying since all I do all day is fell Redwoods), raise my hands in the air, shout, "Yeah!", and hop in for fourteen hours of uninterrupted sex, in which I manage to satisfy both women so severely that four hours into our tryst they decide to abandon Christ and later form a new religion with my sexual prowess and overall gentle spirit as their savior. Eventually they recruit several thousand other female members - predominately models, exotic dancers, European au pairs, and former heavy metal video actresses, who all make the pilgrimage to our holy shrine for couplings, triplings and other "plings" too greasy to mention. And on top of all that, the sloppy joes are perfect and I don't spill a single drop on my tennis shoes.


After much deliberation and several 7 and 7s, I am able to persuade my sort of pasty but nonetheless attractive and intelligent girlfriend that we should invite her trashy friend, Barbara, into bed with us. At first my girlfriend complains but is eventually convinced when she is told that this experience will save our sex life, which has been reduced as of late, to her inability to have an orgasm without me speaking in a German accent during sex.

We all stumble into a cab back to my studio apartment, and awkwardly remove our own clothes. I kiss Barbara's breast and my girlfriend gets mad because she thinks she should get touched first to establish some ground rules. We talk about it for a while, I apologize, touch her breast, and eventually the three of us are naked and lying side-to-side in bed, completely rigid. We try some stuff, but most of it feels like it was lifted out of a Cinemax After Dark softcore porno. By now I have lost my erection, Barbara has to pee really bad, and we are all thinking that we will never speak of this event again in our lives. In a desperate attempt to move this great boulder of limp, stressed-out sexuality we have created, I begin to rub my girlfriends thighs clumsily and say, very softly, "what's the matter mein frauen?" She begins to cry, sobbing wetly (the first bit of moisture that evening), and we all put our clothes back on. Barbara decides to sleep out on the couch, my girlfriend washes up with some tea tree oil soap, and I scan the cupboards for a can of Manwich mix.

I don't have performance anxiety, actually (as far as you know). My anxiety is that this is such a stock fantasy that my own intelligence makes it impossible to coordinate it without a lot of reasoning and liberal-arts coercion. The act has no other choice but to be plagued by the kind of self-consciousness exhibited when you are trying to smoke pot for the first time and pretending it's the hundredth time. It shows. I wish I were a dumber brute and could move purely instinctively, rutting, eating, defecating, and writing petrarchan sonnets only when it struck my momentary fancy. But I have been soiled by a lifetime of liberal schooling and cannot complete any act of any kind without a mission statement and letter of intent.

Don't be mad at me. I have tried to casually wrangle threesomes in the past and have almost found myself in the middle of two separate foursomes (that's where the performance anxiety kicks in - we all have nightmares imagining our girlfriends being with other guys who are more impressive in bed or far better endowed but to have that pointed out live, through illustration and example, is just a but too much). But ultimately I have balked. I would like to think I could be that guy, raising my fists, and shouting, "Yeah!", but as I get older the reality behind that fantasy becomes slightly less shiny and slightly more yuppified - devolving into Pictionary night with Fran and Steve mixed with some twelve year old scotch and raw oysters turning into Fran and Steve and Ted and Alice.

Recently, I asked my dad about all of this. He was on the set of Hairy Maguire, his first solo stroke porno and, in his words, "a huge challenge." My dad sat me down on the Motel 6 bed that was being used as the centerpiece of the film (he let me put down some plastic wrap before I seated myself, which was very understanding of him), and said these words to me: "Todd, when it comes down to being involved in a multiple sex partner affair, there is one very important thing to remember in your approach. You dont have to act; sometimes you can just watch. And if that doesn't work, try the Icicle Lick Trick." My dad is a very wise, and very disgusting man.

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