I had my first threesome at 16, during an oppressively humid New York City summer. The heat was the kind that keeps you in a delirious haze and makes bad decisions feel inevitable, and on that day, somehow, I ended up at an apartment belonging to the parents of my crush. Although I’d known him for less than 24 hours, I was sure we’d be together forever.
He was 20 years old, home for the summer from his Ivy League school. I was living in Seattle and had flown out to New York to visit an old friend from camp—one of those effortlessly cool city girls who’d grown up on the Upper East Side and knew every bouncer by name. It was the early 2010s, and Gossip Girl was practically a religion. She was Serena van der Woodsen, and I was Dan’s random cousin.
The apartment was a palatial duplex with art on every wall. In the living room, we sat on two cream-colored sofas I would later learn were Jean Royère. Above us, a Cubist painting loomed. “That’s a Georges Braque,” my crush said, casually. I nodded, pretending to know who or what he was talking about. “Oh yeah, Brock,” I said. “I love him.”
After some small talk, he led us toward the back of the apartment and into his bedroom—a dimly lit space with navy blue walls, crisp white sheets, and a lacrosse stick leaned against the bed. The air was thick with cheap weed and expensive cologne. He handed my friend a tepid bottle of Grey Goose, which we all took turns swigging from. My friend leaned in to kiss me as the guy exhaled, telling us how hot we were. Suddenly, all three of us were tangled up together, shirts off, his hands unhooking our push-up bras in one smooth motion.
Then, without warning, my friend shoved me aside. I tumbled off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud. When I lifted my head above the mattress like a meerkat, my dignity bruised, I saw to my horror that she was fully straddling him. Somehow, I’d gone from being in a threesome to being an involuntary spectator.
I laid back down and, in classic liberal arts student fashion, began asking myself existential questions: How did I get here? Why am I here? What is the meaning of this? I waited to see if I’d be invited back in. I wasn’t.
Here’s the thing: Fantasies rarely hold up when exposed to reality. Life isn’t a movie—or if it is, you’re not always the main character. Sometimes, you’re not even the best friend, pining for the lead. You’re barely in the frame, listed in the credits as Girl #2.
After that night, I made a promise to myself: The next time I had a threesome, I’d do it differently. I’d be the one pushing someone off the bed—not the one landing on the floor.
Years later, I was at Monkey Bar with a friend, tipsy on Champagne and lobster pasta, when she leaned across the table and said she wanted to try a threesome. We had never even hooked up.
“Yes,” I thought, assessing her small frame. I could take her if push came to shove.
After scrolling through our phones, we landed on a male model I’d casually hooked up with before. He was hot, confident, and clearly up for anything. We sent him a selfie with the text: Want to meet us later? He replied instantly: When and where?
Twenty minutes later, we were in my apartment, half-naked and willing to be his next great conquest. But when the clothes came off, he didn’t conquer: He saw, and then he came. The whole thing lasted less than a minute.
The next time was in Silver Lake. A sexy guy from Argentina with dried paint on his jeans slid up behind me at a bar, ordered me a drink, and traced a finger down my spine. Across the room, I caught a woman watching us. A few minutes later, she walked over and kissed him. I braced for a confrontation—a drink in the face, maybe. But instead, she leaned in and said, “We want to take you home.”
That was the beginning of an arrangement that actually worked. I’d join them whenever I was in town—no pressure, no drama, just great sex and a little spectacle. Being the third meant I got all the perks—novelty, attention, a front-row seat—without the emotional baggage. And when it was over, I’d walk away. No jealousy, no resentment, no strings. Once you’re out of bed, you leave them to figure out the rest.
That’s the fantasy, anyway.
The truth is, we all caught feelings—messily, unevenly, at different times. Somehow, we remained friends. They’re still together, which makes them something of an anomaly. But in many ways, they beat the odds. Studies suggest that threesomes can strain relationships, often due to jealousy.
As I near 30, I think I’m done with threesomes—at least for now. Maybe one day, when I’m married with children and we’re looking to shake off the suburban stupor, I’ll go back—but if I do, it’ll be with both eyes wide open.
Because threesomes are rarely just about sex. They’re about communication. Boundaries. Intentions. Desires. That’s the framework Dr. Zhana Vrangalova, a professor of human sexuality at NYU, uses—BIDs, she calls them. “You have to know exactly what you’re signing up for,” she tells me.
It’s not about who’s in the room; it’s about making sure everyone’s emotional needs are acknowledged and addressed before the clothes come off. “Choosing the person carefully is so important,” Dr. Vrangalova says. “Not all threesome partners are created equal. Avoid exes. Avoid people with unresolved feelings. Avoid chaos, if you can.”
One of the biggest mistakes couples make is using a threesome as a solution to an existing problem. “It won’t fix your issues,” Dr. Vrangalova says. “In fact, it’s likely to magnify them.”
In my experience, threesomes can be thrilling. But the aftermath—the quiet emotional fallout—can be harder to manage. What feels empowering in the moment can turn into confusion, jealousy, or regret when the high wears off.
That’s why, obvious as it may sound, communication really is everything: before, during, and especially after. As Dr. Vrangalova puts it, “You need to have a check-in conversation, ideally the same day or the next. If there are any negative feelings—jealousy, insecurity—they need to be acknowledged and worked through.”
Threesomes should come from a place of curiosity, not obligation. Ask yourself: Why do I want this? Am I ready? Is my partner? Be honest. Be intentional.
The lesson I’ve learned—the hard way—is that your sexual story is yours to write. You can explore. You can experiment. But the only way to make it meaningful is to stay emotionally attuned to yourself and others. Sex is more than performance; it’s also presence.
So, for now, threesomes live only in my imagination: They’re scenarios I fantasize about during sex, but no longer feel compelled to reenact. Maybe that’s growth. Or maybe I’ve just learned that what I want isn’t a third body, but a deeper connection.
Because being desired is great. But being chosen—every time, without question—that’s something else entirely.