The erotics of the Third Thing—On being attracted to the intimacy between couples

Threesomes are Americans’ most common sexual fantasy, according to a comprehensive study conducted by Dr. Justin Lehmiller, but what exactly are we craving when we think about sex with multiple people at once? The appeal of a tangle of limbs, and having sex with people of various genders, might seem like reasonable enough explanations when it comes to breaking the two-person script. But, to me, these are simplifications of what we really crave from a threesome, foursome, or moresome. I have found that threesomes are less about a gluttonous feast of anatomy, or the thrill of breaking monogamous routine, and more about the Third Thing: an attraction to the eros between a couple and the high of being part of it. 

Like many people, when I was younger, I pictured myself ending up with a great love. I was never too keen on the idea of marriage, and knew I was queer at a young age, but I imagined a dedicated and intense romance at the center of my life. A so-called “late bloomer,” long term coupledom didn’t come in high school or college, and the relationships I had with people I dated never graduated to much regularity or commitment. I never suspected the ways this desire for deep love would turn into a sexual fantasy, and then, one night when I was 24, I discovered the beauty of three. 

I had invited two dear friends over for dinner at an apartment where I was housesitting—I fried halloumi cheese and we drank a bottle of red wine with constellations on it. We had known each other for a couple years at that point, and theirs was the relationship I most admired and aspired toward in my protracted singledom: attentive, open-hearted, extraordinarily communicative, grounded and trusting, independent and adventurous. Their love exuded a purity and goodness, and I held them as the ideal template in my own pursuit of romantic partnership. It was 2014, and the thought had not crossed my mind that they were anything but monogamous.

Our friendship was made up of long dinners and hours of conversation after the plates were cleared, book recommendations, poems shared early into the morning. This time, in our post-prandial state, they invited me to bed (hilarious, since I was housesitting and it was not their bed or mine). I had immense respect for their love, which operated on a higher plane. I felt a thrill at their question, a vibratory quality in my body. I was flattered, but more importantly, the buzz in my chest made me realize how hot I found their romance. The devotion I had long sought in my own romantic life was right there in front of me, making the air between us viscous. That night, I loved the disorientation of not knowing whose hand or mouth was whose, the dissolving of distinct borders around bodies. The perimeter that enclosed them as a couple dissolved, too. I was electrified by their connection, and seduced by the intimacy of witnessing their dynamic. There was a sanctity to how they folded me in and deemed me worthy of sharing what they shared. 

True friendship with benefits

I had always imagined threesomes were one-offs, something to fall into for one “racy” night, but what unfolded between me and these two friends was surprising. Over the last decade, our involvement has seen many iterations, and shape-shifted as my own relationships changed. We’ve never lived in the same city, but I have watched these friends from a chair in the corner of their bedroom, had foursomes with them when I was partnered, declined their invitations because I was monogamous or heartbroken or not in the mood, had sex with just one of them when they came to New York for work, traveled together in Europe, and introduced them to friends who wanted to learn more about non-monogamy. Once, my (now) ex and I even rendezvoused with them on their honeymoon to christen their new marriage with a little something less traditional. They each have had romances, flings, and other partners over the years, long-distance and local. Now, I am in a monogamous lesbian relationship on the other side of the country from them, and our friendship is centered. In each evolution of how we oriented toward each other, what impressed me most was that any answer, any version of me, was welcome. They invited not just who I was, but how I was sexually. It was a bond with complete care and no expectation. 

In the years since, having threesomes has been about more than just hot sex that breaks normative scripts. It’s been a safe way to dip my toes back into intimacy when I'm too heartbroken to date, an opportunity to embody my bisexuality, and a sacred invitation to witness what is often most private between a couple. These two people have taught me, someone who is disinclined to have casual sex, what true friendship with benefits might mean. I have no interest in destabilizing their bond—I am not trying to steal one of them away. I am not a threat to their love; if anything, it feels like an act of reverence to participate in it. 

How often do we get to see inside others’ relationships and actually understand the texture of intimate partnership? Sure, I can watch how a pair sweetly negotiates sharing different dishes at a restaurant, or how they bicker over cleaning the cat litter. I might be told intimate details about my best friend’s sex life over martinis. But we are rarely privy to what eros looks like between others in the bedroom. 

Presence, not performance

Of course, the Third Thing doesn’t always feel authentic or arousing. Once, while trying to recover from heartbreak in the midst of the pandemic, I decided casual sex with couples would be my safest bet to find connection when I was not emotionally available for more serious dating. I found a couple who were both attractive: she was in the literary world and he had the rugged look of a biker. We met at a wine bar, and as I sat opposite them, the transparency and thoughtful communication she and I had shared before meeting up didn’t come through. He seemed distant, thumbing through his phone, answering a call, perhaps anticipating when we’d get to his fantasy, rather than revealing the allure of what existed between them. I did not want to be a novelty act or source of entertainment. I wanted to see their romance, the magnetism between them, the idiosyncrasies of their love. 

Later, when we went back to his apartment, I watched her give him a blow job and moan in a high-pitched voice, and it all felt too performative. It felt like they were imagining we were in a porn video, rather than being three people who had just eaten Mediterranean food and were sweaty from walking all the way home on a hot summer night. When they pulled me in to be part of it, I felt distracted, thinking about my own bed awaiting me across the park. It wasn’t just about not being turned on physiologically, I wasn’t turned on by the Third Thing. This triangulation felt sleazy, not sacred. I was a prop, not a presence that catalyzed or alchemized anything new within their love. 

Rewriting the group script

Our cultural discourse on attraction is largely limited to asking, “What’s your type?” implying that qualities like body type, hair color, personality traits, career (or earning power) are what we are magnetized to. I have often been dissatisfied by the elusive term “chemistry” and in many ways, it was having threesomes that revealed new layers of meaning in this term to me, something closer to Audre Lorde’s Uses of the Erotic and the way currents of power are at work. I was attracted to this second pair on the surface, but the Third Thing between them did nothing for me. Every day, I am amidst many currents of feeling, in the soup of erotic charge. What if we were to see sex as a potential way to engage with those energies, not just physical attributes? The language of sex with more than one person leaves much to be desired: unicorns and guest stars don’t suggest anything close to the profundity of what I’ve experienced in bed with other couples. I am something closer to being a witness, offering testimony, observing not just with my eyes but with my hands, my skin, my whole body.

Our potential for connection is unending, and the layers of intimacy look different for everyone. To discover more about your desires, and to meet people who understand you as you are, find what’s waiting for you on Feeld.