Camila Hernandez air-kisses both my cheeks in a cloud of jasmine perfume. “Hiiiiiiiiiii!”
“Hiiiiiiiiiii!” Anxiety pitches my voice an octave above hers. I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Shoes off?”
“If you don’t mind.” She squeezes my forearm, coquettish but friendly. Camila is shorter than she looks on camera, and she’s wearing a bit too much makeup, but everything else checks out. And then some. Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline, either way the girl is a New York nine, and that’s no small feat. (I am a New York six point five, Ohio eight, and Buntley fifty-eight thousand.) She’s in a tight black dress too. I congratulate myself on sensing the right thing to wear to a group sex date.
“Great place.” Floor-to-ceiling windows, all-new amenities, enough polished concrete to park an SUV. “Holy smokes, did you know you have a view?”
Her perfectly painted brows pincer without creasing her forehead (what’s up, Botox?) before it lands that I’m kidding. She laughs, tells me I’m funny. Okay, Camila isn’t Amy Schumer. That’s cool. I’m not here for a comedy show.
“I didn’t know what kind of wine you liked, so I brought both.” I hand her the bag of red and white.
“Best of both worlds.” She winks. Excitement zips up my back.
My experience of flirting with women is (you’ll be shocked to hear) limited. My female friendships are defined by intimacy, but there are clear lines between the affectionate and the erotic. In college, sexuality as a spectrum was a buzz conversation. Discovering yourself wasn’t an option: it was mandatory. My friends spent more time discussing their sexuality than enacting it. I kissed a few girls, but it was awkward and tenuous, like trying to find your footing on a slick and unstable bridge. “I’m straight,” I concluded sadly at the end of freshman year, adding that I wished so badly that I wasn’t but secretly relieved that I was. It was just easier. But now things aren’t easy or defined or, as Elan claims, 100 percent vanilla.
Sultry R & B murmurs from unseen speakers. Matching throw pillows line up like Russian nesting dolls. The idea that Camila and Cam have had to do domestic chores like choosing a playlist and tidying up for their threesome is oddly charming.
“Hey there.” YouTube’s own Cam Velez is coming for me, and, hello, the guy is oven-roasted perfection. He looks like a personal trainer in his tight white tee and artisanal stubble. We hug as if I have zero knowledge of this custom.
“Great place,” I tell him, evidently the only thing I’ve been programmed to say. “How, um, long have you been here?”
“Few years.” Cam says. “We both work from home, when we’re not traveling.” He’s got the same vibe as his girlfriend: open and warm with zero sleaze. These guys are clearly pros, which makes me feel even more like a big bumbling baby.
Camila snaps a photo on her phone of her perfectly manicured hand holding a wineglass, before handing it to me. I’ve given myself a pass to drink tonight, but I’m feeling slightly nauseous with nerves and don’t really feel like it: another first.
We settle in the living room, me facing them. “Cheers,” Camila says. We clink our glasses. We’re all excited, smiling, but I have no idea how to transition from the meeting-new-neighbors vibe to a putting-my-boob-in-your-mouth vibe. When I fantasized about this, there was very little chitchat.
“Steph said you’re in trend forecasting?” Cam says, one arm around Camila, the other snaking down the empty couch.
“Three years.” I point to Camila’s phone. “Apple is coming out with these gorgeous metallic cork cases this summer. Sounds whack, but they’re super pretty.”
“I love metallics. Oh, you reminded me.” She angles the phone at herself. “Hey guys, Camila here. This is my final look for this evening, what do you think? I love it, and I have a feeling our lady friend does too.” She shoots me a grin. “She just arrived, and she looks smoking.” Cam sticks his head into the camera and gives a thumbs-up. Camila giggles. “Who do you think should make out with her first, me or Cam? Let us know in the comments! Peace!”
My wine clatters onto a coaster. “Are you filming me?” I glance around the room in alarm—there’s a camera there, there, and there!
“No, no.” Camila waves her hands.
“Not if you don’t want to,” Cam adds.
“I don’t,” I say.
“Sorry. I should’ve said something,” Camila says. “We share everything with our fans, including our sex life.”
Good Lord. Really should’ve done a deeper dive into their channel.
“But privacy is important,” Cam says, “and so are boundaries. Speaking of . . .” He leans forward, hands clasped between his legs. “What do you like in bed?”
Thai food. “Everything, really.” Such a lie. “Except, maybe, butt stuff. I’m kind of anal about my, ah, anal.”
“Do you prefer vaginal or clitoral orgasms?” Camila asks.
I am trying to be hip and modern, but I’m sorry, this is just so awkward. I can feel myself blushing. “Oh, I don’t have one of . . . those.”
Cam looks confused. “A . . . vagina?”
“A G-spot,” I say. “Vaginal orgasms are just a myth, right? Like honest politicians or sober Australians.”
Camila 4 Cam exchange a glance. Camila says, “Every woman has a G-spot. Maybe she doesn’t use it, but it’s there.”
“The clitoris is easier to stimulate, and is quicker to climax,” Cam says. “But if you spend a good, say, fifteen minutes working up to it, you can definitely come vaginally.” He pauses. “I’m just going to add that.” He takes out his phone, hits record, and repeats the same line, all with a customer service smile on his handsome face.
I’m out of my league. My body is a doubtful friend, unsure of the big fun plan I’ve been talking up all week. Every movement feels dumb and clumsy, like I’m controlled by an amateur puppet master. Without thinking, I reach for my wine and take way too big a sip. It goes down the wrong way and I cough, spluttering, my cheeks now burning, my eyes watering. I wave their concern off—I’m fine, I’m fine, but I’m not. I feel vaguely sick, and I know it’s because my body is begging to fake sudden intestinal illness and get the hell out of this Truman Show porno I’ve ended up in. But I make it do something harder. I make my body stay, swearing to it that this is in its best interest. Finally, regaining my voice, I say, “Let’s just stick with the old faithful: clitty clitty bang bang. It usually takes me a while,” I add. “With a new person. It’s probably a safer bet.”
“Sure,” Cam says. “Okay, our rules: we don’t maintain contact after tonight except to set up another date. So we don’t text; we don’t interact on social media. Did you want some more wine? Or something different to drink?”
“I’m fine.” I like how taken care of I feel. They’re so attentive.
Camila checks her phone and laughs. “Me. They think we should start.” Her lips curl into a clear and present invitation. Cam scoots over, making room for me between them.
The fans have spoken. They want this. And so do I.
I position myself next to Camila. Closer than a friend would sit. She reaches up and runs her fingers through my hair. Her liquid brown eyes are focused entirely on me. Her eyeliner is flawless. She says, “You’re really pretty.”
I tingle all over. “So are you.”
She shifts closer. It’s going to happen. Her lips part. “Have you ever kissed another girl before?”
“A few times.” I’m woozy from her attention. It’s pouring over me like honey.
“It’s different,” she says. Then, a giggly whisper. “I think it’s better.”
I have zero doubt about that at this moment. “Yeah?” I inch closer.
“Mm-hmm.”
This is why men are so nuts. This is what’s at stake. A girl, this pretty, this sexy, pulling you into her orbit. “Show me,” I murmur, and then her mouth is on mine and we are kissing.
The times I’ve done this, I was so drunk I barely remember it. But now I’m really here. Really feeling how soft her mouth is. How well our lips fit together. I loosen into her, every muscle turning soft as caramel. Her fingers are in my hair, mine are in hers, and I know we look sexy, and I know it feels sexy. It’s like I’m looking at us and being us at the same time. But thinking about how I look takes me out of it and I want to be in this, experiencing it fully.
Focus. Be here. You’re the star of the show.
She breaks away from me, my bottom lip between her teeth until she lets go.
“Wow,” she breathes.
“Wow.” Cam’s voice is low behind me.
“Wosh.” Is my sex-dumb attempt of wow and gosh.
Camila’s phone is in her hand like a magician’s trick. “Hey guys, Camila here. So, I just made out with our ladyfriend and she is an amazing kisser. Remember, always get consent from your partners, and keep it safe. Peace.”
I’m about to suggest we send the phones off to bed to let the grown-ups have their fun, when Cam’s hands find my shoulders and begin massaging them deeply. I groan involuntarily. Warm lips on my neck, stubble brushing my jawline. He finds my mouth, and now Cam and I are kissing, hungrily, passionately. There’s something about the switch from a soft mouth to a stubbly one that undoes me completely and it. Is. On.
I’m kissing Cam, and then I’m kissing Camila, and then Cam is kissing Camila, and I’m watching them, and then Cam is kissing my neck and Camila is kissing my mouth and I’m feeling her boobs and we’re all writhing and rubbing and letting out little moans. It’s not as smooth and porny-perfect as the time I fantasized about this; at one stage I’m sitting on Camila’s hair and then Cam and I knock teeth and both say sorry in an oddly formal way. But what’s better, what I couldn’t properly imagine, is the physicality of three people hooking up. It supersizes all sensation—two mouths instead of one, four hands instead of two, twenty fingers, a million nerve endings. I’m being kissed and stroked and licked all at once. I’m feeling a girl’s chest press against me at the same time I’m feeling the hardness of Cam’s arousal. I’m not thinking about sexuality—lesbian or straight—it’s so beyond that. It’s instinctive. It’s primal.
Cam pulls off his shirt, revealing a chest that’d give Superman body dysmorphia. I almost double-take: pillows of pecs, buckets of biceps. Dude must work out five times a day. My little black dress is still clinging to my curves. And this feels not just sexy, but also comforting. Usually things move so fast with a guy that I’m out of my clothes before the front door’s closed. Which is a bodice-rippingly hot idea, but when we start doing it three seconds later, I’m never as turned on as I am now. And I am definitely turned on: turned out might be a better description. My lady flower has opened and is in full blood-rushing-to-nerve-endings bloom.
In one easy motion, Cam swings me up in his arms and I squeal (I’m not a squealer). He carries me, legs tight around his hips, hands on his hard chest, to a neatly made king-size bed with views of the sparkling city.
Bed.
Sex.
Sex happens in bed.
I’m somewhere between “rock star” and “intruder into rock star’s mansion.” Familiar anxieties, worn as river stones, jostle into my consciousness: Am I supposed to act like a porn star or an indie movie star? If I’m taking too long, should I just go ahead and fake it?
Breathe, Lace. Stay with the pussy. Stay with what feels good.
Cam drops me onto the bed. Camila is behind us, sipping red wine. Her hair is mussed and sultry. Her makeup is, disconcertingly, still perfect. I almost want more from Camila: a crack in her pristine armor, an indication she’s nervous or excited or anything other than business-as-usual. But she’s unruffled and completely at ease, as if she’s done this one hundred times before. Maybe she has.
In the reflection of the glass, I watch her slowly, expertly, unzip my dress as Cam watches. He steps out of his jeans, revealing black briefs that are the keeper of either a French baguette or an enormous penis. I’ve never been with someone that big: What if my vagine is too tight? I’m in my sexiest underwear: black silk bra, panties, garters, and sheer stockings. Camila’s in her underwear too, a cream bra and panties. Her breasts are a few cup sizes bigger than mine and her stomach softer; rounder. It’s so sexy. (Why do I hate my own belly so much?) The idea of all three of us together is ludicrously erotic.
“You’re so hot,” Cam’s saying, his gaze switching between Camila and me. “You’re both goddesses.”
We are all on the bed together, and now I want it: I want them to touch me, to feel me, to put themselves inside me. Someone’s fingertips finally press between my legs, hard and deliberate. A shock of energy cracks through me. I gasp. “Fuck.” Which is exactly what I want to do.
Cam’s behind me. I’m half sitting, half lying between his legs, my head against his chest. His erection pushes into the small of my back. I slide against it until I hear him let out a low groan. Camila snaps off my garter and hooks her fingers around my underwear. The lace scrapes gently against my legs as she pulls them down and away. “Dios mía,” she breathes. “You have a beautiful pussy.”
Cam reaches under my bra and starts massaging my breasts. I’m not in control of the sounds I’m making: whimpers, groans.
“Can I taste it?” Camila asks, scooting between my thighs on her stomach. Her ass rises behind her like James’s giant peach.
“Fuck yes.” Cam pinches both nipples and I’m about to come right now. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation, tensing and untensing. Her warm, wet tongue touches my clit and I cry out. I’ve never been this turned on; I didn’t even realize oral could be like this. Her tongue slides again and again against me. Each time, fast hot waves of pleasure explode down my legs, up my back. Cam squeezes both breasts very hard, which ordinarily would hurt but now just intensifies everything that I’m feeling. He’s muttering something in Spanish, humping my back. I’m clutching the sheets because I’m close, I’m so, so close. I look down and see Camila’s bobbing head—a girl, licking me—and it’s this visual, and Cam’s strong hands, and her hot mouth that pushes me over the edge. My pleasure boils over. My body twists like a wild thing; Cam has to hold me down as I start to come in a strangled series of “yes, yes, fuck, yes” that get more and more potent as my orgasm intensifies, building on itself, everything spasming, pleasure and pain pushing me to my limit of what feels good. My mouth is dry, my skin is on fire, and for a few long-short moments I am no longer a body but something else entirely: pure sensation, fire and earth, a feeling, a concept.
Wosh.
I am sex.
I am a sex god.
I am an immortal sex god who—
“Hey guys, Camila here.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Wow.” She’s kneeling on the end of the bed, wiping her mouth, addressing her phone. “I just gave an amazing amount of pleasure to someone and it got me thinking: giving is just as important as receiving. It’s seriously so rewarding.” She flips her hair and smiles. “We’re just getting started, so I’ll check back later. Peace.”
I pull myself onto my elbows, still vibrating all over. “What do you say we—”
“Hey guys, Cam here.”
I jerk around.
He’s on his back, speaking into a phone I didn’t even see him bring in. “Fellas, number one rule of any threesome: She. Comes. First. I know as a dude it’s super tempting to want to get in there straightaway and—”
I clear my throat. “Guys?”
“Get yours,” he continues. “But trust me, it’s best practices. Let us know thoughts in the comments, peace.”
They upload together. Their lips curl with satisfied smiles.
Camila crawls toward me as Cam flips around. I raise both hands. “Hold up. That was incredible but, c’mon.” I give them a look. “Enough with the videos.”
Camila starts, “You’re not in them—”
“I can handle a lot of nonsense, but it’s just way too millennial for me,” I say. “It’s me or the phones.”
They exchange a very worried glance. Cam rubs his chin. “It’s just . . . our fans expect it from us.”
“Our fans are very important,” Camila says. “They’re a part of us.”
Ho-ly shit. My jaw drops. “You’re picking the phones.”
“Sex is an authentic part of our channel,” Camila says.
“And our authenticity is really important to our community,” Cam says, before pausing. “That’d be a pretty cool tweet.”
This is why they’re so unfazed by group sex. It’s not a personal experience for them. It’s a performance, conducted by a couple as clean and well lit as the sales floor of an Apple store. What I thought was lack of sleaze and easy confidence is actually just carefully observed brand guidelines.
The sound of their simultaneous orgasm is truly magnificent, or what I hear of it, as I get dressed in the bathroom. I slip out the front door to the sound of dual updates.
The only star of the show here is Camila 4 Cam.
* * * *
The night air is sharp: a shot of espresso after too many cocktails. I swagger, ankles swinging effortlessly into a straight line. Drunk girls get out of my way.
My body is glowing and giddy. I feel so happy that I made a difficult choice—to stay, to go through with it, even when I was afraid—and it was the right choice. I hail a taxi like a New Yorker, like I’m summoning my steed.
In the back seat, I type a text.
Baby’s first threesome. Curious?
Naturally, I send it to Mr. Behzadi.