I’m on my way to my first threesome. I’m taking the Q to Midtown because there’s a bar on 52nd Street that this couple likes.

It was weird having to dress for both the female and male gaze. My belt is a little black string tied in a coquettish bow, but my hair is pigtailed because, in my twosome-only experience thus far, guys like handlebars. My lips are red but my perfume is Daisy by Marc Jacobs. My purse is cute black pleather, but my shoes are Converse. I have AirPods in and an aloof far-off gaze to match, but I’m reading a book too. It may or may not be Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.

I don’t want to attribute any further reasoning as to why I’m doing this other than that I’m bisexual and each of them thinks I’m different denominations of attractive (the guy thinks I’m cute and the girl thinks I’m pretty, but neither of them have said I’m hot yet). They seemed normal enough in their shared Tinder profile, so as long as this is all consensual, I don’t have much to object to.

The only thing giving me pause is that I was going to run a race in the morning. It’s in Central Park at seven. I forgot I had signed up for it until a few days ago, but the seventh-grader in me would be disappointed in myself for skipping any running event. What would my coach say? My parents?

But I’ve also never fucked two people at once and have run in more races than I can count. Thus my life experience ratio falls in Genevieve and Mark’s favor.

I get off the train near Carnegie Hall and meander my way toward the bar. Charli XCX’s brat album is pulsating through my earbuds to psyche myself up.

I’m usually good at getting into character for these sorta things. Funny, easygoing, reservedly intelligent in a way that placates the guy’s ego but not enough to pique his interest for anything long-term. But when I walk into this Hell’s Kitchen pub and lock eyes with a girl — a mirror — the persona melts away like cheese off a greasy slice of pizza. Her boyfriend is ordering us drinks at the bar so I hug her and sit down, circumspect, deciding what person I will be.

At first, it’s a bit like we’re high school friends getting together after years apart. There’s a vague sense of connection as we’re catching up on our careers, hobbies, interests these days. But after our first drink, we loosen and realize we all get along surprisingly well. Genevieve is blonde and thin, has a culinary sort of job. Mark is calm but kind and statured, a software engineer. They’re a charismatic couple and they seem to find me interesting. They probably expected more of a vapid party girl based on my profile — my pictures curated to elucidate the persona I embody for these encounters — and are surprised at my identity and stories and the fact that I’m interested in them as people, too.

We finish drink one. Mark regards both of us — his girlfriend and whatever you’d call me at this transitory stage — and offers to get us another round. Genevieve emphatically requests another vodka soda. I learned quickly that thirds do best following the couple’s lead, so I smile and ask for the same.

We’re even more convivial now, laughing about stories and where outside the City they’d want to start a family. I hope I don’t show it, the few times I’m reminded that this is not three people meeting, but two people that are already in love that are meeting and planning to fuck the stranger they selected on the Internet. There’s not even a sexual undertone to our conversation, though, and that’s perhaps why I forget this fact. It’s genuinely nice to have a conversation with them. And maybe it’s because I’m making a conscious effort to be a good third and talk to both of them equally, upholding the same level of lash-batting eye contact with each of them, but it does feel like three’s company. We could even all just leave here as… friends, if we wanted the night to end that way.

So when we’ve all finished our second round, I watch two pairs of hands toy with the little red plastic straws in their glasses and squeeze unused limes over unmelted ice cubes, wondering if they’re ready for a third.

I play dumb, flash a bubbly smile. “Should we get more to drink?”

They have a telepathic conversation in the span of an eye blink, an ability couples develop around the Year Two mark. Genevieve smiles at her boyfriend before she turns to me, playful, not even lascivious. It makes me think I’m the first girl they’ve done this with. “We’ve got a bottle of sparkling at our place, if you want to come over.”

Considering most of my coming-of-age was spent dating my ex, I’ve had to work double-time to catch up to the experiences other people my age have had, so I’ve trained myself to never hesitate when I’m offered alcohol or a good time. I swear people can smell fear before you even realize you’re scared, so I don’t give them the chance to. I’ve been told by my therapist that this is some sort of impulse control issue. But, “I love sparkling. Let’s go.”

By this point, it’s at least eleven. In the back of my mind I am calculating, despite the smile plastered on my face, if I could fall asleep in the next ten minutes and still get the requisite eight hours before tomorrow’s race. I swat the thought to the back of my mind like a nuisance fly. I have also trained myself to compartmentalize my thoughts in order to prioritize the present.

It’s a few blocks of desultory conversation and laughing. We get to their apartment and there’s a doorman — a wealth indicator I was not expecting to have to wave to — who eyes the three of us as we walk in. I wonder if he knows this couple. I wonder if he can tell what my role is here.

The lobby worker foreshadowed what I had not seen coming. Genevieve and Mark’s apartment is giant, a 1970s art deco socialite vibe, a space that a young Eve Babitz would’ve taken pride to snort cocaine in. Genevieve’s dad’s art is displayed proudly on the walls. There’s a granite kitchen island, a glass coffee table, an L-shaped white leather couch, bookshelves with a literate array of genres, a glass bar cart. I can see their maybe-California king bed in their bedroom and I wonder if they left their door open on purpose, inviting. Next to the marbled bathroom (with a bidet) is an office that’s just as spacious as their bedroom. I gravitate toward their impressive bookshelf while Genevieve pads to the kitchen to fetch wine. Mark queues up music on his phone, asks me what I listen to. Over my shoulder I say that I’m open to anything, really. I let the quirks of my personality fade, blur, so I can mold into whatever they want me to be tonight.

Genevieve is cute about it. She finds a card game that asks raunchy questions. There’s a designated judge that grants the winner — whoever answers the question the “best” — free reign to decide which of the non-winners will remove an article of clothing.

We sit in a triangle, crisscross applesauce, on their fancy white rug. The game is silly, some questions are laughably predictable, and others catch me off guard. Mark picks a card and entreats us with a provocative grin, “Who, or what, gave you your best orgasm ever?”

They turn to me first, poorly hiding their voracity. Couples crave hearing the sexcapades of single people. But I try not to blush because I know the answer is my ex-boyfriend, a motorcyclist from Walla Walla, and half of the reason I’m on these sexcapades lately is to distract myself from thinking about how I’m still in love with him. So I laugh it off and say that it was a cowboy I met on my travels, just some one-night stand that knew what he was doing.

Their eyes are hungry for more detail, but I turn to Genevieve, who’s too nice to prod. She giggles when she admits that it was, in fact, one of the first times Mark and her had sex. Mark looks at her like he is reliving the same memory she’s breathily recalling of their basement couch tryst back home in Connecticut. They look like they are passionate about one another.

Abruptly, Mark hands me the card, declaring me the winner of the round. I know Gen had the objectively better answer (with the bonus element of flattery), but I think he wanted me to want their clothes off. I ignore the image of Walla Walla Cowboy’s abs that pops into my head and request Mark’s shirt off. He obliges, enthusiastically.

A few more rounds go by and Genevieve finds a card that asks, “Are there fundamental differences between us, and will they ever get resolved?”

I bite my lip. Gen is smiling and Mark is too, but I can see their lips falter, their eyes momentarily lose their edge as each of them mentally recount the inevitable differences between them.

Mark stalls. His girlfriend’s tits are out, and now he’s being forced to think about non-tit-related things. “Yeah,” he answers tentatively, “There are, probably.”

She tucks a lock of feathery blonde behind her ear, further distracting her partner. “Are they… reconcilable?”

Mark decides, “Yeah, reconcilable. I think, sure.”

Genevieve nods, paltry smile. She gives him the card because my answer to the question got thrown out for lack of standing. He gives her his prize though, because he loves her or whatever. She smiles and asks for my bra to come off.

Don’t hesitate. I lower my eyelids, grant their wish. They both don’t know what to say for a moment. I wonder if I’m the first girl either of them has seen naked in years. I’d bet that’s the case, based on the museum-goer-glazed eyes I get. We move on quickly because all that’s left to get off is everyone’s underwear.

It’s Mark’s turn and the question is about our sexuality. Genevieve chews on her fingernail, grinning slyly, when she says she doesn’t like labels. I shrug and say that I’m bi and think sex is fun.

I win the card with a wide grin from Mark. Not long after, everyone’s commando. We inevitably move to their monstrous bedroom. Cue the PG-13 rom-com camera pan-away. We hear Genevieve, Mark, and Eva moaning in harmony as the image fades, then pan back (slowly, as these movies do) to all of them in a comfy, dopamine-induced heap on their bed. We chat, we giggle, we’re all so tired.

They make a little quip about how proud they are for staying up past their usual 10 PM bedtime. Whether it’s a hint or not, I take it. I pull my legs out from under Genevieve’s torso and slink out of Mark’s arms. I start to tug my clothes back on as one goes to pee and the other goes to find a robe.

I’d left most of my clothes in the living room, per my game losses, so I retreat to get dressed. I assume they exchange some kisses when I leave the room, but by the time they saunter into the den, I’m fully clothed.

“Let us get you an Uber, Eva,” Mark urges. He pulls out his phone and hands it to me with the Uber app open, a satisfied grin lingering on his angular face. I try to insist on taking the train back, but I clock the time on their TV — 3:39 — and know I have no other choice. I plug in my address and spare them the extra expense by getting an Uber Pool. It’s just me, after all.

As I collect my purse, they stand beside each other, Gen’s hand placed on Mark’s robed chest while his arm’s snaked around her waist.

I’d say in 75% of my hookups, I offer a placating little peck to the lucky fella as a parting gift. But here, I calculate if this would be in poor taste. Who would I kiss first? For how long? But, don’t hesitate. I smile, saccharine like buttercream frosting, and set my lips on Mark’s, then Genevieve’s.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” I bid adieu, opening their door and slipping into the hospital-lighting bright hallway.

In tandem, they both ooze “Definitely,” as I shut the door behind me.

I float down the stairs. The doorman’s gone home, thankfully. The Uber is waiting when I emerge onto the dark street, and when I open the car door I see another girl in the seat next to mine staring out the window. The driver says, “For Mark?”

I say yes.

I wonder if the girl thinks I was a booty call that got the no-sleepover boot. Based on her insistence on not acknowledging me and how late it is, I wonder if that’s the scenario she’s just lived out.

I follow suit and roll down my window as the Uber whisks us back uptown. There are a few stragglers out and about, patronizing 7/11s and the 24-hour bodegas, but the city that never sleeps is at least dreary-eyed at this hour. Crosswalk signs blink right-of-ways, bars click off their neon OPEN signs as the clock strikes 4 AM.

The car pulls up to my UES stoop, so I thank the driver and make the trek up to my fourth-floor studio walk-up. I plunk my purse and jeans onto the floor, ignore the smeared makeup that my mirror really wants me to see, and flop onto my bed. I fall into buzzed sleep as easily and effortlessly as I’d fallen in love with Walla Walla Cowboy.

I’m awoken with incessant beeping not even a few hours later. I groan, startling my cat that curled up next to me sometime in the night, and feel my hand around the bed with tired impatience until I find my phone tucked into a crevice of my comforter.

6 AM. When I was supposed to get up and at ‘em for the race.

My head kills, my stomach’s a pit of lava, and my bed has never been more comfortable in my life.

Screw Coach. I click off my alarm and go back to sleep.

I wake up again, naturally, at 11 AM. Everyone from the race is home and showering by now, medals awarded and t-shirts donned proudly. I open my phone and see a text from Genevieve.

“We just woke up, lol!” followed by “Let’s get together again soon.”

On my own unregistered accord, I go for a run later that day. Ten miles, same distance as what the race would’ve been, albeit at a markedly slower pace. I write and read and nurse my hangover until the end of the night when I pop melatonin and hope for fast sleep again.

When I shut my eyes, I imagine how Gen and Mark fell asleep last night. Probably spooning, Mark kissing her neck endearingly, in a little puddle of serotonin and security. They woke up still in each other’s arms and Gen graciously makes them coffee to sip lazily in bed together.

My sheets are department-store itchy and my AC is broken. They’ve had sex with one person in three years and I’ve fucked three people this week alone. I suppose you make tradeoffs in your twenties.

Tonight, Mark and Gen fall asleep together in their unbelievably comfortable bed in Hell’s Kitchen. I fall asleep in swampy sheets on the Upper East Side, wondering if Walla Walla Cowboy took his bike out for a ride today.

– Annabel Eva