Thwarted Threeways & Lingering Regrets

When not fighting can be a form of cheating too.

He only had 90 days left on his visa, so we spent every night together, back and forth between my East Village studio and his graduate law dorm. As a musician who needs space & downtime to create, I would never have permitted such a co-dependent pattern, but this was romantic.

We were ‘in love’.

And we wanted more.

So instead of moving home after graduation, he went back to Israel for just two weeks to renew his visa, and I sublet my place to find us a larger one on the West Side, near the coffee shop where we met, with a private garden & high ceilings. It smelled like the Italian restaurant we shared a kitchen vent with.

We were 25 and so happy.

But he wanted more.

‘Yom Kippur is our yearly day of atonement,’ Ari explained on the crowded bus back to the city from his friend's beach house the weekend before we were to move in together, ‘It’s when we tell the people in our lives we’re sorry if we wronged them’, we leaned into each other across the aisle after not finding seats together, ‘So I need to tell you about my trip back to Tel Aviv. The thing is,’ he took my hands in his lap, ‘I may have fooled around a bit when I was there.’

I pulled back and crossed my arms over my gut-punched stomach, ‘Do you mean, you cheated on me?’

Even when he smirked, he was hot. ‘Mmmm, I would say I slipped back into the old Ari, before you met me...I had some indiscretions.’

I felt my face contort involuntarily. “Fuck, how many guys?’ he shrugged his shoulders and grinned wider in response, “Ari, we’ve only been together three months and you can’t even…’ I covered my face and looked away as the rest of the riders watched the two young men in tight muscle tanks ruin their Sunday evening silence.

To make matters worse, my republican dad had cosigned our lease. Our first month’s rent, plus the security deposit, was paid, and my subletter was on his way. I had shouted my love for this man all over gay Manhattan and queer Brooklyn. Fuck. Turning to face the woman next to me and crying silently into my hands, I stonewalled any attempts Ari might have to engage me until we got back to the city, calculating my next step and feeling my options limited.

Still, we moved in together, and I told no one. We moved on, and I was ashamed. Rather than a honeymoon period, the first weeks in our shared home, I spent wondering: Just who is this stranger I’d entangled my life with?

Our already apparent differences continued to grow. We knew I was an artist and he was a lawyer. He liked going out when I wanted to stay in, but it was our divergent sexual appetites we struggled to align.

And I wanted to. Those first three months were the most passionate times I’d had with anyone. So when he started talking up how cute our friend Tom was, I agreed. And when we came together for the project of seducing him with my homemade pasta dish before cuddling up to watch the latest reality trash, it naturally segued into a fun and flirty 3-way.

I’d had a few threesomes before, and they can be emotional landmines. Couples break down when someone doesn’t get enough attention or shows too much interest. But this was natural and light as a game of Marco Polo in a pond on a summer day.

Satisfied, I felt closer to them both. But Ari wanted more.

Later that month, he had a friend over whom I’d never met, and when I continued working at my desk, he urged me to join them on the bed, patting the space between them. ‘Brett, you’re being rude to our guest.’

I closed my computer and swiveled to face them, ‘Sorry, what's up? So, did you guys meet in law school?’

They smiled at each other, ‘Actually, we’re just meeting now, but we’ve been chatting on Connexion forever.’

“Oh wow, ok. I see." I jumped up and put my laptop in my bag, “Well then, you guys get to know each other, and I, I should get this done,” and I went to work alone at the coffee shop, where I instead scribbled in my journal, finally admitting just how much I was growing to resent him. And myself. I would have been so much more open to having sex with other people if we were still fucking each other, but he had been rebuffing my advances, and I couldn’t fathom how such a strong connection had evaporated so quickly.

A few weeks later, we went on vacation to Tel Aviv, and I was surprised to arrive in such an internationally cosmopolitan and decidedly gay city, with so many muscled men peacocking at the beach. It was Passover, but aside from the flat bread, the city was buzzing. We met his sister briefly, but both his parents had passed, so we were on our own.

This time, he showed me enough respect to request a threesome in advance with another ‘friend’. He showed me some photos, the guy was cute enough, it was vacation, I was horny and wanted to be a chill, liberated gay man, so fuck it, I said ok.

He came over to our Airbnb, and yeah, handsome, but I didn’t find his vibe sexy; no chemistry, but they got into it right away, open-jawed tongues-twisted me over on the side, limbs vaguely intertwined. I tried to drop into the moment and become just a body with two other bodies lacking history or agenda. But Ari was pouring himself so passionately into this random guy that I couldn’t get grounded. He reminded me of when we first met, and every night was our last.

I still felt that towards him, but not from him.

I excused myself, ‘Sorry guys, I’m really not in the mood, but you feel free,’ and went out into the living room to watch TV. And I meant it, if that’s what he wanted, fine.

But Ari followed, ‘Brett, you are being so mean to our guest,’ he hissed, ‘you know he’s crying in there?!’

I exhaled deeply with an involuntary eye roll and turned the TV on. ‘I’m just being honest, it’s really not his fault. Go play with your friend.’

But the ‘friend’ didn’t stay much longer, and I fell asleep on the couch.

I wish I had ended the relationship there. Or at least the next night, when I tried forcing myself on him, thinking maybe that’s what he wanted? But I was dismissed like a canceled reality show contestant. Yet with only 3 months left on Ari’s new Visa and his continuous refusal of any job he didn’t deem good enough for an NYU graduate of his ‘caliber’, I knew he would be leaving soon. Our lease would end, and until then, we were roommates.

But still, I wanted more, I craved it, I needed it, yet I wasn’t sure what I deserved or was willing to advocate for.

When we got back to NYC, I began making out with the dark, sexy bartender from the Italian restaurant we lived behind. We’d already been making deep eye contact with knowing nods as he ran into our shared basement to restock vintage reds, and now I was ready to take the next step.

It wasn’t my highest self, but after being so invested in a disinterested man, it was exhilarating to descend those stairs together and make out with all the passion my partner above was depriving me. I felt no guilt as I explored his surprisingly good tattoos and discovered the rock-hard micro-penis beneath his apron.

To this day, when someone asks if I’ve cheated on a partner, I say no because I consider that we weren’t even together those last months, but I cheated both of us when I failed to communicate my exit from the relationship. I was denied the experience of standing up to him, and he needed to hear just how callously negligent he’d been. Instead, for years after, I imagined unequivocally telling Ari what an awful boyfriend he was when I should never have even let it get that far.

When he finally left New York, I got an apartment with my friends in Brooklyn, grew my hair out, and released my first collection of songs. There was so much I needed to rediscover after minimizing myself in that relationship.

Looking back, I don’t think he even liked me; I was just the guy he chose to walk up 8th Avenue with to make himself look desirable. And I guess while it lasted, I was mesmerized by his affection and lost myself in the attention. But not anymore.

The next year, he commented on the #1 music video I had on MTV Logo, ‘No one can doubt you now, Brett!’ and I just kept thinking, ‘Who was doubting me?’

He was. I was. But not anymore. When he found me on the newly launched ‘Facebook’ a few weeks later, I didn’t hesitate to delete his friend request.