So a gay redneck, a gay Mexican, and a gay Chinese guy start living together…
No, it’s not the set up for a racist, homophobic joke; it’s my living situation.
My ex-boyfriend and I were living in peace together (in this case, he’d be the gay redneck and I’d be the Mexican), until his evil boyfriend (the gay Chinese guy, of course) invaded our happily dysfunctional home.
Before I even realized, my replacement had unofficially moved in, and all three of us got tired of taking a number to use the one bathroom and fucking in shifts (obviously with different people). It was finally time to move. My ex, as the wise, older redneck that he is, decided it was time he bought that house in Hollywood he had been eyeing for years now. A second bathroom and an actual door between their fucking sessions and myself was becoming a necessity. I didn’t care if rent went up $1,000 (which it didn’t), it was still a bargain considering the money I would surely save on therapy. I was sick of stumbling upon their preferred brand of condoms, lube, penis pumps, and internal cleansing apparatuses – not to mention stumbling upon all of these items as they were being used, often at the same time.
Indeed, considering the relief it brought us, the moving process was quite easy. Adapting to the house was a different story. A week after moving in, I somehow found myself hanging out in Bill and Johnny’s bedroom more than I’d like to admit.
“So yeah, the curtains ended up looking just perfect after all,” I finish explaining for the fiftieth time the way I decorated my room. “I’m so proud of my apparently natural gifts at interior design. Guess the gay genes kick in at some point, right?”
“I wouldn’t know. What I do know is my favorite way of getting gay genes,” Johnny says in a seductive Chinese accent as he fondles Bill’s ball-sack.
“And, that’s my cue to go!” I say jokingly as I turn around to leave, but it’s a 360-degree turn. “Seriously though, not in front of the kids!”
“Well,” begins Bill with trepidation. “You have been here for two hours. We’re starting to get a little horny.”
“Yeah,” adds Johnny with a laugh. “If your room’s looking so fabulous, why are you always hanging out in our room?”
I think about it for a second, and can’t find an answer.
“Just admit you wanna join us in bed, and you’re only too shy to ask,” Johnny says with a pretentious, gotcha smile.
“Oh, c’mon!” I start. “Can’t a guy have a normal, platonic relationship with his ex and the new guy he’s been replaced with without it meaning he wants a threesome with them?”
“No!” they say in unison, and I leave their room at last.
Their desire for me was no surprise: these two men are walking libidos. What did surprise me, though, were the roles that we adopted now that we had space to play out different parts. As a traditional Mexican boy who never wanted to play soccer with his cousins, and instead spent 90% of his childhood overhearing adult female gossip in the kitchen, it was only natural when I became the cook of the household. And since I was the one leaving behind a big mess with my amateurish cooking, I felt it was only fair that I cleaned after myself as I cooked; well, that’s what my roommates felt after I made them clean oil stains from the kitchen ceiling for the eleventh time (they only like that kind of stain on their room’s ceiling and only with baby oil). Cooking? Washing dishes? Cutting the crust off their personalized, whole-wheat French toasts? It was official: I was the woman of the house.
On the other hand, Bill, who pays for most of the bills appropriately enough, had a more conventional role. He always comes back home tired from work, greets me with a kiss on the cheek, pinches my other cheeks when he sees me washing dishes, asks me what we’re having for dinner, and hasn’t had sex with me in several months. Naturally, he must be my husband.
And Johnny, who gets all the unprotected sex, fancy dinners, pricy gifts, and impromptu trips out of the city – he’s none other than other woman. How did I let this happen under my roof?
I asked Johnny that same question, and he couldn’t stop laughing. He loved the idea of playing house in our twenties: the rated R, gay version. We talked about the idea of our ménage-a-trois the whole night. I was so comfortable that I changed into my PJ’s in front of him and didn’t bother picking up my dirty clothes from the floor. Unfortunately my comfort levels turned out to be a problem later on.
My “husband” Bill called me the next morning, “Hey stud. Did you hook-up with someone last night?”
“Not as far as I can recall. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I didn’t wanna say anything, but I saw your clothes all over the living room floor this morning when I left to work. Did you and Johnny…”
I didn’t let him finish, “No! No, of course not! I just changed into my PJs ‘cause we were talking and it got late!”
“I believe you and all,” he said, choking up a little. “I just love him so much, and I guess I get a little insecure.”
“I understand,” I reassure him. “But I’ve known you for much longer than him, and I would never betray you like that. Plus, you know me! If I had done something, I would’ve been too paranoid to leave such flagrant evidence of my misdeeds.
He laughs and I know trust is restored.
Everything went back to normal after that conversation. Until that night when Johnny teased his daddy about the strange harem of sorts he turned his house into.
“I saw that you gave her a brand new pair of gloves,” he says pointing at me with melodramatic jealousy. “I thought you two were done. I demand an even more chic present!”
“They were rubber gloves for dishwashing,” Bill says raising an eyebrow.
“A gift is a gift!” I say this time. “Go ahead and spend the rest of our money on that hussy! See if I care. Do it in front of me, why don’t you? I lost my dignity the day I met you!”
“Very funny, you two,” Bill says rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his beer.
“You may have lost your dignity,” he says to me. “But the house… the house is yours. You have security. And me? What do I have?”
“OK, it’s a tie for the Oscar for best actress!” Bill says smiling. “And you’re not limiting my choices to only one of you! You’re both winners, ladies.” He then kisses the mistress goodnight and heads to bed.
“Oh, that was fun, you hussy, you” I say with satisfaction to Johnny.
“It was, but I know something more fun we could do,” he says as he stands up in front of me, fully naked. I’m so used to his nudity I don’t notice it unless his penis is right in front of my face, which it is. He stretches his hand out to me in order to help me up, but it lingers a few seconds in mine.
“Well, goodnight!” I say ready to run away. But he embraces me softly, half innocently, half devilishly.
“What?” he gives me that perpetual smile of his, still holding me in his arms
“I’m not having sex with you,” I want to say to his face as I separate myself from him, but my eyes don’t cooperate and wonder elsewhere.
“Oh my God,” he starts. “You and I were supposed to have had sex weeks ago! You’re gay! why don’t you get with the program?”
“Because…” I begin. “Because I don’t want to do that to Bill!”
“Bill and I aren’t even official!” he says, almost offended. “We’re open!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not!” This time I almost yell. “I’ve never been open to your innuendos, and your nudism, and your invitations to threesomes, orgies, and bathhouses. I’m just not that kind of guy. And Bill may pretend he’s open to stuff like that, but I know him better than anyone, and he’s fragile. And he gets attached to a guy for real. So go to bed with your husband and stop playing with fire before you get us both burned!”
Johnny just looks at me with wide eyes.
“And put your shorts on for God’s sakes!” I say as I throw them to him.
He puts them on and just smiles, “You’re ruining all the fun, but that’s what I like about you. You know what you want.”
I smile reluctantly, and wave goodbye.
The next day, Johnny announced he was moving out. I guess Bill’s heart may have had room for two girls. But the house only had enough room for one woman.