Harry calls out “Game’s going into overtime!” just as Michael collapses on top of me, his skin damp with sweat. He stays there for a few moments, catching his breath, before finally rolling off with a satisfied sigh.
“I’ll send in the next one,” he chuckles, stretching before striding out of the bedroom like this is a fast-food drive-through and I’m just an order they’re taking turns on.
But I have had enough.
My face burns with embarrassment as I sit up, my hands fumbling to gather my clothes. My heart is pounding, not from excitement but from the crushing weight of realisation—this wasn’t what I thought it would be. It wasn’t thrilling or empowering. It was just… disappointing.
I pull on my tights and slide into my glitzy dress. I don’t even bother fixing my hair. I just need to get out before one of the others strolls in for their turn.
But I needn’t have rushed. Nobody comes.
I’m not even that quiet when I walk past them in the living room but they only have eyes for the football match.
I glance at them and wonder if I should say anything. All three of them are sitting naked on the sofa, eyes glued to the TV, utterly enthralled by whatever match is on.
It’s such an absurd sight that for a split second, I almost laugh. Three grown men, dicks out, not even bothering to put on clothes, completely uninterested in the very thing they were supposed to be excited about… me.
But the laughter never comes.
Instead, a dull ache settles in my stomach, a quiet humiliation that makes my throat tighten. I don’t say anything. I don’t even bother with a sarcastic remark.
I just slip out the door and leave.
It’s still early. Normally, I don’t go home before midnight, but it can’t be later than ten. I walk down the street, my coat pulled tight around me like it can shield me from the humiliation clinging to my skin. London is alive; people laughing outside pubs, a group of friends singing off-key as they stumble down the pavement, couples pressed close in the glow of streetlights. London on a Saturday night in its usual chaotic, romantic mess.
Meanwhile, I just got ditched for football.
I let out a sigh and make my way to the bus stop. No point wasting money on an Uber when I can stew in my own bad decisions for £1.75. The bus arrives in minutes, and I flop into a seat by the window, hugging my bag to my chest.
As the bus pulls away, I stare out at the blur of neon signs and moving shadows, my brain running an autopsy on the night.
What had I expected exactly? That this would be sexy? That I’d leave feeling thoroughly satisfied, drenched in the glow of a scandalous, unforgettable night? That Michael, Harry, and Graham, the trio of disappointment, would somehow make me feel like the centre of their universe rather than an extra in their night? That this would turn into an MMMF romance where I am the goddess in our happily-ever-after?
I snort.Fuck, I’m an idiot.
The worst part? I didn’t even consider how this would play out before I agreed to it. Not really. I jumped straight fromOoh, this could be excitingto well, this is happeningwithout stopping to think if I even wanted it.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t. Or at least, not like that.
I blame Pee-Pee. She told me not to think, so I just went for it. Epic fail.
The bus slows at a stop, and a couple stumbles on, giggling, clinging to each other like they’ve just fallen in love at first sight—or at least over their third round of tequila shots. They collapse into the seats in front of me, whispering and grinning as if nobody else exists.
I look away and try to block them out.
I don’t regret leaving. But I do regret going in the first place.
By the time we reach Shoreditch, I feel a little less like I need to disappear into a hole and a little more like I just need a shower, a cup of tea, and to never speak of this again.
2
Pee-Pee
Ivy
Iam in purgatory.
Alright, technically, I am in the waiting room of my therapist’s office, but the difference is negligible.
