The 3sum
So, picture it: Two gym-going Jamaican uncles in their 50s invite me over for dinner. Said they’d cook. Sounded simple enough, right? Wrong. Sis, this wasn’t dinner—it was a dick appointment in disguise.
Let’s just be clear—when two men invite you over and start talking about “good vibes” and “a little drink up,” they’re not marinating oxtail. They’re marinating me. I wasn’t the guest—I was the main course, dessert, and the spicy sauce on the side.
Now, I’m not new to the game. Mid-30s me was giving “curious but cautious.” I like a flirt. I like a drink. But I also like knowing I won’t be bent over someone’s kitchen counter with a half-cooked dumpling watching.
These men were seasoned. Gym bodies, salt-and-pepper beards, that quiet confidence of men who’ve done things and wanted to do more things. But I had questions. Who’s bringing the condoms? Who’s in charge of aftercare? And most importantly—who’s gonna cook the actual dinner? Because if it’s just vibes and raw meat, count me out.
Let’s not pretend they were being subtle either. One messaged, “You ever had a double portion before?” Sir. This isn’t a bloody food festival. And the other one? Talking about “It’s all love, you’ll feel safe.” Safe? SAFE? I don’t even feel safe when two Jamaican men are arguing over who’s the better chef, much less who’s going first.
Eventually, I declined. Politely. Because I didn’t want to end up the subject of a cautionary tale told in patois at the next gym session. “Yow, remember di gyal weh chat sweet sweet and den run?” Yeah. That one.
Look, threesomes are all fun and games until you realise no one’s brought lube, your edges are sweating out, and one of them starts playing Beres Hammond mid-thrust. No thank you.
So I chose peace. Peace of mind, peace in my pum-pum, and peace from being the roast in someone else’s Sunday special.
Next time, gentlemen, just say what it is. But if you’re gonna offer me a double serving, best believe I’m bringing a knife, fork, AND an exit strategy.
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Chelsea Black xoxo
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