Third Man Syndrome

I get invited to a lot of threesomes...

Third Man Syndrome.

I feel so alone. I am writing so I don’t feel so alone. I am so lonely I am getting third man syndrome. There is a well documented phenomenon among lost mountain climbers and shipwreck survivors where a perceived presence providing comfort during their time of distress. This is a long lonely grind in this lost island of conscious borderline. Knowing how much pain I am in and why and not being able to do much about it. Breathing. Breathing in. Breathing out. I always resort to yoga. My Routines. My routines are my friends. They comfort me when no one else has time. I am a child inside, crying for attention. I don’t care anymore. Ruin me. If I have to write, it’s going to be crazy. I am papering the inside of my padded wall with these words.

That’s the problem. I am not a problem for myself. I do the right things but I am burdened with all of these injuries. So sensitive from nerve damage but not narcissistic enough to be attractive. I am jealous of all you avoidant attachment people. You get to look so cool. And you don’t need anyone. You get to be better. People like me will stalk you and you will find us annoying and lean further into your cold, cold heart.

I got solicited for a threesome again. I just have that kind of face, I guess. It was at a new years eve party. A couple mistook my dancing for a kind of personal invitation. They were fans and had seen one of my theatre shows. The woman had the idea that just because I was moving in a way that she liked, meant that the dancing was just for her. I get it. I like pretty girls, too. But I don’t assume that they are pretty for my sake. She grabbed my hand and stoked it, missing the mark completely on how to seduce me. Touching me doesn’t work. She was all revved up. Maybe high on cocaine? Hard to tell. Could have just been hormones.

She was someone that I kind of liked, but I didn’t want to fuck her and her man. Not today, Satan. I am not much into threesomes these days. Unless I’m really into the couple. Usually that involves some kind of restraint. It’s the holding that excites me. An intelligent containment of the energy. I didn’t mind seeing this woman have fun. I liked that part. The wild and crazy. The beams of fun being shot around the room. It was New Year’s Eve after all. But there was not going to be anything in this menage a trois for me. I was going to be a feast for them. But after, there would be no crumbs left for my soul. Just bare brittle bones. They would go back to their little love nest in Ottawa. Rich and in love. A handsome couple who obviously like to party. And I would be left alone. Wishing that someone loved me like that. If they paid me, I would at least have money afterward. Good for them. They seemed happy together. Poly and proud.

‘I don’t want to fuck you.’ I said, so it would be clear. I’m not a child anymore. I know it’s best to be clear, lest I get sucked into something I don’t want to be a part of.

‘Why not?’ She said, ‘What’s a matter? Don’t you like girls?’ She sounded childish but was clearly older than me. Soft Newfie accent. She had the smell of the island on her.

‘I do. I’m just not into it.’ She seemed perturbed but didn’t have much of an answer to that. I was a stone wall. Best not to explain that I wasn’t into her, specifically. I didn’t want to bring her down. I did admire her brazen but she didn’t have anything I wanted. Her affection wasn’t enough. If we were going to use each other there was going to have to be something in it for me. Money or she would have to be hotter or smarter or kinder. She wasn’t unattractive but not quite the level of hot where I was going to be doing something for my own reasons. My own debauchery. Some people have that kind of dangerous beauty that emotes pleasure to the onlooker by its mere existence. Not her, she was regular. Good looking enough for me to fuck if there was something below the surface to explore but alas, there was not. Her seduction was too quick, too mechanical, too pornographic for me to respond to. There was no subtlety. I am attracted to complexity - to observation - to being understood. She was misunderstanding my dancing. Yes, I am sexy. I do sexy things. I have some of that dangerous beauty myself. I thought that it would diminish with age. I am at the age that it’s considered an insult - tits over forty - but it clearly depends on the onlooker. But it’s not for her. It’s for everyone who is watching. I dance for myself and the audience. It’s not for one individual. But she didn’t get it and it made me tired to have to educate her on how art works. She is either ignorant or stupid. Both are turn offs for me. So, I fell asleep on the couch of the haunted theatre, alone except for the ghosts - some in my mind- some, making noises in the ticket booth. Maybe, it’s just third man syndrome.

Art by Jean Woods