[This story contains a butch lesbian who uses he/him pronouns.]
She's a gorgeous femme, wearing a long black dress with a deep neckline and a thigh slit, her dark wavy hair tossed over one shoulder. He's a butch daddy type, with a tight haircut and a sharp suit and tie. They stand out at the local dyke bar where patrons don't normally get so dressed up. I'm standing in line at the bar, trying to casually check them out while they pay for their cover with the security guard. I'm always so attracted to butch/femme couples, and I like to fantasize about pleasing the femme while being topped by the butch. I've never imagined it would happen in real life, though. The butches I meet are the exclusively butch4femme type, not into butch boys like me.
The hot couple gets in line behind me and they smile. I smile back politely, prepared to turn around and play it cool when the butch asks, "So how's your night going?"
"It's good," I say with a wider smile, even though it's honestly been boring so far. Not anymore. "Just grabbing a drink after work."
We make small talk and it turns out they'd been out salsa dancing and stepped into the bar for a drink before heading home. We chat about dancing, the bar, and nightlife in the city. By the time we get to the front of the line, they offer to buy my drink. I grin and say okay.
My order is a Tom Collins. The butch orders a shot of whiskey, neat, and the femme orders a martini. Classic.
They ask if I want to sit and chat with them, and I nod, feeling butterflies and hot desire.
The bar is kind of divey, dark with loud music, a sticky sheen on every surface. We have to lean in close to hear each other.
We exchange pronouns, but don't learn each other's names. Later I decide it's hotter that way. He's a web designer and she's a legal advocate for immigrants. I gape for a moment at that, impressed, and feel a little inadequate when I offer my job at Trader Joe's, but the femme says it must be hard work to be the hot butch TJ's cashier and I blush from head to toe. The butch smirks at her, then at me. I ask where they live, and it turns out they're down the street and up a block. The small talk continues until our drinks are empty, and finally, they ask the question I've been waiting for.
"Can we take you home for a drink?"
Their home is beautiful, a two bedroom apartment in a high rise in Capitol Hill with hardwood floors, granite countertops, and an impressive number of plants that fill the space with life. It's quiet and clean compared to the bar, and I stand in the kitchen with my hands in my pockets, heart thudding in my chest. I'm nervous, excited, turned on, and out of my depth. I've never had a threesome before, and I have no idea what I'm doing.
He asks if I've ever had an old-fashioned and I turn to him and shake my head.
"You'll like it," he promises with a wink. I have a feeling he means more than the drink.
I watch him pull out whiskey and bitters from a bar cart, grab sugar from the cabinet, and water from the fridge. He muddles them together, and finishes it off with an orange slice and maraschino cherry. I get distracted appreciating his strong arms, his button-up shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms.
I watch his arms reach out to hand me the finished drink, and I look up to see him smirking at me. He clearly noticed my admiration.
I take a sip and smile, relieved that it's sweet enough for my taste.
"It's good," I say, taking another sip. "Thank you."
He pours another two drinks and he clinks a glass with me, leaning in close to say, "Cheers." I lick my lips and swallow. He smells like cologne and whiskey.
