It May Take Two to Tango

Where do I begin? With the pussy, of course, and in this case, two of them. One for each hand. One for each kidney. I love the feeling of a pussy rubbing against my nonexistent so-called love handles, no matter if the pussy is smooth-shaven or hairy but trimmed. Hell! I’d even accept the Wild West bushy variety. It’s still a pussy underneath all that lucky hair. Can you believe it? I was looking at two pussies at the same time, two pussies in a row, one beautiful pussy next to a second beautiful pussy, one pussy across from another pussy. Two for Tuesday, but it was Friday. TGIF? Those were the days. Now, it’s FOIF (Fuck Off It’s Friday). I still can’t believe my luck, and soon, very soon, you’ll discover why. By the way, luck is always involved to a certain degree when more than one pussy is at stake. One pussy for each ear too. Can you imagine listening to a pussy on each side of your head! I actually told them, the women, not the pussies, that I could die in peace after their pussyfication of my being. I felt like a pussy. You know what I mean. I even wanted to sing. I don’t know, maybe “pussy always on my mind” or “hello, pussy” or better yet, “stairway to pussy.” How I love thee, pussy! Pussies! Don’t let me count the hairs.

It was a fluke, me and my prick meeting them and their pussies. I had finally reached the cashier in the supermarket when she had just ended her shift. She informed me that her replacement would be there shortly. I smiled and told her that I would prefer her over anyone else.

“Why is that?” she asked.

Did you look at yourself in the mirror or over a cup a herbal tea? You’re stunning and I’ve been waiting all this time to see you.

“Thank you! Over a cup of herbal tea?”

Yes! It’s like a mirror if the light is right.

“It’s good to know, I guess,” she laughed.

I think that I see your replacement, I smiled looking into her eyes.

“Yes! She’s here.”

She’s beautiful too, but you’re breathtaking. Maybe you could both help me.

“I bet we could. Well, it depends on the help that you need.”

I always wanted to dance the tango with two women at the same time.

“That’s a strange wish.”

I’m all about wish fulfilment; strange or usual.

“I bet you are. We may be able to help you. I’m sure that Geneviève will agree.”

I’m Benny, but most people call me Ben. Not Big Ben; just Oh, Ben, or even Ben-Ben.

“I’m Paula, just Paula,” she said laughing.

Nothing about you is just Paula, I replied as we stepped aside to let Geneviève set up her cash register, especially that the people behind me were getting restless. I’m sure they would have eased their stance had they known that I was organizing a tango à trois (a tangosome?). The shopper behind me had actually listened to my conversation with Paula and was cheering for us with his smiles. Paula looked at Geneviève and Geneviève looked at Paula and our date seemed to have been set. I would pick them both up outside the store following the end of Geneviève’s shift.

Those were probably the longest hours of my life. Each passing hour felt like two, but it was, they were, well worth the wait. I had returned home to cook a little and prepare a decent spread but then thought that any fan-out and fan-in involving Paula and Geneviève would be nutritious as well as long since their pussies were also part of the fare. How could they not? The tango was just a ploy to get pussy. Two pussies! Pussy, pussy, inside my head; I often do not need the bed. There is always the floor, for dancing and much more.

Paula and Geneviève were already waiting outside when I arrived, and I was a little early. You must be hungry, I said after kissing each one three times on both cheeks. There’s a cheek that gets kissed twice and I often wondered which cheek was luckier. The mouth in between is surely superior to any cheek, even both cheeks, unless, of course, one is grasping for the other cheeks. The word buttocks doesn’t do them justice. I prefer the French word fesses, which is pronounced like Tess and goes well with face and every else one can throw at them.

I drove, of course, but we were lucky to get home. Paula in the front next to me and Geneviève in the back piercing my rearview mirror with her beauty and smiles could have caused a tragic accident, though I would have deemed it a good one. After all, we would have danced the tango in the sky before hitting the asphalt. Come on! Enough with the negatives! Tell them about the positives! Everything was positive when we got to my apartment. There was talk of going out, but I soon hexed it in favour of my exclusive and neat abode. They liked the spread too, but tango was in the air, vowing to make us sweat for the sake of sex.

I took each one, Paula against my heart and Geneviève against my lungs, which seemed to have become one, my lungs, that is. One heart, one lung, one prick, but two pussies. How can one unite two such marvels into one? Yeah! I’m digressing a lot, but there was a lot to do and I may have felt overwhelmed. One pussy ain’t easy, so imagine what two of them can do to one’s, you name it. Tango music was playing as we danced, but we never set out to dance “until the end of love.” I was caressing each one as we moved across the living room, but a tango it was not. I would have called it the tango tang. It didn’t take us very long to end up in bed. There was, of course, the smooching and grabbing — I never grab — over the sofa, in the kitchen at one point, and even in the bathroom when Paula and I sneaked in to see Geneviève pee. I should take a shower, she had mentioned, but we simply licked off any dirt that she may have envisioned. Can one, you, for example, fall in love with two lovers at the same time? I did, and I think that they sensed it. Women have a sixth sense. Some call it intuition; I call it flair. A flair to share their gifts.

I watched them undressing each other, a bra here, panties there, as I picked every piece of clothing up and breathed its aroma in. The scent of a woman, the bouquet of her being, is all that one, including yours truly, wishes for. The rest was always the result of her smell. Perfume is rarely necessary, being a remnant of olden days when various fragrances were used to hide one’s stench since running water symbolized the lap of luxury. I found myself in bed watching them kissing, licking, sucking, and eating each other, but I was slowly finding my way between them, kissing, licking, sucking, and eating them left and right, top and bottom, front and back, with their pussies whispering to me some illegible lines. Pussies talk, and when there are two, they also talk to each other.

The best position that I could muster and perhaps master was one of them, let’s say, Paula, sitting on my face and slowly moving to and fro against my nose and of course my tongue, while she faces Geneviève riding yours truly up and down and side to side. It’s also a kind of dance we can venture and call the double woopie or the woopiesome, and then some. Both of them on me and I in them and all three of us orgasming at the same time would have been almost unheard of, but it did, it did occur to us, but I have no proof. I couldn’t just stop everything to take pictures. I could have filmed it, but this was a tango, a love dance, not a porno, though this sort of sex scene is often staged in skin cinema.

Paula had an early morning shift, so they couldn’t stay the entire night, at first, that is, since I persuaded her to call in sick, enabling us to remain in bed until late morning when I left them taking a bath while I prepared a nutritious breakfast for two. I had eaten enough during the night.

P.S. I saw them a few more times, but Paula, and then Geneviève, had found someone else who surely danced a better tango.