Lest we be inclined to let Marv Albert give the threesome a bad name,
Three in Love: Ménages à Trois
from Ancient Times to the Present, by Barbara Foster, Michael Foster and Letha Hadady, has
arrived in time to defend this age-old indulgence. The authors seem to view ménage
participants as members of a misunderstood minority
group whose contributions to civilization have too long been overlooked. Not to be outdone by gay
historians, who can argue that geniuses from Socrates to Santayana have been homosexual, Three in
Love outs nearly every significant Western political, literary or artistic figure as a
"ménager" -- from Catherine the Great to Allen Ginsberg.
The authors, themselves a threesome, labor tirelessly to demonstrate the productivity of
ménages, showcasing numerous examples of greats who did their best work ensconced in a fleshy
triad. Voltaire and his mistress, the marquise de Châtelet, were both at their intellectual
peak, concocting groundbreaking political and scientific theory, while living -- and dining
regularly -- with her husband, the cheerfully accommodating marquis. Eleanor Roosevelt essentially
became co-president after FDR's mistress, Missy LeHand, assumed many of her wifely duties. This is
just the beginning: ménagers, apparently, deserve credit for Genesis, courtly love,
Napoleon's defeat, Romantic poetry, the birth of communism, existentialism, surrealism and the Beats
-- not to mention the inception of the Beatles. Caught up in their revisionist enthusiasms, Foster
et al blithely overlook the ménage's shortcomings. Their discussion of novelist Radclyffe
Hall, for instance, makes no mention of the sad endings of her threesomes -- one lover's probable
death from a broken heart, and another's dissatisfied departure.
Though generous with details about history's swingers, movers and shakers, Three in
Love's authors are conspicuously coy when it comes to their own situation. Hunter college
professor Barbara Foster, her husband Michael Foster and their "third," Letha Hadady, repeatedly
refer to the work as a collaborative effort, but the careful reader will note that Hadady's name
appears in markedly smaller letters on the cover. The Fosters are described as "a husband and wife
writing team" while Hadady is "part of their household." Did she really help, or is her byline just
a public relations stunt? Maybe it's ménagephobic of me to be suspicious.
But that's only the first mystery. We are treated to sparing descriptions of hot tub
loungings, hotel check-ins, and so on, but we
never learn who does whom. In fact, they are indignant that people are so carnally-minded as to be
curious. Can you imagine, they complain: "even casual acquaintances may pose intimate and
embarrassing questions, such as who pays the bills and who sleeps with whom." I guess my need to
know all that is deplorably Oprah. But the ménage à trois is such a compelling
fantasy, and the logistics of the real thing so baffling that people who claim to be engaged in a
successful one shouldn't be surprised if the rest of us are interested in the fine points.
Indeed, part of the ménage's draw is that most of us have been involved in an unlucky
love triangle at some point. Usually everyone loses, and in retrospect it often seems that a happier
outcome must have been possible. As Foster et al imply, the ménage à trois is the love
triangle's benevolent twin. In a ménage, everyone consents, cooperates and ideally, prospers
(rarely equally, of course, but that's also true in traditional couplings). Most couples have an
intruder (real or imagined) lurking around wreaking havoc, threatening the happy twosome; the
ménage domesticates -- and eroticizes -- that scary third.
A ménage can also offer a way out of the elusive, historically recent ideal of being
best friends with your lover; why not instead share a lover with your best friend, as Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid did with Etta Place, or Beat buddies Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady with Carolyn
Cassady? Most ménages -- unless all three participants are the same sex -- hint at
bisexuality. Foster et al downplay this, but I think it's a central part of the ménage's
mystique, regardless of the reality of who does whom. For many of us, the ideal lover is both male
and female, but we tend to assume that we have to choose. Simone de Beauvoir thought otherwise,
writing near the end of her life on her ménage with Sylvie Le Bon and Sartre, "I am fortunate
to enjoy a perfect relationship with both a man and a woman."
My own dabblings in ménage have been less evolved: a single night of three-way sex
between my then-boyfriend, my roommate and me required months of plotting. Yet as absurd as it
sounds, I hadn't actually considered how I would feel about seeing my lover with another woman. As
he buried his face in her pubic hair, blonder, trimmer than mine, I wondered if he was taking note
of our differences. I tried, in a desperate panic, to imagine what they'd do if I suddenly got
dressed and left the apartment. Or asked them to stop. But these impulses seemed melodramatic and
churlish, since I had very much enjoyed eating her myself just minutes before. My mind raced beyond
the bed: she's prettier, sweeter, less neurotic than me. They both like Nick Drake. They dress
similarly. I couldn't imagine why he'd ever stay with me after this.
The next day, we all talked about it. My roommate wanted to repeat the threesome. But my
boyfriend and I, both a bit shell-shocked, were hesitant. She left the country a few weeks later,
before we could reconsider.
Given the questions raised by even the most fleeting ménage, it seems that people who
manage to figure out larger matters like who takes whose name really ought to disclose a little
more. How does one avoid favoritism? I can't forget my mental flight on the bed and its
myriad attendant nightmares. What if they'd wanted to spend some night without me? He'd said that I
could have sex with her alone as long he got a detailed description; I'm not sure I would have
agreed to reverse these terms. What if they were only doing this to get to each other, and I was
really an obstacle? The scary scenarios are stomach-clenching, yet so plainly plausible.
It's easy to see why ménages aren't more common; they present a daunting thicket of
emotional and practical challenges. Three in Love, though its historical anecdotes are
delightful, is too evasive to blaze much of a trail. Let's hope it inspires more revealing work.
group whose contributions to civilization have too long been overlooked. Not to be outdone by gay
historians, who can argue that geniuses from Socrates to Santayana have been homosexual, Three in
Love outs nearly every significant Western political, literary or artistic figure as a
"ménager" -- from Catherine the Great to Allen Ginsberg.
never learn who does whom. In fact, they are indignant that people are so carnally-minded as to be
curious. Can you imagine, they complain: "even casual acquaintances may pose intimate and
embarrassing questions, such as who pays the bills and who sleeps with whom." I guess my need to
know all that is deplorably Oprah. But the ménage à trois is such a compelling
fantasy, and the logistics of the real thing so baffling that people who claim to be engaged in a
successful one shouldn't be surprised if the rest of us are interested in the fine points.
he buried his face in her pubic hair, blonder, trimmer than mine, I wondered if he was taking note
of our differences. I tried, in a desperate panic, to imagine what they'd do if I suddenly got
dressed and left the apartment. Or asked them to stop. But these impulses seemed melodramatic and
churlish, since I had very much enjoyed eating her myself just minutes before. My mind raced beyond
the bed: she's prettier, sweeter, less neurotic than me. They both like Nick Drake. They dress
similarly. I couldn't imagine why he'd ever stay with me after this.
