Three's A Crowd (But You Can Handle It, Jack): Mastering the Threesome Without Screwing Up Your Life

Let Me Be Crystal Fucking Clear—This Ain't a Group Project

You and your husband think you're about to rock the "three-some" like it's a weekend getaway? Wake the hell up. Relationships are a warzone when two people are fighting to stay relevant. Add a third and you’re building a damn IED if you don’t plan your damn steps. You think this is just about getting wet? Nah—this is about survival.

The Guest List: Exes, Pros, or That Friend Who Always Has Opinions

You wanna find your "guest star"? Start with exes—if you both can look them in the eye without seeing ghosts. If that’s not an option, hire a pro. You think Tinder is gonna drop you a unicorn? Ain’t nobody free in this game, Jack. Gay/bi guys catch more breaks here, but don’t let that eat at you. You want chemistry without baggage? Pay cash. A sex worker shows up, does the job, and leaves. Strangers? They’ll leave you with more than a stiffy.

Vibe Check: Treat This Like a Business Meeting (Not a Beer-and-Words Setup)

You think a casual drink will cut it? Think again. Do a full recon mission. Schedule a meetup, no strings attached—no boning, just intel gathering. See if the three of you can talk without tripping over your words. If one of you starts eye-f***ing their date while ignoring you, cut it off immediately. Sloppy planning = disaster.

Rules Before the Roar: Set the F***cking Ground Truth

Want to panic when the third is sucking your husband’s face while you’re in the room? Keep the first date penetration-free. Keep it to kissing, oral, and hand jobs until you all realize this isn’t a Hunger Games episode. Don’t let the heat of the moment rewrite your rules. One of you starts feeling like a spare tire? Say "Yo, don’t forget I’m here, Jack." Ownership matters—even in bed.

Post-Game: You Don’t Just Chuck the Third in the Trash

You don’t finish the game and treat the MVP like a used paper towel. Have a damn plan: hotel stay, Uber drop, or at the very least a damn bottle of water and a "thanks for playing." If it’s a paid job? Tip like you mean it. Respecting people keeps them coming back. This ain’t about charity—it’s about staying in business.

Anger to Arsenic: What Happens When You Slam a Fist Instead of a Door

Okay, so you slapped some nerd in a "friends with benefits" setup and ended up horizontal. That was a damn dumb move, and here’s why: Your anger spiked adrenaline, your brain rewired that rush as sexual. Bad decision-making = temporary high, lasting damage to your spine. Congestion? Rage? Both? Sort those feelings without a damn handprint on someone’s face.

Misattribution of Arousal: Your Brain’s a Fucking Joke Artist

You thought you were hot? Nah, you were mad and your body got confused. Adrenaline = arousal. Always. That slap wasn’t a "turn-on"—it was a panic response. Congestion? Rage? Both? Sort those feelings without a damn handprint on someone’s face.

Anger’s Not a Badge of Honor, Jack

You want the rage-to-sex thrill without the jail-to-recovery aftermath? Hit the gym, not the dude. Get anger management. No more rage-acting like it’s a damn superpower. This isn’t a Marvel movie—this is real life, and your dumbass could end up on a restraining order.

Sex After Warfare: Not a Trophy, Just a Mess

So yeah, your slap turned into a f***-fest. That’s called chemical confusion—not a "kink." Don’t let it happen again. If you wanna play rough, find someone who knows the rules. This wasn’t hot—it was dangerous. And you were an idiot.

Final Rule: Plan Like You’re Charging a Bulletproof Vest

Every step needs a contingency plan. Sex is a war game—it demands strategy, not luck. You want a good time? Build a damn blueprint. Every other move is gambling with your sanity. Plan your escape routes. Set your rules in stone. And never let rage call the shots. Ever.