The Ménage-à-trois we were dreaming of…
Isabelle de Lully and Juliette Morrigán
“It’s him! The man from the Adlon!”, we cry out in surprise as the booking is forwarded to us both simultaneously. “Well, he’s certainly a man of his word”, we say, smiling happily, our minds already fantasising about the trip ahead. We have been sitting at the Hetaera Stammtisch, reminiscing about our day…
A very special Ménage-à-trois
We, Juliette and Isabelle, had met to write a blog text about a particularly beautiful ménage á trois we had shared. We wanted to capture the beauty and eroticism our date and also talk about what makes a good trio: which consent questions to clarify beforehand, how to break the ice and ensure that shyness swiftly turns into complicity and how to make sure all three interact and enjoy equally. We were brainstorming ideas for fun and sensual games and getting nerdy about how to write about our experience.
Nestled into a comfy corner of the big velvet sofa in the lobby of Adlon, we each followed our own threads of inspiration. Between delicious drinks and food, the table slowly filled with fragments of scribbled paragraphs, odd sentences, vivid memories, an end before a beginning. Then we began to piece them together like a jigsaw, sifting them into a coherent order, “combing the text,” as Siri Hustvedt would put it, an author we both admire. We went through numerous reformulations—substituting one word for another, smoothing out semantic bumps and irregularities that might trip up the silent reading voice in our heads—before finally polishing the melody of each sentence. By the end, we no longer knew who had written what; a new voice had emerged, a “we” with two brains and one scribbling feather.
Our favourite game
Nestled into a comfy corner of the big velvet sofa in the lobby of Adlon, we each followed our own threads of inspiration. Between delicious drinks and food, the table slowly filled with fragments of scribbled paragraphs, odd sentences, vivid memories, an end before a beginning. Then we began to piece them together like a jigsaw, sifting them into a coherent order, “combing the text,” as Siri Hustvedt would put it, an author we both admire. We went through numerous reformulations—substituting one word for another, smoothing out semantic bumps and irregularities that might trip up the silent reading voice in our heads—before finally polishing the melody of each sentence. By the end, we no longer knew who had written what; a new voice had emerged, a “we” with two brains and one scribbling feather.
Leaning back for a break and gently chatting, we discovered that we share the same favourite game: imagining people’s lives. Whether in a café, a train station, on the street, or in a hotel lobby, our imaginative, curious minds can weave a story around each individual. Today is the day we get to play together! Delighted, we start scanning the room.
Nobody draws our attention in particular; no one really stands out. A couple of minutes pass, and then, as if conjured up by our own playful selves, he appears—the man who instantly catches our four eyes. Paradoxically, it is not so much his physical appearance that holds our gaze but rather his aura. He walks into the lobby with quiet confidence, moving through the space as if he knows it by heart. A barely perceptible exchange with the waiter as he takes a seat—gestures rather than words—makes it clear he is a regular.
He is well-groomed, seemingly lost in thought—or perhaps meditating. He appears calmly focused, entirely present in the moment. As if sensing our interest rippling through his meditative bubble, he suddenly turns and looks straight at us. We jump, caught in the act, and quickly look away, sinking deeper into the blue-grey velvet of our sofa and taking up our pens again.
The Adlon lobby has a very special atmosphere—one that’s hard to describe. It is cozy, safe, somehow even comforting. Gracefully ageing with its own unique charm. The revolving door keeps the buzzing energy of Pariser Platz at a safe distance, though those who enter carry traces of it with them. Guests walking and breathing quickly, only to slow down a few meters past the threshold. Their tone takes a few seconds to adjust, their gaze settles gradually… The swift clicking of cocktail shakers, the shimmering flicker of the elephant-adorned fountain, the soft strains of live piano music, the subtly dimmed lighting, the perfectly calibrated temperature—all of it envelops us in anonymity.
Enjoying the game …
The second eye contact happens as he heads to the gentlemen’s room—a sudden smile, charming and even somewhat mischievous. He straddles the stanchions that define the bar area with agility, a sign of his disregard for convention. We take note: audacity and elegance go well together.
Dark brown suede shoes with two buckles on the outer side, high-waisted pleated trousers in a subtle beige plaid. His jacket matches the fabric of his pants, slightly long at the hips—somewhat old-fashioned, yet impeccably tailored. A pair of glasses and a silver pen peek out from his chest pocket. He’s quite leggy, with a short upper body, giving him rather teenage proportions. We particularly like his neatly parted greying hair; he must be in his mid-fifties.
We are busy with our texts again when he returns but of course we sense him pass. There is a build-up of excitement as we steal a glance and catch him looking over. He is bashful but we smile encouragingly. We are enjoying the game.
It is his move and he plays it well, politely sending the waiter over to ask if we’d like a glass of champagne. Now we are getting curious about this man with the side parting and buckled shoes and as we raise our glasses, we signal to the armchair in front of us. He gracefully moves towards us.
“Thank you, I would love to join you for a moment” he says, in a clipped accent that oozes Britishness from every syllable, perfectly fitting the character we had already invented for him.
“I was wondering what you are writing. Are you working on a book?” he asks.
“Ah, yes, about ballet,” we quickly improvise, covering our notebooks and choosing a shared passion as our spontaneous alibi. It turns out that he loves watching ballet but not performing it. His passion is rowing, which he discovered at university.
“Sometimes I quite enjoy following orders,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“Sometimes I quite enjoy following orders”
As we warm to him we decide to unmask the true nature of our texts. After all we are as just passionate about Hetaera as we are about ballet—and we are proud of our wonderful group of courtesans. He is intrigued and eager to know more… so we decide to let him read our first draft. It goes like this:
An old factory in Mitte. The courteous, gentlemanly welcome of a musician client. An elevator like a vessel to another space-time. A vast living room, gently watched over by the Berlin twilight sky, separated from us by a delicate glass roof.
After much talking and getting delightfully lost in the spiral of consent (just kidding — there’s no such thing as too much making sure we’re on the same page), we begin to dance on the large round rug. Its softness beneath our feet is the evening’s first caress.
The musician joins us. Our choreography draws closer, folding into an embrace. Our three bodies move in harmony — a slow swaying — a soft and sensual blues mood flows through our souls. Faces draw near. Eyes blur. Lips find one another. A kiss for three — what a delight. Blouse and trouser buttons are undone with unbearable slowness; he misses not a single drop of our impatience. Caress by caress, the evening stretches on.
Isa’s booked for the night. Before leaving, Juliette pulls the duvet up over her nose and tenderly gives her a peck. A goodnight kiss to remember. Wrapped in drowsy warmth, Isa doesn’t want to fall asleep — afraid the dream might end. The atmosphere is warm and velvety, like Nina Simone’s voice in Feeling Good: “Stars when you shine, you know how I feel.”
Fly me to you
He blushes and shares that he once tried booking an escort through an agency but was put off by the sheer number of abbreviations to choose from—it repelled him. We nod vigorously. In fact, we had been discussing abbreviations earlier that day, agreeing that we would find it a turn-off to receive that kind of booking request. Yet there is one we would actually find quite sexy: FMTY—Fly Me to You.
He laughs, happy to hear that as he lives in London. Perhaps we might like to fly over as a duo date. He’d arrange tickets for the Royal Ballet. It goes without saying that we welcome this proposition with great enthusiasm, even looking at the programme and a possible date.
Serendipity
“See you in London,” we say later with a disbelieving smile as we give him our Hetaera card and hurry off to our Stammtisch.
“You’ll hear from me later,” he answers with conviction and we shake our heads incredulously as we drive off in the taxi.
We arrive hopelessly late but have a great story to entertain the other Hetaeras—the tale of our chance encounter. But as we recount it, we realize just how improbable it sounds and step down from our little cloud. Still, we drink to serendipity and then, as if to dissipate the slight disappointment and scepticism in the room, life gives us a wink. The man from Adlon has kept his promise….
Dreams really can merge with reality—if you manifest them right. That’s the magic!