My boyfriend, Rod, is passionately kissing another woman.

Little fingers of jealousy squeeze my insides, and Im not sure where to look or what to do. The woman senses my discomfort and immediately stops, pulling me up beside her with a big, warm giggle and a squeeze. I relax and remember: This is why I chose her. I like her, I love that giggle, and I know she has absolutely zero interest in poaching my boyfriend.

How do I know this? Because I picked her out of the lineup at one of Nevadas most storied legal brothels. We hired her to join us for a threesome for an hour, and when our time is up, she will go back out to the bar and charm someone else with that sexy laugh, and we will go home.

Id never had a real threesome before, other than some fairly benign fooling around in college. It had been a lifelong fantasy, but the emotional politics of threesomes always seemed so forbiddingly complicated. Surely someone would get hurt, someone would feel left out, someone would get jealous surely, maybe, definitely me? Plus that third-wheel would she turn stalker? Would we get an STI? Would an angry boyfriend show up out of nowhere and make us the unfortunate stars of a true-crime show? Just too risky. So I had resigned myself to the fact that some things are best left to fantasy.

When I met a lover who knew his way around a paid hookup, however, a whole new possibility presented itself. Rod and I headed to the brothel outside Reno, Nevada, to celebrate my upcoming birthday. And it was not at all what I expected.

We took a cab from our hotel in downtown Reno to the brothels bar, all flashy neon outside but classic sticky floors and bare-bones Old West saloon inside. Escorts chatted among themselves on bar stools or lounged on velvet banquettes against the wall. It was early around 4 p.m. and we were some of the only patrons. A few old men sat at wooden bar tables, eating out of plastic foam TV trays and silently sipping beer. Women who obviously knew them would pop by periodically to pick them up, a scene much more akin to medical assistants ushering patients to the exam room than participants embarking on a sexy encounter.

Rod and I were the subject of great interest couples are a fairly rare event and we had many friendly women cruise by our table, asking if we had any questions and offering to show us around. Before we had a chance to chat with anyone in detail, the lineup bell rang, and every patron who had not already initiated an encounter with a woman went through a forbidding dungeon-like door into a cavernous hunting lodge space.

In front of a giant stone fireplace the women lined up. They were every kind of everything all different races and body types and styles of dress. I found myself in a rare moment of simply admiring the beautiful diversity of their bodies without that knee-jerk need to compete or compare myself. I winced a bit self-consciously, however, when I realized that none of them were as old as I was. Would they be turned off by our middle-aged bodies? Wait, was I actually expecting them to be turned on? I was momentarily stumped.