To our surprise, a cascade of media attention descended on our happily anonymous trio. A seemingly innocuous interview conducted by a cub reporter for the influential New York weekly The Observer kicked off the fuss. Over noodles in Chinatown, she asked dozens of intimate questions. Did we hold hands in public, kiss over candlelight dinners? Misty-eyed, she confessed to a secret desire for two husbands: one a helpmate, his opposite a romantic devil.

The cub seemed genuine, we were taken in, and secrets came out. The feature ran in the Observer under the headline "College Professor Confesses: I share my hubby with a pretty lady." It was racy but benign compared to what was coming. The tabloids were upon us! The phone kept ringing and offers for TV and radio appearances poured in. It is unnerving to be recognized on the streets of New York, where the natives crave obscurity. Strolling arm in arm in the Village, strangers stopped us to ask questions that our best friends wouldn't dare.

The lowest form of attack was conducted by a well-known (but not to us provincials!) London tabloid, the Daily Mail, which we have dubbed The Slop Pail. In the Sunday edition a certain Ms. Churchmouse vented her ire against "The Odd Trio." What Churchmouse, along with many others, could not or would not understand is: "Why should any intelligent, independent woman settle for a warped, half-relationship in which she must share her man with a rival?" The assumptions here are clear: Marriage is property, a fortress, that must be defended by the virtuous wife. Never mind the so-called other woman, who must be a slut anyway.

Churchmouse made another common assumption: "It is immediately obvious what Michael — what any man — gets out of a menage a trois." But as Michael spent the next several weeks explaining to the public, via press and the media, the menage was a family from which he had never strayed. He had all the marital and financial problems of two wives on his head, not to mention dealing with the women's moods, whims, and desires. "Hey, Mr. Bigshot," he liked to end his rants, "you think a menage is easy or just fun? —try it!"

It mattered little how we explained our story. Andy Warhol spoke of "fifteen minutes of fame" for everybody. But what about six weeks of notoriety? For a time, we occupied the spotlight usually reserved for super models, movie stars, and serial killers. Goodbye word processors, hello talk show hosts rapacious for sound bites of gossip to serve viewers with the appetites of birds of prey. TV and radio personalities vied to boost their ratings in snickerdom atop the mangled corpse of our relationship. It really is no fun being a star, however temporarily. But we smiled, talked, acted out — all in the name of promoting the book. We forgot about ourselves.

Never mind all the snarling we received. Or the cool disdain from "psychological experts" who were certain a non-monogamous arrangement could never last. (Just what does?). There were some unexpectedly good moments. Joan Rivers interviewed us in an intelligent, fun way that brought out the spirit of our menage. Rivers called for "a cannibal chief to marry all three." And the Philadelphia Inquirer gave us a large, thoughtful spread written by their religion editor.

Our most curious appearance was on Geraldo Rivera's national daytime show. Eager to book us in time for the semi-annual rating sweeps, Geraldo promised the one-hour show would be built around Three In Love. This was before the multicultural wonder boy switched from covering sex to war — nimble footwork considering the course of events. Geraldo knew that the subject of menage a trois would give his studio audience the chance to shoot off their mouths no matter how paltry their sexual experience.

We were seated before the camera in a line: two triads at either end, in the middle a former Playboy bunny and a male physician's assistant. Those onstage got their qualifications on the subject in the trenches. The audience looked like a typical assortment from lower end middle America. For them it was a freak show.

Inveigled by Geraldo, the panelists spoke about their lives, feelings, how it was to raise children (the other set had a five-year-old boy) in a menage. The bunny grew furious — her husband had cheated on her and she thought that was a menage a trois. The audience grumbled and spat nasty comments. An expert popped up who assured everybody such a confusing home environment would doom a child's development. Michael pointed out that George Bernard Shaw and Orson Welles had grown up in a family with two fathers. Most of the audience had never heard of these guys.

Geraldo soon found he was outclassed. He was not used to being upstaged and the program drifted beyond his control. The audience failed to intimidate and Geraldo began to flub his lines. The curse word "shit" flew out of his practiced mouth. The dual menages chatted back and forth, engaging in a lively discussion on a lifestyle on its way to becoming a social movement. The physician's assistant praised a former threesome and wished he could find another. The bunny wiggled away, tail between her legs. Finally, the hour of "adult entertainment" ended.