My partner and I have been sexually open since we officially became an item almost two years ago. After a few months of intense dating — and a lot of personal work on her part — my partner realized that she was never going to be a sexually monogamous person. She sat me down and shared her revelation candidly, refusing to mince words.
I knew she was something special and could feel myself falling fast, so I sat with myself for a few weeks and wondered: could I be in a non-monogamous relationship? I asked myself a million questions as I tried to find a conclusive answer: What role did sex play in my relationship? What role did it play in my confidence and security? How did it relate to my understanding of love?
I talked to my sisters, one of whom is polygamous, about my thoughts. I’d never been in an open(ish) relationship before and I didn’t know if I could hack it or if I wanted to even try. I took walks around LA, piecing together how I felt on the whole subject. Finally, I realized that I wasn’t losing anything from my partner in the present. We weren’t an item yet, but I felt loved in a way I never had before. I felt cared for and desired and supported. And, in all honesty, had she not told me she was still seeing other people, I wouldn’t have ever known. I appreciated the honesty and knew that this woman would forever be open with me: she wasn’t playing games.
I’ve only told a handful of friends about the parameters of my relationship, and very rarely, if ever, do I go into specifics. My relationship is sacred and I don’t want to show all of our magic to the outside world. Keeping this in mind, I’m often met with side-ways glances from my friends when I let drop that sometimes, my partner and I sleep with other people. “I could never do that,” they squeal as though I’m trying to convince them to convert their own relationships. They wonder aloud (and rarely with tact) how anyone could allow their partner to sleep with other people.
On good days, that part is really simple: I’ve never believed that anyone — other than the soul that inhabits it — has rights to a body. Every time I have sex with another person, whether they are my partner or a one night stand, they are allowing me a visit to their home. I stay aware that this is a privilege that can be revoked at any time, for any reason. If my partner wants to allow others to visit her home, that doesn’t bother me. We’ve exchanged keys and I know my place in her heart.
The work comes on bad days. I define those as anytime my cup isn’t full: if something’s awry in our relationship or I am having some sort of big existential struggle, a little voice comes into my head and whispers that my partner sleeps with others because I’m not enough. Sometimes it says she’s not attracted to me, other times it says I am being taken advantage of. Sometimes it says I should go fuck someone else to prove I’ve still got game or that I could change things up anytime I want. None of these thoughts come from a place of truth, strength, or love. So when I feel them, I go to the one person I trust more than anyone else in the world: my partner. I lay everything out: my feelings, the thoughts in my head, and I admit none of it is logical but it all feels so real. Then we decide how to proceed together.
On more than one occasion, we’ve elected to pivot and approach some aspect of our relationship differently. After talking, we discover new things about each other that allow us to improve how we relate to one another. One particularly bad day, my partner offered to postpone a date she’d booked for later in the week. I told her I didn’t want to dictate what she did and she reminded me that, as much as humanly possible, our relationship and the boundaries we’ve agreed on are meant to ensure us both joy. If one of us is struggling in the relationship, then we put all of our efforts into resolving the issue.
This behavior is one of the many things that validates my choice of partner. She’s never wavered in her commitment to open and honest communication or making sure I feel comfortable with how we exist as a couple.
When my cup is full, ignorant responses to my relationship’s boundaries simply leave me annoyed with my friends for thinking they’re entitled to appraise my relationship.
On bad days, tactless reactions from friends amplify the toxic voice in my head and I’m left trying to defend the existence of my relationship — to my friends and myself. Suddenly, this is no longer juicy brunch talk about what I did last night. I end up exhausted and, more often than not, find myself wishing I’d never opened my mouth.
I want to talk about the less traditional aspects of my relationship: who doesn’t want to discuss sexcapades and weird relationship conversations? But put up against answering overly personal questions from a wide-eyed confidant during what should be a relaxing girls night, sharing my experiences always takes a backseat.
While some friends may read this article and find out about my open boundaries, I stopped informing friends who don’t already know a long time ago. My relationship is amazing and my partner provides everything I spent my life searching for in a significant other. Our relationship isn’t traditional, but we aren’t traditional women.
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