Open-ended: navigating non-monogamy in San Francisco
After six years in an incredibly rewarding monogamous relationship, my partner and I recently decided to open up.
I know: this is a vague statement that can mean a lot of things. Are we having sex with other people? Polyamorous? Monogamish? Relationship anarchists? Going through a phase?
I’m not yet sure what box we would fit ourselves into, but right now, our intention is simply to allow ourselves the freedom to explore relationships with other people.
This doesn’t necessarily mean sexual relationships — it covers any type of bond shared with someone other than each other. Deep, platonic friendships can often be an afterthought when you form a close attachment to a partner, and so we’re encouraging each other to spend more time nurturing these relationships. If something more than friendship comes up, we can have a conversation about it and figure out the best way forward.
There have been some rough patches and a whole hell of a lotta hard conversations, but in the last nine months, I have felt happier and more fulfilled within my relationships with other people than I think I ever have in my life.
I have experienced the feeling of falling too quickly for someone and forgetting about my partner’s feelings along the way; I’ve felt the awkwardness of navigating sexual exploration with new people; I’ve formed more intimate friendships with the women in my community and explored my bisexuality; I’ve become closer to my partner and more grateful for the unconditional familial love we have for each other.
To be brief, opening up has been awesome. But it’s also been pretty fucking hard.
Imagining my partner — the person I have always considered my “soul mate” — being intimate with another person that is not me is tough. We had been unflinchingly monogamous for our entire relationship and until recently, had grown conditioned to the idea of being each others everything. A few of our housemates even gave us the nickname “Dillie” (a meshing of our names), as a testament to our collective oneness.
But we are two different people, and opening up our relationship has been a way for us to reclaim the independence we abandoned when we grew overly attached to one another early on.
A few years ago, the mere thought of being attracted to a person other than my partner made me feel icky. I led myself to believe that I was emotionally cheating if I caught eyes with someone while walking down the street or shot a flirtatious smile to the scruffy barista who kinda looked like Dave Grohl. I had limited my partner to the same beliefs; ones rooted in jealousy and fear. When he broached the subject of us sleeping with other people, I blamed him for not loving me enough and quickly suppressed my own desires for sharing intimate moments with other people. I didn’t want to betray the fidelity and trust that we had spent so many years building.
It took about another year for the subject to come up again. This time we were at Burning Man, a familiar place for open-minded life explorers. We had always joked about the idea of visiting the coveted “orgy dome,” an air-conditioned magical palace where you could partake in sexual acts with a partner or willing strangers. We each secretly really wanted to go but feigned innocent curiosity and having “good stories to tell” as our reasons to.
When we finally made it there, we agreed to keep our sexual experiences limited to just each other. Neither of us had ever even had sex in front of another person and so the prospect of engaging in sexual acts with other people in front of strangers was a bit much to handle.
Once inside, we ventured through three rooms of naked strangers mid-coitus before finding the only surface not occupied by horny burners: a small couch with a white sheet haphazardly thrown over it.
We settled in and got to work on each other, shyly averting focus every so often to other groups of people getting it on. Surprisingly, people remained somewhat quiet — mostly just breathing heavily — until they worked up to orgasm and let out cries of pleasure. Whenever this happened, other groups turned to partake in the site of another person reaching climax.
Sometimes, I would catch someone’s gaze and for a split second, imagine that I was having sex with them. Or I’d hear someone’s enraptured cries and fantasize about my partner bringing another girl to orgasm.
Suddenly, the idea of my partner and I having sex with other people didn’t seem so crazy.
On our last day at Burning Man, we laid out in the sun during a break from tearing down our colorful 1.5 ton elliptical dome and reflected on the previous week. We both agreed that our relationship had reached a new level while on the playa. In previous years, we would often get in arguments when one of us wanted to go on an adventure while the other preferred to hang back at camp. This year was different. We freely left camp when we felt like it and weren’t phased when the other person had a desire to do something that didn’t align with our own wants.
When we returned home from our desert oasis, we did what any sexually hungry San Franciscans would do and joined as many alternative dating apps as possible. We collectively decided what photos made us look our best and googled “gynosexual” when we were prompted to select our sexualities from a menu of options.
We matched with a handful of people (some single women but mostly other couples) and never seemed to get past a couple back-and-forth messages. They’d often say something off-putting like “Can you pretend that we meet spontaneously at a bar? My girlfriend doesn’t know we’re on this app,” or they’d go silent after I asked them out for a bourbon (cold feet or just not into whiskey?)
Finally, my whiskey offer was accepted by a cute artsy couple who seemed to have a knack for sneaking into conventions dressed in cosplay and a similar naivety to navigating open relationships as we had. We decided to meet up at my favorite local watering hole, Lone Palm, at 10 o'clock on a Tuesday night.
When we arrived, we immediately spotted the couple ordering drinks at the bar. This is it, I thought. I’m either about to conquer or ruin my first double date. Saying hello was moderately awkward, but isn’t it usually?
We grabbed one of the white-clothed candlelit tables with a fresh bowl of bar nuts on it and immediately dove into our interests, both in day-to-day life and sexually.
The girl, a gorgeous blue-bobbed siren with full lips and a a cat-eye that could rival Cleopatra, and I seemed to have a bit more in common than the same black velvet choker necklace. Having both been bisexual our entire lives, we hadn’t really had many opportunities to have sexual experiences with other woman. And man, we were craving them.
The girl’s boyfriend, a demure filmmaker — whose affinity for Star Wars was highlighted with a real-life Anakin braid that fell down the side of his neck — lived in Colorado and came out to the city every few weeks to see his girlfriend and catch up with SF friends.
They were charming. And attractive. And I was freaking out a little bit about what to do about it.
When the time came for a third drink, we hesitated. It was barely midnight but most patrons had already left the bar. We were all very clearly dragging out the inevitable. Were we going to suggest going back to our place? Or get another drink and let our inhibitions fall even lower?
Craving a break in silence, I blurted out, “Well, we should go! It’s a school night, after all.”
Everyone, including my partner, seemed a bit taken aback by my sudden desire to go home. We were having a good time and all signs were pointing towards a late night of passionate sex amongst four people. Weren’t they?
We awkwardly hugged the couple goodbye before walking the two blocks home from the bar. That walk seemed more like six blocks, as we played the evening back in our heads and to each other.
“Were you not interested in them?,” my partner asked after turning the first corner home.
“No! I mean…yes, I was. I just wasn’t too sure what to do about it. Shit, do you think they think we’re not interested?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I think.”
“Uh-oh. Should I say something? I should say something, huh?”
“I mean, maybe.”
Suddenly, we were teenagers, riddled with anxiety about making sure to say the right thing after the first date. What if they never texted back? Or worse: unmatched with us?
I quickly typed up my feelings with my thumbs and sent a text to the couple. Turns out, honesty is a pretty useful tool when you’re lost in a land of anxious uncertainty.
A few weeks later, we invited the couple over to our place to watch a movie. If you haven’t already seen Gregg Araki’s Smiley Face, I’d suggest saving your first watch for a time when your mind will be able to fully concentrate on the colorful direction and not whether or not you’re going to end up having a foursome.
When the movie ended, my partner got up and turned off the tv.
“I’d like to address the elephant in the room,” he said with a cool confidence I hadn’t seen him exude since we were in our early twenties.
Before long, we were living out a fantasy I had played out many times in my head when I needed some (ahem) self-love inspiration, but never thought I’d ever experience in real life. In a word, it was surreal.
Our exciting adventures with the couple continued on for a few months, as we all grew closer (both sexually and as friends). At one point, we even began referring to ourselves as “the frouple” when curious friends asked about our unusual situation.
Unfortunately, aligning four peoples’ schedules and emotional states became quite difficult to manage and our powerful quad squad disbanded(for the most part).
Though it was sad to put the frouple to bed (sorry, had to), the experiences my partner and I had in those short months left a lasting impression. We both seemed more confident; more aware; more motivated to grow into our best selves. We no longer felt that we were responsible for each other’s happiness and began making decisions based on our own wants and desires.
Previously, we had always defaulted to the same routine. We’d text each other when we were on our way home from work, make dinner plans, smoke some pot and passively watch an episode of Master Chef Jr. while burying our noses in our phones. Neither of us was happy with this but it seemed right; it seemed safe.
Now, we have defaulted simply to doing things for us; to being a little selfish. We both want our partner to have the best life possible and so why would we get in the way and put unnecessary expectations on them? Now that we have defaulted to “me time” most of the time, the quality of our time when we’re together has grown tremendously. We listen to each other actively, get out of the house more frequently, and have so many more stories to tell each other when we’re reunited.
I want to make one thing clear: I’m not suggesting you start sleeping with people other than your partner or rekindle your romance by attending Burning Man. While these have been incredibly rewarding experiences for me, everyone has different definitions of happiness and thus, we can’t be expected to travel towards it on the same path.
What I do hope you get out of this is a new perspective on relationships and your own independence. A long-term partnership should feel like a well-timed dance: you lean in when your partner leads you and take a step back when they need some space. Sure, they might step on your toes every now and then, but I didn’t say it was a perfectly choreographed dance.
You are your own person. You make your own choices. You are the leader of your life, so go forth and fucking lead it.
