Editor’s note : As part of her series My Year as a Finstagram Model, the author details how she came into identifying sexually as ethically non-monogamous (ENM) and how she’s used social media to better screen, select, and foster healthy romantic non-monogamous partnerships. The author describes her partners as trees for both anonymity and symbolism. So far we’ve learned about Birch, Sequoia, Oak, and Elm. The series additionally includes adult content and photos available via subscription.
It’s probably close to 5 in the morning and I’m still a little tipsy from the two bottles of red wine Sequoia and I had consumed several hours earlier, but I knew this drill well. I have to go. I feel — I don’t know — panicky.
Basked in a mix of moonlight from the bedroom bay window and the candlelight flickering on the nightstand, I carefully climb over the man wrapped in a flannel blanket next to me. I contort my body awkwardly to try not to wake him.
“Damn, he’s sexy when he sleeps,” I note with a lustful sigh as I resist the urge to stroke the salt and pepper whiskers on his face again. But I have to stay focused so I can get out of this room and go home.
I’m feeling strange. It’s not like it was with Birch where I felt like his house was my own and that I could do what I wanted and go when I pleased. The agency I had to walk around naked as Birch’s neighbors peered in the windows made me feel like a fucking goddess. But here, in Sequoia’s tiny dark bedroom, I felt trapped.
I search for my black lace teddy on the floor of his bedroom, locating it somewhere near where it fell the evening before as he peeled it off of me. I begin thinking about how much I enjoyed his hands and lips all over me and catch myself. Remember, you’re not staying the night. Make a graceful exit.
“Where are you going?” Sequoia rouses from his still slightly inebriated sleep. A used condom still clings to his penis. I remove it tenderly and throw it in the trash, then turn back to him nervously. I start to search for some reason, some excuse, but none come forth.
“Uh… I gotta, do things tomorrow…” I reply hastily, with little effort to cover my lie. The truth was, I didn’t have to go anywhere at all and his body and his bed were so warm and comfortable. But I have to get out of here.
I lean over to kiss Sequoia goodbye.
“You should stay,” he requests sincerely with a hint of loneliness, or at least that’s the tone I pick up.
“Fuck. I guess I could,” I reply to my own surprise, his kiss immediately dissolving my resolve to get the hell out of there so I can go home where I’m safe and no one sees my flaws.
But I stay. And it isn’t awful. We sleep in for hours. We have more sex. We watch a football game in bed. I tell him stories about working for the NFL that season. He cooks eggs and tells me about his boys. I notice how much I like the way his voice changes when he’s bragging about them.
“Gifted,” he says. I smile at how proud he is.
It’s creeping well into the early evening and Sequoia and I finally part ways. I’d fully overstayed my welcome and I just didn’t care. I could think of nothing better than how I’d spent the last 18 hours. I skip through his yard like an excited child and climb into my Jeep. I blast the heat and the radio. My woman-brain sings with delight. I stuff down my girl-brain fears about whether I’d been satisfyingly attractive to him or if I’d farted in my sleep.
I sit for a moment in my Jeep and ruminate about my vulnerability: Sequoia wasn’t polished the way Birch was. Despite our 98 percent compatibility rating on OK Cupid, Sequoia wasn’t someone I’d normally date. Sequoia was — for lack of a better word — just a regular guy. Birch wasn’t. Birch was special. But I’ve seen and tasted all the best life has to offer so material things and superfluous banter don’t impress me much. Not that the banter with Birch was superfluous. It was exhilarating. But something about Sequoia felt more real, more grounded, more peaceful. It was an energy that I craved more of as I drove away from his house, wondering how to proceed from here.
Were it a contest between Sequoia and Birch where the victor would get my love and affection, it’d be a hard one to officiate. They both made me feel so good in such different ways. Sure, Birch and I were an easy match — he a successful entrepreneur who can jet off to the islands at a moment’s notice to seek sanity and I a freelance writer with a hot bikini and a desire to be his shipmate. I could have sailed away into the sunset with Birch. But on the other hand, Sequoia felt right too.
The monogamous version of myself would have to make a choice. But that’s not how I live or love. Not anymore. I don’t have to choose, so I won’t.
Hm. This could get interesting.