My Polyamory Brought Passion and Freedom on the Verge of 40

My ethical lover lets me break away and feel alive

Polyamory is my savior — a guilt-free way to pursue my contented emotions and desires while respecting commitments and holding onto a sense of purposefulness in life.

I’m turning 40, and as the years pass, my life gets loaded with more and more responsibilities and demands. There is less time to be carefree. It’s not even acceptable for a respected woman my age to be carefree. But why not? I have only one life to live. If I don’t allow myself to enjoy it now, then when? Being carefree doesn’t change my ability to love and care for my family, or manage my projects. It just makes me love living more.

But still, I’m turning 40. I shouldn’t expect to rediscover careless joy or to feel such strong emotions and desire. I have a family and a job. I am happy and satisfied with what I’ve achieved in life...

At least, that’s what I thought before I met him.

I do not even know why I replied to his first message. I was tired from all the same superficial meaningless chats in the dating app. “I’m also in a loving relationship that gets strengthened by our freedom. Would like to share that with you”? That was it — he was not begging me to respond, not commenting on sparks in my eyes nor on the seductive power of my lips and legs. He didn’t expect a date or sex but to just chat — to express his feelings, to share experiences.

I was excited and curious to meet my inspiring polyamorous friend.

I didn’t expect anything from our first date. I hoped to pass a good time, of course. I was also a little bit scared that the connection we developed over chats could wane if physical repulsion arose between us. I’d never been attracted to men of his type — sensitive, feminine, introverted, long curly hair… No, my strong, optimistic character combined with introversion craved for powerful and virile men, who radiated energy and laughter. However, a priceless outcome of my long way to polyamory was a release from the pressure of sexual tension during encounters — I was avidly enjoying meeting new people and discovering extraordinary personalities among them. I was excited and curious to meet my inspiring polyamorous friend.

He was wearing a yellow rain coat, but it was not raining. (He’s like that — wears a rain coat when it’s dry, and lets his other coats soak persistently in the rain, refusing to huddle under an umbrella.)

This yellow coat made it easy for me to recognize him. We were to meet next to the fountain in a square embedded with the charm of ages, cobbles, and cafés, people sitting outside, talking, and sipping cocktails and sparkling water with mint syrup. His hair formed a cloud around his head, a cloud of light-colored curls falling nearly to his eyes, bluish green glasses hiding his greyish eyes and veiling his nebulous intentions.

That’s how we met. I didn’t imagine that our engaging discussions would trigger such passion and desire.

It was on the second date that I dared to dive my hand into that charming silky cloud above his eyes — eyes that enchanted and sparked desire and also longed to bathe in it; eyes that radiated joy and filled the space stretching towards me with bliss.

Those eyes that stripped off my clothes from the start and over time, his hands eventually joining the game. His hands didn’t need eyes — they were the eyes themselves. Hands that loved my thighs, ignored my skirt, ignored the people around us, that preferred the dark corners of bars and restaurants, and the overlooked sections of concert halls and theaters, even empty churches and unknown stairwells.

Our hearts are big to absorb and give love; and I feel that the more I give, the more there is left to give.

His soaked coat would always shield these illicit explorations from the crowd on the street, as his hands reached for my uncovered thighs in the niches of old historical buildings.

That’s how we dated. Fooling the crowd, fooling traditions, too.

Very often we fooled around in youth-filled streets, careless youth, still awake, drinking and laughing. We were on average twice the age of these all-night partiers, but we felt connected to them, though we didn’t want to blend in with them. We too were laughing. We felt free and joyful — just as the others. We fooled everyone, pretending to be as idle as the youth. We knew we were neither idle nor free outside the present moment. But the burden of personal constraints plunged and splattered in the fountain when we met, separating our present from the before and after, making us reckless. We savored every moment of our late-night dates, cherishing every laughter, rejoicing in every kiss, relishing every touch.

At the end of our polyamorous evenings, he’d watch my thighs disappear into the cab, filling the space with a bliss that stretched endlessly between us.

We started by telling stories. And that’s where we are now — still sharing stories — and living one more story together. We live for each other when we meet, being empathetic, helpful, sincere, authentic, and carelessly foolish. We do not project us into future. Even if this story is bound to end, we’ll cherish these moments for as long as they last.

Our hearts are big to absorb and give love; and I feel that the more I give, the more there is left to give.