Misadventures in Open Relationships
Or what happens when your fuck buddy throws you a wicked curveball!
A dozen years ago I was unlawfully detained in the Arab Emirate of Bahrain. I say Emirate despite the fact that the Amir upgraded himself to King in a fatuous attempt to make himself the equal of the Saudi monarch. To keep things in perspective, at the time that he did this the economy of Bahrain was about the same size as that of Wichita, Kansas so a true equivalency would be the Mayor of Wichita. What’s that old story about a fly floating down a river on his back with a hard-on shouting, “Open the drawbridge ’cause I’m coming through!”
I was under a travel ban and not allowed to leave the country. The US Embassy was worse than useless. Trust me, unless you are politically connected or have a high profile, the US State Department will do nothing for US citizens abroad who have a problem with the local authorities. They view such people as a nuisance getting in the way of their cocktail parties and foreign adventures.
In order to cope with the stress of not knowing what the outcome of my situation would be I imported a very attractive and highly promiscuous Anglo-Irish woman from London that I knew. Is it only the Brits? She immediately started shagging her way through the social fabric of Bahrain, British Expats, US Navy personnel, Bahrainis both Sunni and Shi’is and of course Saudis.
She was like a kid turned loose in a candy store, with a perpetual post orgasmic grin on her face. When Brits get exposed to sunlight they often go wild, British women in particular go gaga for sex. British men just carry on drinking like they do back home. Americans seem to carry their puritanical baggage with them wherever they go and end up spouting pablum about how foreign travel ‘opens the mind’. For British women, foreign travel opens a bottle (or two) of Pinot Grigio and then their legs.
One particular incident that occurred highlights the emotional perils that one can experience in an open relationship when the woman has full and complete license to do whatever she wants with whoever irregardless of the potential consequences.
One night, Sarah went out with a girlfriend. I was exhausted and went to bed. The next morning, she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Close to noon I got a text saying: “I’m a bit disoriented. I’m in an apartment that looks like ours but isn’t ours. Fortunately for me the walk of shame is only to the elevator.”
What had happened was that she had come home drunk at about 1:30 in the morning and had, unbelievably, picked up a guy at the elevator while they were waiting for it to arrive. When she wanted to operate, she really could. All I could do was roll my eyes in a mix of disbelief and all knowing. The only thing that I was bothered about was that since he lived in the same building, I figured that the smell of pussy emanating from the 8th floor would soon have him sniffing around our door. I didn’t mind the sexual escapade but didn’t want to have to endure that kind of intrusion. She realized how I felt and said: “I get it. You mean you shouldn’t shit in your own backyard.”
“That’s what I mean.”
I can’t remember the exact chronology, but Sarah was leaving the following Friday morning, and had arranged to see this guy on Wednesday evening. She asked me if I’d come out with them to see what he was like. I agreed — on the condition that her last night would be spent with me. She said of course it would be. Somewhat irritatingly this new fellow had the same first name as me, and she kept referring to him as Glenn Part Two, which at least brought some humor into the situation, but not really all that much.
On the Friday the week before she was to leave, we had been out boating all day and then out to dinner. I was bushed and went home to bed. After a while my wife called me on Skype. During this call I heard Sarah come in. It took a while for the call to finish. When I came out, I said to Sarah: “Please come to bed with me.”
“I’ve just arranged to go downstairs and see Glenn Part Two.”
“Cancel it and come to bed with me.”
“I can’t. It’s done.”
So, I said alright, and kissed her on the mouth.
“Don’t. I don’t want to smell like another man.”
“Goodnight then.”
So, I went back to bed and tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn’t. I was lying there thinking: “Don’t sweat it; just let the girl have her fun.” Then I started to get a bit irritated. I swear it wasn’t about the sex. What irritated me was that I realized I had never directly asked her to put aside one of her playmates for me until that point. This was the first time that I had asked her to do something like that — and she wouldn’t.
Here is the crux of balancing matters in an open relationship. It isn’t always about the sex. I was never emotionally discomfited by her having sex with someone else, particularly if I also had a partner. On those few occasions when I didn’t, I did become disgruntled and slightly resentful of her going out and having sexy fun while I stayed in the apartment twiddling my thumbs and watching TV. That only happened a couple of times and I came to the conclusion that the best way to snap out of that negative mentality was to call up one of the very many accessible young women who lived near the US Navy base for exactly that purpose of distracting a man from his woes, dark thoughts or his girlfriend’s louche escapades.
However, in this instance I just stewed in my resentment which grew with the passing of time. In the morning I went out to fetch our laundry which added to my irritation as I was now reduced to some kind of servant.I was not in a good mood. When I brought the clothes in, she said: “Your face is like thunder.”
We had a fight. She said in anger:” I don’t want to be your mistress anymore.”
The next day things were more settled, and we went out to have a very nice lunch at a restaurant done up in an old wind tower house. The weather was beautiful and after some wine we were pretty much back to normal. I said: “I’ll tell you what, if you sleep with me on Monday and Thursday, I’ll top up your Christmas fund, and I’ll go out with you and Glenn Part Two on Wednesday as agreed.”
She put out her hand: “Deal!”
After a pause she said: “I don’t understand you. You don’t have any problem going out with us together. You organized Mohammed for me. Why did you get upset the other night?”
“I had agreed to those things. We had discussed them in advance. I hadn’t agreed to you seeing him last Friday. I suppose that it has to do with me having a measure of control over what is happening sexually. By being involved in your sex life to some degree it makes it possible for me not to be jealous. I got angry because I asked you to do something for me and you wouldn’t. I suppose to make all this work for me I need to feel like I’m your priority.”
“You are my priority.”
“Thank you.”
This seems to me the crux of the matter. In order to make a sexually open relationship like this work there needs to be two balances. One is reciprocal sex. In other words, if one is getting it the other needs to as well. The other balance has to do with power. In this regard, both parties need to have an occasional veto power so that no one ends up with a feeling of being taken for granted.
So, I went out with Sarah, Glenn Part Two and one of his friends to listen to a band playing in one of the three-star hotels nearby. The band wasn’t too bad. The bar was. Navy and Saudis. The fellows were civilian contractors to the Navy in their mid-forties. They were dull as ditch water. (As an aside I’ve always used the phrase ditch water. Sarah said, ‘dishwater’. I’m not sure which is correct or if this is an American/English usage difference or if I just made up ‘ditch water’.)
Sarah sat between us and seemed absolutely delighted. She was like a little kid we had taken to see the ice capades or something. She kept clapping her hands and smiling. I had seen her like this before on one occasion. About a month or so previously we were at home, and she wanted me to tell her the story of our relationship, which I did. It was sort of like telling a child a bedtime story, only with a lot of very adult activity thrown in. It included drawing a pie graph of how many orgasms she had had with me and how many she had had with her other partners. She possessed an interesting combination of immaturity and hyper-maturity. I still haven’t figured out the origin of this. The girlishness on display in the bar was quite endearing, and it was impossible to stay mad at her. It was clear that any sex between the two of them was, in her mind, only play. So, when she went to the bathroom, I turned to Glenn Part Two and told him, “Sarah told me she wanted to spend some more time with you so I’m going to take off now.”
When she came back, I said my goodbyes and excused myself. The following morning, she walked into the apartment and announced: “That was the first time I’d been with him when I was sober. I hadn’t realized how boring he was.”
I just laughed. It was a useful lesson in a way, though. I learned that it was always best to give her a long rope. She always came back in the end and was more appreciative both of my tolerance and of me. Besides, I didn’t have the physical stamina to fuck her every single night, and I was getting plenty from her, so why sweat the byplay?
Our last night together was sweet. After we finished making love I rolled on my back, and she rolled on top of me and slipped my cock back inside her and said: “I love you.”
It was the first time she had said it first, and it made me feel very good.
I then told her: “I’m really sorry I got upset the other night. I offered you a completely open friendship and it’s more important to me that I know who you really are and that you are comfortable in being truly yourself with me. As a token of that openness, I want to present this to you to use with who you choose when you get back to London.”
I presented her with a package of Viagra. She had told me that one of her lovers back in London really enjoyed taking it when he was with her. I knew that she was going to fuck him when she got home, so I thought it was an apt gift that put everything back in its proper perspective.
The next morning, she flew back to London in her sexy Agent Provocateur shoes.
To be continued … Maybe.
