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Abstract

Badly.</li></ol><p id="5696">So yes, suddenly, I have imagined what it would be like to have a sexual encounter with a partner who is in an open relationship. It would have to be someone I trusted, liked, and had a little spark with, of course. But I can imagine it. A nice weekend of sex and eating in bed and then he or she heads home and we’re back to our normal lives and incredibly…<i>nothing much else happens.</i></p><p id="f0f7">Could I do that? Have sex without all the buildup around creating a life together? Have sex without a commitment, without dreaming about what we’ll do together <i>next </i>weekend? Have sex with someone who might have had sex with their committed partner the day before and who might have sex with them again the day after?</p><p id="7a2e">Ummm…<i>yeah</i>. I think I could.</p><p id="ce9f">I realize that for many people, this is already part of their sexual routine. But it’s <i>completely unknown territory </i>for me.</p><p id="72d6">Unfortunately, I can already hear the objections. Despite coming from a very open-minded, liberal background, my family members are extremely conservative about relationships. They aren’t comfortable with my friendships with men. They are suspicious of the men I have met online and fear I will be victimized (and in one case, admittedly, <a href="https://readmedium.com/how-i-found-myself-in-the-middle-of-an-emotional-affair-eaab4e92ff22">they were right</a>).</p><p id="f46e">And they believe in monogamy. I don’t think they’d approve of anything but a monogamous relationship for me. I have the feeling if I had sex with someone who is in an open relationship, my sister would shake her head and say, “You’ve always had such low self-esteem. You just don’t understand that you deserve a relationship that gives you everything you want.”</p><p id="1567">While I wouldn’t be able to argue with her assessment of my self-esteem, or with the fact that I deserve everything I want, my argument is with the idea that any one person could give that to me. Or that I should have to wait to have sex until I finally meet an available partner. (I mean, shit, that could take <i>years</i>…) In the meantime, would it really be evidence of low self-esteem for me to enjoy sex with a <i>semi</i>-available partner?</p><p id="ba46">I’ve always been a very passionate person. I use the term “fall in love” a lot because I feel it accurately describes my feelings even when the object of my affection is not a lover. <a href="https://psiloveyou.xyz/the-unexpected-love-of-my-life-2a8b12e305ea">I am “in love” with my nephew</a>. I am “in love” with some of my friends. <a href="https://readmedium.com/what-i-mean-when-i-say-im-pansexual-a27441ac829c">I am “in love” with nature</a>.</p><p id="c837">And yes, I am <i>genuinely </i>in love with many people. The butterflies-in-your-stomach, sparkly, electric kind of love. The <i>I-might-sleep-with-you-if-I-could-but-I’m-happy-to-just-be-friends-if-I-can’t</i> kind of love. I’m not sure I ever even thought of this as an oddity until recently since I’ve been asking people pointed questions about love and sex for the benefit of my writing.</p><p id="87ed">But is it <i>actually </i>an oddity? While many people have insisted that it is, I don’t think so.<b> I think humans fall in love all the time. </b>I think we’re so oddly invested in a particular vision of monogamy as this perfect, virtuous expression of love that we pretend we <i>don’t </i>experience love and attraction outside that structure.</p><p id="24b0">I’ll always argue though that attraction and love are part of our biology and part of our spiritual journeys. We were made to love, and yes, to fuck. In that sense, polyamory seems ever more logical to me. Or at least monogamous relationships that are flexible enough to let other love interests grow and evolve — with or without sex, depending on the agreements made by the participants.</p><p id="a105">I feel like I am exploring these uncharted territories with some of the relationships in my life in platonic ways, in clumsy baby steps. I don’t know what I’m doing. Not at all.</p><p id="798f">There are no examples of anything but tradi

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tional monogamy in my life. And to be honest, I find that frustrating. What a difference it would have made for me to see different expressions of love and relationships as I was growing up.</p><p id="2893">Recently, I read an article by <a href="undefined">Holly Bradshaw</a> called <a href="https://readmedium.com/monogamish-fear-and-longing-2459704a51f">Monogamish Fear and Longing</a>. I was shocked when I found tears coming to my eyes as I read it. She described her evolving sexuality in a way that was so familiar to me — a slow emergence of the desires that are coming to the surface for her and the conflicts that come with that.</p><p id="4605">I both wanted to hug her for her bravery in embracing herself so fully and also offer to hold her hand just in case she’s scared as she travels through this unknown territory. Okay, that’s a total lie. I want to hold her hand because <i>I’m </i>the one who is scared.</p><p id="8e15"><b>Why does this feel so scary? </b>Lots of things come to mind when I ask myself that. I’m afraid of what my family will say. I’m afraid that what my family says will turn out to be true. I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I’m afraid of hurting someone else. I’m afraid of the mess I will make because <i>I don’t know what I’m doing.</i></p><p id="74d1">And I’m afraid because somehow, this makes me feel like I don’t really know who I am, I don’t really know what I want, and I sure as hell don’t know how to <i>get </i>it.</p><p id="5866">I mean, yes, I would <i>love </i>to experience a monogamous relationship again — this time with more openness about revisiting the terms of our agreement on a regular basis. But also, I want to be able to love who I <i>already </i>love. And I want to have sex without having to wait for someone who <i>might </i>be willing to walk a longer road with me.</p><p id="1ee4">And more than anything, I want the freedom to be able to experience my sexuality the way I want — even things I don’t know I want yet. I want to hold on to my sexual sovereignty and <i>never let it go or give it away to anyone else ever again.</i> Even if that costs me a relationship or a sexual experience.</p><p id="daf8"><b>Who does this make me now?</b> And who knew how much my sexuality was tied to the way I saw myself? And what’s my future going to look like when I can’t set an intention for what I want? When I have all <i>kinds </i>of things I want? Is my lack of clarity going to ensure that I end up with nothing, at all?</p><p id="9585">The truth is, in some ways, I feel like I don’t know who I am or where I’m going. The light spilling in from those castle doors is blinding me.</p><p id="2623">But behind it, I know in my heart, is a horizon that stretches out forever in endless possibility. No, there’s no map, but maybe I’ll learn to be comfortable just in the act of exploring.</p><p id="9c48">© Yael Wolfe 2020</p><div id="6ba7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://psiloveyou.xyz/how-im-cultivating-platonic-intimacy-through-non-sexual-touch-12ee0ed54422"> <div> <div> <h2>How I’m Cultivating Platonic Intimacy Through Non-Sexual Touch</h2> <div><h3>Loving touch is so important in every relationship.</h3></div> <div><p>psiloveyou.xyz</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*hHC8jisqrvMW2EPrCFqSqA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="2a00" class="link-block"> <a href="https://psiloveyou.xyz/a-love-letter-to-my-future-beau-ee2ade863e76"> <div> <div> <h2>A Love Letter to My Future Beau</h2> <div><h3>All the things I want to say to you…before we’ve even met.</h3></div> <div><p>psiloveyou.xyz</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*L9IEtM3TqCm9qigwWaqx-w.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Searching for My Identity as My Sexuality Evolves

I still want a monogamous relationship, but I’m also opening to more — even though that scares me

I always thought if there was a good candidate for monogamy, it would be me. I’m great at compromise. I can make sacrifices for the good of the team. In fact, I’m a little too good at compromise and sacrifice.

I guess the truth is, monogamy is a comfort. Emotional connection and intimacy are very important to me. I love the opportunity of depth that can be achieved in a monogamous relationship. I love knowing someone so well that I can guess what they’ll do or how they’ll respond to something. I love letting someone know me so well that I feel I can let down my guard and just be myself.

And the sex? The sex in monogamy that so many people seem to complain about? I love it.

I find myself nervous and awkward in those first few months of sex with a new partner. Getting to know someone like that is sometimes scary and for me, as introverted as I am, it doesn’t come with the thrill that so many other people seem to enjoy. It’s mostly just anxiety and desire mixed together in a strange cocktail that I can’t stop drinking.

But a year in? That’s when it gets good for me. That’s when I finally start to drop my fears, my hesitations. That’s when Wild Yael starts to come out. She wants to try new things. She wants to ask for more.

I start to feel safer the further in I get. I don’t have to struggle with jealousy (for the most part). I don’t worry about STIs or STDs. Pregnancy is far from my mind because we’ve already worked out reliable methods of contraception.

So yes. I enjoy monogamy. A lot. And I think I’m fairly good at it.

And yet…I’m not sure that’s where I’m headed.

Have you noticed that people in our love-obsessed culture always say things like, “You’ll never find a relationship until you know exactly what you want,” or “If you don’t set the right intention about finding a new partner, you’ll never meet one”?

Je-sus. Could there be more pressure about this? Like I, as a single woman, don’t already feel pressure? Now I have to know what I want and set intentions? Shit.

The thing is…I don’t know what I want anymore. Something happened to me since I turned 40. My mind started to open, like two heavy castle doors slowly creaking wide, letting in more light than I could take in at one time.

I saw monogamy failing so many people, I started to wonder why we were so intent on holding on to this structure.

Suddenly, I understood why people were bringing third parties into their relationships. Suddenly, I understood why polyamory was becoming more mainstream.

What really shocked me, though, was finding myself open to sexual experiences outside of a monogamous relationship. I really need trust and some emotional connection in order to be comfortable having sex with someone, but if I did have that and the potential partner was in an open relationship…could I? Would I?

I have been stunned to discover that with certain boundaries and agreed-upon expectations, yes, I would probably have sex with someone who was in an open relationship.

I’m not sure what’s changed that has opened me up to that possibility. A number of factors, no doubt:

I’ve come to celebrate and honor the fact that as a human, I need sex.
I’ve been looking for a monogamous relationship for the past five years and have yet to meet an unmarried potential partner.
And honestly, to circle back to Factor #1, it’s been a while and this lady needs to get nailed. Badly.

So yes, suddenly, I have imagined what it would be like to have a sexual encounter with a partner who is in an open relationship. It would have to be someone I trusted, liked, and had a little spark with, of course. But I can imagine it. A nice weekend of sex and eating in bed and then he or she heads home and we’re back to our normal lives and incredibly…nothing much else happens.

Could I do that? Have sex without all the buildup around creating a life together? Have sex without a commitment, without dreaming about what we’ll do together next weekend? Have sex with someone who might have had sex with their committed partner the day before and who might have sex with them again the day after?

Ummm…yeah. I think I could.

I realize that for many people, this is already part of their sexual routine. But it’s completely unknown territory for me.

Unfortunately, I can already hear the objections. Despite coming from a very open-minded, liberal background, my family members are extremely conservative about relationships. They aren’t comfortable with my friendships with men. They are suspicious of the men I have met online and fear I will be victimized (and in one case, admittedly, they were right).

And they believe in monogamy. I don’t think they’d approve of anything but a monogamous relationship for me. I have the feeling if I had sex with someone who is in an open relationship, my sister would shake her head and say, “You’ve always had such low self-esteem. You just don’t understand that you deserve a relationship that gives you everything you want.”

While I wouldn’t be able to argue with her assessment of my self-esteem, or with the fact that I deserve everything I want, my argument is with the idea that any one person could give that to me. Or that I should have to wait to have sex until I finally meet an available partner. (I mean, shit, that could take years…) In the meantime, would it really be evidence of low self-esteem for me to enjoy sex with a semi-available partner?

I’ve always been a very passionate person. I use the term “fall in love” a lot because I feel it accurately describes my feelings even when the object of my affection is not a lover. I am “in love” with my nephew. I am “in love” with some of my friends. I am “in love” with nature.

And yes, I am genuinely in love with many people. The butterflies-in-your-stomach, sparkly, electric kind of love. The I-might-sleep-with-you-if-I-could-but-I’m-happy-to-just-be-friends-if-I-can’t kind of love. I’m not sure I ever even thought of this as an oddity until recently since I’ve been asking people pointed questions about love and sex for the benefit of my writing.

But is it actually an oddity? While many people have insisted that it is, I don’t think so. I think humans fall in love all the time. I think we’re so oddly invested in a particular vision of monogamy as this perfect, virtuous expression of love that we pretend we don’t experience love and attraction outside that structure.

I’ll always argue though that attraction and love are part of our biology and part of our spiritual journeys. We were made to love, and yes, to fuck. In that sense, polyamory seems ever more logical to me. Or at least monogamous relationships that are flexible enough to let other love interests grow and evolve — with or without sex, depending on the agreements made by the participants.

I feel like I am exploring these uncharted territories with some of the relationships in my life in platonic ways, in clumsy baby steps. I don’t know what I’m doing. Not at all.

There are no examples of anything but traditional monogamy in my life. And to be honest, I find that frustrating. What a difference it would have made for me to see different expressions of love and relationships as I was growing up.

Recently, I read an article by Holly Bradshaw called Monogamish Fear and Longing. I was shocked when I found tears coming to my eyes as I read it. She described her evolving sexuality in a way that was so familiar to me — a slow emergence of the desires that are coming to the surface for her and the conflicts that come with that.

I both wanted to hug her for her bravery in embracing herself so fully and also offer to hold her hand just in case she’s scared as she travels through this unknown territory. Okay, that’s a total lie. I want to hold her hand because I’m the one who is scared.

Why does this feel so scary? Lots of things come to mind when I ask myself that. I’m afraid of what my family will say. I’m afraid that what my family says will turn out to be true. I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I’m afraid of hurting someone else. I’m afraid of the mess I will make because I don’t know what I’m doing.

And I’m afraid because somehow, this makes me feel like I don’t really know who I am, I don’t really know what I want, and I sure as hell don’t know how to get it.

I mean, yes, I would love to experience a monogamous relationship again — this time with more openness about revisiting the terms of our agreement on a regular basis. But also, I want to be able to love who I already love. And I want to have sex without having to wait for someone who might be willing to walk a longer road with me.

And more than anything, I want the freedom to be able to experience my sexuality the way I want — even things I don’t know I want yet. I want to hold on to my sexual sovereignty and never let it go or give it away to anyone else ever again. Even if that costs me a relationship or a sexual experience.

Who does this make me now? And who knew how much my sexuality was tied to the way I saw myself? And what’s my future going to look like when I can’t set an intention for what I want? When I have all kinds of things I want? Is my lack of clarity going to ensure that I end up with nothing, at all?

The truth is, in some ways, I feel like I don’t know who I am or where I’m going. The light spilling in from those castle doors is blinding me.

But behind it, I know in my heart, is a horizon that stretches out forever in endless possibility. No, there’s no map, but maybe I’ll learn to be comfortable just in the act of exploring.