Letting Your Loins Do The Talking

There is a part of me that is fascinated by infidelity.  Mostly because I don't understand it.  I see the same story time and time again...  Partner feels neglected in relationship.  Partner has (or seeks) an "opportunity."  Partner either confesses or is discovered.  The relationship is changed forever.  


Perhaps I just drink out of the other side of the teacup but this seems to be far more work than simply talking things out with your partner and working to change it.  I do realize that things are often not that simplistic but even still, cheating and lying (and infinitely changing the fabric of the relationship) seems more emotionally difficult.  Besides, sins of the flesh are morally expensive.  


Is it truly about sex?  Is it about not feeling loved?  Is it about validation that we are worthwhile and/or attractive?  And above all of that, where is the awareness?  Ultimately, I find it disappointing that people give in to carnal pleasures (which are fleeting) rather than examining themselves and the situation to find out what problem-solving can be done.  And, I want to believe that we, as thinking rational human beings, are capable of making intelligent decisions that go beyond our genitals.  


This is especially true in poly situations.  People overstep boundaries all of the time and I find that difficult to watch.  Boundaries are established to make both parties feel safe and if one person violates that because the ego jumped in the driver's seat for a few minutes....  Really?  


I suppose I should mention that I am perhaps a bit abnormal when it comes to sex.  I can appreciate eye candy as much as the next person (and even make construction-site-worthy comments) BUT having sex with said candy is another story entirely.  There needs to be a connection beyond the instant-crotch-messaging.  And it needs to be real.  "Omg, you like Nirvana too, let's fuck" does not qualify as real for me.  (I will note that I am a bit envious of people who can be more free with their sexuality.  I would guess there's something positive for the soul about being so sexually open.  There have been brief moments in my life where I thought I was capable of such things but they have been so short-lived that I never actually tested it out.)


There was a moment in my life, years ago, where I was precariously perched on my moral high ground.  It was in my first same-sex relationship and we were madly in love.  She had come to visit for a week and we were firmly inside that new relationship bubble where not much else exists.  She was married and had established boundaries with her husband prior to visiting.  Sex with me was okay but she was not permitted to go there with my husband.  This boundary was respected until about halfway through her visit.  


The three of us had gone out for dinner.  After a delicious meal and too many margaritas, we returned to my house and things started to happen.  Partially drunk on tequila and partially drunk on a strange brew of love and lust, I ignored that nagging feeling that this wasn't a good idea.  I did my best to banish those thoughts.  Until I couldn't anymore.  At that point, boundaries had already been crossed but I started to feel horribly guilty.  She assured me that it would be fine and she would take care of it.  As much as I wanted to believe her, I didn't.  And it wasn't at all fine.  


The repercussions were awful.  Her husband was furious as he had every right to be.  My mid-20-something brain was caught between trying to be respectful of his feelings yet not wanting to sully the magic of the week we'd spent together.  He demanded that we break up, he sent me nasty emails and he repeatedly called my house and hung up.  We did not break up but it was a very dark period of our lives together.  


Once it had been addressed as much as it possibly could be (and there is a point where it really cannot be addressed further and it's up to the "victim" to process and move on), I decided that I would never again put myself or anyone else in that situation.  To this day, I become terribly anxious when I see things happening that shouldn't and I will often physically remove myself from the situation.  My codependent brain starts ticking on overdrive and it becomes a force of will to stop thinking about it.  


In a book I read recently, the author termed infidelity as "a violation of human connection."  I find that to be such a succinct definition of it.  And sadly...  I think people often think that connection happens downstairs rather than upstairs.                

So, How Do You Three Know Each Other?

We were seated at the welcome dinner at the Hotel Amigo in Brussels on the first "real" night of our vacation.  The tour company hosted a meet-and-greet at the hotel prior to embarking on the ship. The dinner was held in a huge banquet room with large tables which indicated that we would not be dining alone.  


This question was posed to us by one of the females seated at our table.  She was with her husband and they were traveling with another couple (they were seated at our table as well). 


I had reservations about booking a two week trip, let alone a two week trip for the three of us.  Poly is a tricky dance and it's easy to step on someone's feet.  We've pretty well mastered it at home but that's because we all have our own getaway cars.  Hotel rooms, buses, and a riverboat..  I'll be honest.  I was a little nervous. 


Also, traveling with a group, I knew that we would either be asked about our associations or it would become rather clear that we were the Freaky Deaky Young'uns of the cruise.  I did give it some thought prior to our departure.  We are generally open but we all have professional lives and these are types of things that don't lend themselves well to professional credibility and/or client relationships.  While it doesn't impede upon our lives too much, I didn't want it to be an issue on vacation.  


"I'm married to Edward and Stuart is my other partner."  (Names have been changed to protect the terribly, terribly guilty.)  


There was a moment of silence but since I had champagne coursing through my veins, I didn't care.  


The blonde quickly regained her composure and said "I'm not sure I ever heard of that before."  Conversation flowed freely after that point and they *seemed* okay.  Looking back though, I think that the free-flowing champagne was a really good lubricant to soothe any discomfort they may have felt about their table-mates.  


We were friendly-ish with them for the remainder of the trip although one of the couples seemed to be avoiding us.  There was one meal where we happened to sit on the same side of the dining room and within two minutes, they had switched tables.  I could hope that side had a better view but it was suspicious.  (And really?  Was I that much of a threat?  Can you not tell that I LITERALLY have both hands full?  Sheesh.)  


Most of the tour group were older folks (senior citizens and retired) and most of them were extremely friendly to us.  There was one lady who refused to make eye contact with me although her husband chatted me up several times.  


Amongst the three of us, there were really no toasty moments.  We maintained two cabins and two hotel rooms throughout and I think that was really helpful.  We scheduled couple-time in various ports so that everybody had some quality time.  When I was sick in bed with food poisoning, the guys went to lunch on their own and later, took a brief walking tour of Amsterdam to find me some food.  


One of our tour guides made it pretty clear that he'd figured us out but he was very friendly about it.  One evening, I was journaling in the lounge by myself and he said "Where are your boys?"  And, as we were disembarking the ship, he smiled and said "You're a lucky girl." 


All in all, it was a great poly-goes-to-Europe success.  The three of us have traveled together on numerous occasions but this was by far the longest trip together.  Armed with good communication skills, genuine love and respect for each other, and a lot of beer...  we did alright.  

Apathy... The Other White Meat

<insert witty yet touching anecdote about depression here>


I slept well.  I've been eating well.  And yet the only thing I feel motivated to do is to lay on the couch and watch The Real Housewives of Somewhere until my eyes turn glassy.  


Depression is a sneaky son of a bitch.  Sometimes it's triggered by what I not-really-affectionately refer to as Days of Suck.  And sometimes it hovers over you as you sleep just waiting to claim your soul as your eyes open.  (Wes Craven?  Are you listening?  There's a really good movie here.)


My guess is that the yuck of yesterday is still clinging to me like a desperate prom date.  


My husband is leaving his job soon.  He's been gainfully employed for the last 8 months at Seemingly-Profitable-Yet-Sketchy-About-How-We-Make-Cheddar Incorporated.  The company is quickly falling apart as it's business model has become public knowledge and people realize that they are unfamiliar with ethical business practices.  So, for probably the 5th time in 5 years, our health insurance is changing.  We started the process last night of procuring individual health insurance.  I have concerns about being denied and our plan, of course, will not be as good as the plan we're on now. 


I have a number of prescriptions.  And I have several doctors.  And trying to figure how I'm going to juggle this with the current insurance, the possible gap we have between old insurance and new insurance, and getting settled with the new insurance is making my brain hurt.  


So, instead of making lists and spreadsheets to keep everything neat and organized, I'm going for the next best (and far easier) option.  Apathy.  I'm going to swing by the seat of my pants on this one.  It's really the only option as I'm quite confident that trying to figure this all out is The Very Worst Word Problem That You Save Until Last On Your Homework And Even Then, You Still Phone It In.  And trying to actually deal with it would probably make my head explode, like what I imagine would happen in space.  (Having my head explode in space would actually be sort of acceptable because it would be preceded by drinking Tang out of the air.  I just drank Tang out of the air!  What else is left?)


My other partner is currently plagued by an intestinal parasite that he picked up on our recent trip to Europe.  I'm familiar with this parasite because I've been very responsible about watching my Discovery shows about wilderness survival and I know you should never drink stream water that hasn't been filtered or treated.  And yet he has managed to contract it on a luxury riverboat.


I'm going to forgo being productive today and allow depression to snuggle on the couch with me.  We'll eat snacks, watch TV, and possibly read books.  There won't be a lot of conversation because depression is kind of a buzzkill.  We have already cleaned out a closet which was less about being productive and more about seeking the unnatural high I get from throwing things away.  Hopefully by tomorrow, he'll have tip-toed to the next house because I'm not sure I have the energy to evict him. 


Apathy...  Party of None.   

Tick-Tock

I love cats.  I've had cats my entire life and really cannot foresee having a life that doesn't include the moody but loving creatures.  And yet, I understand and respect the fact that there are people in this world who do not think cats are 15 kinds of awesome.


So, why is it that parents have such a hard time understanding that others don't necessarily find their babies fascinating or that baby drool is actually pretty gross?


I am in my 30's-ish.  Which means that many of my friends are in prime baby-making stage and this is, to be honest, a pretty big bummer.  People with whom I've spent many a drunken night and hatched devious, stupid, and silly plots are now choosing to waste the best years of their lives (we're assuming) with a screaming, wiggling, pooping machine.  Let's face it - if babies were available for adoption at the Humane Society, they'd be last.  They aren't furry, they aren't funny (babies in paper bags just don't do it for me), and there's no guarantee they'll take care of you when you're old.  They'll probably give you gray hair, drink your good vodka when you aren't looking and demand you pay for college.


My cats have never asked for an education, don't touch my booze and are much better for my stress levels than a stress-ball.  Occasionally, one of them requires dingleberry removal but I consider that a small price to pay for never having to be a soccer mom or make rice krispie treats because my offspring "forgot" to tell me that she needs them for a school party.
Do I hate children?  No.  Not really.  Well, okay.  Occasionally.  Mostly when I'm trying to enjoy a nice meal and the parents near me are oblivious to the fact that I'm sucking down my margarita much faster than the surgeon general recommends in order to make the screaming go away.  So perhaps it's more fair to say that I dislike inattentive parents.


Because the biological clocks around me are ticking madly, my relationships with certain friends are changing. It's awkward, it's uncomfortable and it makes me sad.  I still love them and want to support their life choices.  But supporting their life choices means wearing my noise-canceling earphones and I'm not willing to do that for an entire evening.  I struggle with feeling like a bad person because I don't want to be around someone's children.  My codependency flares up something awful when I feel like I'm rejecting someone whom I really do love because choosing to spend time with them means choosing to spend time with their child and I really don't have that many free weekends so...


I'm sorry I can't attend your baby shower.  My cat has a dingleberry.

Twinkie, Twinkie, Little Star

I've read the books. I'm watched the TV shows. I've processed the rare documentary. And yet, I can still say without question that I'm NOT one of those people who claim that love has no boundaries and that being poly is “natural.” For me, poly is about as natural as the existence of a Twinkie. (And if we're debating shelf-life here, I'd say the Twinkie wins by a long shot.)

Living out of a suitcase isn't natural. Remembering who you're fighting with during an argument isn't natural. Booking a vacation for 3 people isn't natural. Planning out each week and weekend so that everybody gets a piece isn't natural. And cock-hopping, fun as it may be, isn't really natural either.

My therapist told me once that I have probably the worst combination of personality traits for this type of life. I'm neurotic, insecure, codependent, suspicious, easily overwhelmed and have more abandonment issues than a red-headed adopted kid. If you wiki “Inappropriate for Poly”, you'll probably find my picture, street address, list of local haunts and favorite color for the sole purpose of avoiding me. I'm bad at managing stress, I cry easily and inexplicably, I feel left out of events that I've been invited to and choose not to attend. So, what the fuck am I doing here? That's a really good question.

I like the idea of poly. And I am unfailingly practical. As much as the 5- year-old princess inside of me wants to subscribe to the idea of “The One”, my 30-something-year-old self knows pragmatically that this isn't real life. And the people who think it is end up on Dr. Phil or Swift Justice with Nancy Grace. “He told me I was his everything. So of course I did bookkeeping for his meth lab and co-signed on a car loan. We were going to be together for-ev-er!”

The problem is that my practicality and abandonment issues regularly duke it out in the somewhat neutral space between my head and my heart. (My clavicle is starting to get irritated but is so far being patient.) It often resembles a Mexican stand-off until one of them gets annoyed and goes for a beer run.

I wish reconciling these things weren't such a struggle. It really throws a wrench into my containered-organized-labeled life. I'd love to send them each to their corners to “think about what they've done” but we're well past that. So, for now, I do my best to keep everything afloat, somewhat organized, marginally contained and make sure there are plenty of drop cloths.    

I Know You Are But What Am I?

I still find it difficult to identify as poly... probably because my life doesn't resemble that of most poly folks I know. I really have no hippie tendencies other than long flowy skirts and a yearly trip to Burning Man. I don't play any role-playing games and know just enough about them to make fun of them. While I occasionally fantasize about communal living, I'm a pragmatist at heart and know most homes don't have enough room for more than one masturbatorium. I enjoy meeting new people but Shiny Thing Syndrome is rare for me. I don't participate in the local fetish community, don't attend “play parties” and it is ridiculously difficult to get me into bed. Granted, I realize there are generalizations here but those of you with any exposure to a poly community probably have some inkling of what I speak.

 

I'm a very emotionally complex person and in spite of (or maybe because of), I really try to keep my life as simple as possible. My version of simple probably differs from that of the average bear as I am lucky enough to have two husbands. I recognize that the thought of having two men in my life might engender dirtiness and naughtiness abound. A bedroom strewn with silicone animals, a rainbow of lubes, and a St. Andrews cross where the dining room table should be. Yeah, not so much. There have occasionally been evenings that might make a Mormon blush, but the reality of my poly-life is strangely un-exciting. We go to movies, out to dinners, art museums, and take vacations together. At least once a month, we have “Family Day” which includes camping out at one of our homes with movies, games, and home-cooked food. Although I have frequently joked about being The Vagina Timeshare, it's all quite disturbingly, boringly wholesome.

My life works. It's an odd amalgamation of three people who are kind of similar and kind of different and content to exist in the unconventional family that we've created for nearly 5 years.

And I suppose that's a large part of why I really have no desire to expand it. Yes, I know this is taboo in Poly-Land. I know I'm supposed to want to experience all life has to offer in the form of love and genitals. (Have I mentioned I don't much care for buffets either?) I'm know I'm supposed to want to send my husbands lovingly off to the nearest band of horny cheerleaders and cook breakfast for them all the next morning as I tenderly pick pieces of pom-pom out of their hair. I could be fairly accused of being addicted to stability. Stability and I could easily ride off into the sunset and then perhaps go out for a steak dinner followed by cuddling. I am, indeed, that girl.

Despite my wicked attachment to stability, I am aware that trying to hold onto it is akin to saddling Gary Busey. I know, in the back of my mind, that there is the distinct possibility that things will change. I am also aware that the only constant is unmerciful change. I know that my white knuckle grip on the reality I know can always be whisked away to the land of Ha-Ha-Look-At-The-White-Girl-Cry. You'd think this would change my outlook. While I am continually working on “letting go”, I yams what I yam. Pretending I am anything but someone who has an unhealthy attachment to office supplies is counter-productive. Besides, who ELSE is going to color code the toothbrushes?

Don't Eat Here

 Although I've been poly for years, I'm still akin to the waitress who says “You probably shouldn't eat here.” You'd probably get up and go somewhere else, right? I mean, if the waitress advises you to jump ship, there's a pretty good chance she knows what she's talking about.

As do I. Don't get me wrong. There are most definitely parts of my life that do not suck. There are some pretty fantastic parts of my life that are all because of poly but it is definitely NOT an easy, rock-less, hill-free hike. You need really good shoes, a LOT of water and more patience than will easily fit into a standard size Camelbak.

I see a lot of poly folks suffering from Shiny Thing Syndrome. They're easily distracted, slightly addicted to the excitement of new relationships, and more likely to be listening to the less than ethical governing voice of the naughty bits.  

Sufferers of STS seem to be more frequent than not and honestly, I think it's begun to encompass the culture of poly. This kind of behavior strikes me as incredibly immature (and annoying) because it doesn't seem to value the work, fortitude, and occasional counseling sessions that go into making a long term relationship work. Shiny isn't always better. In fact, shiny gets dull pretty quick. Shiny often turns into game-playing, power struggles, and the realization that ADHD isn't always a lovable quirk. And, it's even worse if YOU have lost your “shine.” Because nobody's gonna dance under a dull disco ball.

Being in ONE long term relationship is hard. Granted, if it's an uphill battle all of the time, you should probably reevaluate your reasons for staying in the relationship, but overall, it requires work. Sometimes a lot of it. Sometimes not as much. And you don't get a work schedule. You're on call all the time because at any moment, either of you could decide NOW is the time to finally hash out the proper way to install the toilet paper roll.

Multiply that by your own level of masochism.

Now you're on call for multiple jobs. Multiple “discussions” about toilet paper rolls. Multiple therapists for multiple sessions about how to resolve those issues that keep coming up. Multiple schedules, multiple food preferences, multiple fighting styles and multiple ways to royally fuck this all up.

It's enough to make anyone's head spin. It's enough to make you question your sanity (past and present). It's enough to force the question of whether having your nipples twisted in a dungeon for the low, low price of $100 an hour MIGHT just be easier.