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You see, I might be a bit arrogant. I love myself. I love what I am. I love every little bit of how my mind and body works (aside from the chronic pain and anxiety). I feel like I’m perfect. Not for my partners, not for anyone else. For me.
Anyone who would choose another over me? Their loss. And anyone who would choose to be with me? Well, clearly, they are so awesome that why wouldn’t others fall for them, too? Who am I to stand in the way of their happiness, since they are doing everything (or at least a great deal) to contribute to mine?
I am fucking Daenerys Targaryen.
You can accept that, or you cannot. After all, it’s none of my business. Enjoy your life, I’ll enjoy mine!
* * *
October 30, 8:30pm
“Okay,start from the beginning, again, please,” she says.
I take a deep breath. I’m sitting at a booth at the kinky munch we go to all the time, the one where I met my lawyer friend? “Yes, so I’m at the center of my polycule, well, polyship? If a relationship isonerelationship, then a polyship is many relationships. Or a polycule, like a molecule. And I’m an atom, and I’m the neuron in the center and all around me are circles where different relationships fall. The closer the circle on which they fall, the stronger the relationship to me. Well, the more committed? The more commitments we share.
David comes round with a lemon drop martini for me and a plate of fries for this girl and I to share. Then he goes off to chat with some of the regulars.
“And I’m dating that guy who just came by, let’s say in a “secondary” type relationship, but pretty strong, so let’s draw one solid line between him and me.
I’m with this woman, let’s call her Giraffe. She and I are both together, and while we don’t see each other every day, we talk every day. She lives with me half the month when I’m in Vegas, and she travels with me frequently. So, let’s connect us with two solid lines.
I’m also sort of dating this guy who is an old friend of mine from home. I don’t know, maybe a wavy line?
Oh, and don’t forget my French comet! A comet is someone who enters your life rarely but stays connected to you. We essentially send each other a happy birthday text twice a year, one for her, one for me…I’ll represent that with a dotted line here.
I’ve had a scattering of women David and I have dated together that, perhaps, let’s put them in bubbles around the edge with maybe a swirly dotted line connecting them to me….and to him… And now, for example, my comet is also married to a man, so I’ll put two solid lines between him and her.
I’m not sure about all the other girls David and I dated, but they weren’t monogamous, except for the one, so with her I’ll add one little line sticking out from her name, like an arrow. The others I’ll add multiple arrows to their name, because they might be dating one or many. I don’t know. I don’t keep track.
Okay, did you get that all?”
She looks a little stunned, but I think she’s got it. I’ve drawn it all out on a cocktail napkin. All nice and neat.
“Who are you dating?” I ask.
“Um. I’m just dating this one guy.”
“Got it,” I say, “We’ll draw a circle representing you, and another circle representing him, and connect both circles with a heavy line.”
“How do you know if people are kinky or poly or such in the real world? Well, the outside world?”
“Oooh, yes. I had lunch the other day with a friend where it came up.”
“Interestingly,” I tell the woman at the booth, “The reason she asked me is that I was talking about consent earlier in the conversation. Vanilla people rarelytalkabout consent. Sexy in vanilla culture is a woman shoving a guy up against a wall, without asking or giving warning, and furiously making out. Talking about consent like it’s sexy is a red flag that they might know something about polyamory or kink.”
I start telling the woman at the booth how much more freeing it is to accept being polyamorous with others who identify as such, instead of dealing with the bullshit to which I’ve been accustomed.
As you recall, I’m clearly a devastating model type with high cheekbones, shimmering hair, and legs to die for. With a wake of crushed souls trailing me. That’s the story we’re sticking too.
A friend’s husband messaged me on LinkedIn. He said we should connect, and he wanted to steal me away to Paris. The land of love. City of love. Whatever. I had met him precisely once. I should have dropped him immediately, but I thought he was kidding. I mean, who messages junk like that and means it? I ignored it. Sent him a message later on a different subject. I never heard from him until he finally said his wife had seen the message and “forbade” him to ever speak to me. I guess that makes sense. I’m quite tempting to the unsuspecting vanilla person wandering across my path. I might have accepted his LinkedIn request.
A seemingly confident wife asked for an open marriage. I felt safe. Six months later, she promptly proceeded to accuse her hubby of starting a decade-long affair with me and conspiring to move me across the world to ruin their marriage. I did the mental math; that would have made me 14 at the start of our “affair.” Some of us killer unicorns start young.
Friends got married, then, like clockwork, I was cut out of their life. I can’t be sure whether these were kills or just unrelated incidents – friendships end all the time.
This kept happening to me to the point where I decided to maybe not invest too much in friends, I suspected might be the marrying kind. Other friends would politely maneuver their significant others away from me, avoiding a more deadly outcome.
I don’t want that, anymore. I want Giraffe, and David, and Dee, and….do I have to list them all again? Just take my word for it.
