My wife and I tried polyamory — here’s what it taught me about love and choice in relationships
Six years ago, my wife and I decided to open up our relationship.
The plan was to allow for other sexual partners outside our marriage, but to remain committed; to stay together, as life partners, lovers and friends.
We did not want to leave one another, nor did we want the status quo: a monogamous marriage, where having sex with someone else would mean cheating.
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Instead, we hoped that by allowing one another the opportunity to get our needs met elsewhere, we might ease some resentment and create more breathing space at home. Under these new rules, infidelity no longer meant simply having extra-marital liaisons - but just meant lying about them.
Things evolved naturally as time went on. What began as us becoming “monogamish” (a term coined by writer and podcaster Dan Savage to mean mostly-monogamous-but-sometimes-not) then evolved into polyamory (enjoying more than one romantic relationship simultaneously, with the consent of all parties involved).
It was an exciting, eye-opening journey. And also, at points, quite difficult. There were jealousies, insecurities and anxieties to navigate throughout, which were fairly equal on both sides. Perhaps it is natural to immediately take it personally when a partner expresses desire for someone else. I still don’t know if it’s my social conditioning (towards monogamy) or my extremely emotionally-driven nature, but I never been 100 per cent comfortable with the idea of my partner having an amazing, sexual or romantic, night out with someone else.
(Kaleido Shoots)
There were certainly something erotic about it, though. I explicitly recall my mixed feelings upon kissing goodbye to my wife as she went off for a first date with a new intrigue, dressed in a sexy outfit and with hair coiffed. On the one hand I was happy; she looked beautiful and was a bit giddy and, though it was bizarre to get a view of her from this viewpoint it was also thrilling - her energy was fun and loving, too - I was reminded of how she presented when we first met.
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On the other hand, I felt angry and abandoned, left at home to wonder what she would get up to and with whom, exactly. Was I not good enough, I worried? What if she decided everyone else was better? Would she come back to me, as promised. Or might she get carried away and stay out, leaving me to wake alone, next morning?
It was much easier when we were both on the same page, exploring together on specific nights, so that nobody was left at home. Yet life isn’t always like this: sometimes one person is in an adventurous phase whilst another is recovering from work burnout and hasn’t the energy to go and date. I never foresaw how many minefields there might be around contact with others, too, and remember well the deep upset I felt when my wife was in a particularly enamoured liaison outside the marriage. She couldn’t put her phone down at lunch. Or in the afternoon or at dinner.
In her defence, I had another partner then too, so perhaps she assumed I didn’t mind. But after several requests that she have more boundaries around her phone, I finally lost it. This was one of the toughest aspects of our journey into non-monogamy, not so much the sex with others as the obsessive contact. I could never have foreseen that. It still pinches my skin, to remember.
I had mixed feelings sending my wife off for a first date — it was thrilling but I also felt abandoned
We also faced a more external challenge in that we had to disentangle ourselves from our social conditioning, having grown up (as most of us do) with a supposed relationship ‘blueprint’: the idea that there is a gold standard around relationships - heterosexual, monogamous and between two people only – and that to do anything other than that is to be ill-fitting.
I realised quickly that this was nothing like the first time I came out, as gay, back in my mid twenties. Back then, most people around me were supportive and just wanted me to be happy.
This time, however, it seemed they were far less tolerant. Now that my wife and I were not simply opting for a same-sex relationship but deviating from a more widespread and supposedly entrenched norm in our society (monogamy), there were clear social consequences.
(Hodder & Stoughton)
I was surprised and hurt by the harsh judgement we received from some of those closest to us. Some people were subtle, showing their disapproval by staying silent when I tried to speak about the highs and lows of being ‘open’. I didn’t receive sympathy or offers of support, as I might have done if I was speaking about more traditional marriage troubles.
Others were more explicit, with one loved one telling me that my wife and I would “totally screw up” our child by having other lovers, however ethically we did it. Another loved one felt the need to reassert that he and his partner were not available for “this weird kind of swinging”.
Six years on, I still haven’t ever tried swinging. What I have developed is my ability to be in fulfilling, loving relationships. Since opening up my marriage, I believe I am a better lover, partner, and friend than I ever was when I was unconsciously monogamous (or, monogamous-by-default).
The lessons I have learnt, both from engaging in conscious non-monogamy and talking to those who do it, have been huge. I am a clearer and less defensive communicator. I am less judgemental, and more empathic. I am quicker to adapt to change and less frightened of it. I am less dependent on others to provide me with a sense of security and better able to provide it for myself.
From the people I interviewed for my new book Love and Choice – a radical approach to sex and relationships, I have gleaned that no one size fits all and that, there are, in fact, many ways to skin the proverbial relationship cat.
Take Hannah, 44, a Relationship Anarchist (a term coined by Swedish activist Andie Nordgren) I met, who believes in zero pre-conditioned hierarchy around relationships and who has taught me to question my own relationship pecking-order. Just because you are a family member, it doesn’t mean you are more important to Hannah than her lover, and just because you are a lover does not mean you’ll ever come before an old friend.
Choosing conscious monogamy has made me less defensive, more emphatic and better able to provide security for myself
Then there was Alex, a heterosexual man in his fifties, who manages five loving relationships with different (polyamorous) women, each of whom has their own space in his heart. He taught me that it is possible to love different people in different ways; more love equals more love. Love is abundant, not limited.
Sandy and Jon, a couple in their late forties, made me think about how to love more generously and without fear. They have been in a very happy, committed open relationship for more than a decade. For them, sexual non-exclusivity has helped to deepen trust, not break it. “For us, trust means that this person loves you and has your best interests at heart,” Sandy explains. “I know that Jon can have an incredible night with another woman, or a man, and it doesn’t have any impact on how he feels about me. I know this because I’ve experienced the same thing. The idea that lust is finite just seems so odd! Like there won’t be any left for my partner just because I allow myself to express lust for someone else.”
It is not just questioning our ideas on what trust means in a relationship that is important. What also matters is how much we can trust ourselves to stick up for our own needs. Every person I met who is successfully managing more than one romantic bond simultaneously, for example, respects good boundaries. They need to know when they require time alone, or must say ‘no’ to someone else’s request, even when it feels hard. Surely everyone could learn this lesson, monogamous or not? People-pleasing and agreeing to things you don’t want to, or can’t, do, are sure-fire ways to build resentment, which rots any relationship from the inside-out.
(Daniel Hambury/Stella Pictures Ltd)
Perhaps the most important lessons I learnt from the consciously non-monogamous community were around clear and decent communication. Negotiating time and space with different lovers requires you to upskill, and fast, around expression of desire and needs. I learnt that we can all communicate both constructively and destructively and that whilst the former builds interpersonal bridges the latter can blow them up.
Destructive communication can include ignoring, shouting or passive aggression. Constructive communication, however, even for those in conflict, means being able to have, rather than avoid, difficult conversations. It means being able to express oneself – our hurt feelings, perhaps – without needing to accuse and blame. For example, I’ve stopped expecting those close to me to read my mind, and instead try to explain my mind to them. To do this, I’ve had to be more reflective and more curious about how my mind works and my triggers around certain words, people or situations.
The polyamorous community have also taught me practical tips for managing successful relationships. Cody, Janie and Maggie are a happy ‘throuple’ (three-person relationship) in their thirties. They have been together for five years and credit this with their Sunday afternoon ‘relationship meeting’ where joys and grievances are aired.
In this meeting, they can stop resentments in their tracks and deal with problems as they arise, leaving the rest of the week for romantic pursuits instead of arguing. Why shouldn’t we plan and care for the upkeep of our relationships as we might our beautiful home? I wondered. Why shouldn’t we check in, with a monthly or bi-annual appraisal?
Few of us relish having tough conversations – it’s hardly easy to be upfront and say, “When you did this I felt X and Y”, but these kinds of discussions are crucial for maintaining intimacy. Everyone should carve out time for this, I realised, whether they are monogamous or not.
Recently, I have returned to monogamy. After years of exhilaration, drama and bliss, I wanted to pause, and rest, and think, and to explore the deep intimacy that can be created with just one partner (at a time). Experiencing conscious non-monogamy changes a person, and not just sexually, and I needed time to process that without adding more complex experiences to the mix. This is nothing like the unconscious monogamy of my past however, since it is a very individual, conscious choice made in full knowledge that there are other viable, ethical options - options I suspect I will pursue in future.
Explore your thoughts - and don’t self-censor
Never censor your own thoughts: they are messengers from within and you don’t have to act on them unless you want to and are ready. This is particularly true of sexual fantasies: allowing yourself to mentally explore without swooping in to judge or quieten yourself is one way to uncover hidden desire and help you get in touch with what you might choose, if you feel able to.
Think about - and challenge - the sex and relationship ‘blueprint’ you grew up with
What were the rules your parents, and society, taught you about what loving relationships should look like? Was monogamy very much ‘the only right way’? What are your current beliefs around sex, particularly around what you are or are not allowed to think/do/seek/want/reject/ explore?
This might include a long, wordy description or it could be a few lines, a diagram or a sketch. If you have an inkling as to where these beliefs originated, write that down too.
Make a list of ‘shoulds’. Then change them all to ‘coulds’
Take a piece of paper and write everything you think relationships should be, involve or avoid. This might include things like ‘relationships should be monogamous’ or ‘partners should live together’.
Address areas like desire and sex explicitly. What do you think sex should look like? Should it always involve orgasm? Does it always have to be done with a regular partner or is casual sex just as fulfilling? And what emotions should you be feeling towards a partner? Is it ok to feel angry? It is all right to ask for space?
Write down everything you feel you or your partner(s) should be doing, thinking or feeling in a relationship Then look at it and wonder: can I replace the ‘should’ with ‘could’? What would I choose, if I felt able to?
Lucy Fry’s book ‘Love and Choice: A Radical Approach to Sex and Relationships’ is available to buy now
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