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On the surface she led a quiet and conventional life, at least conventional for a woman in the 1980s. Adding that qualifier meant that her mother disapproved, and that qualifier had been added to more than a few things in her life!
She was divorced, had just turned thirty-six, and shared her suburban townhouse with two cats, Cassidy (frequently called “Mama Cass”) and Jasper, an undemanding, affectionate gray tom. A sedate dark green Honda Accord sat in the two-stall garage, recently paid off after three years of payments. Her closet was full of conservative sweaters, blouses, and skirts, emphasizing her role as a serious-minded, gainfully-employed professional. She was still a practicing Catholic – earning her mother’s approval for at least one thing! – and attended mass on most Sundays. Her freezer contained a carton of single-serving cheese pizzas for a quick-to-grab lunch or supper for those remaining Fridays during the current Lenten season. Until a couple of months ago, she had been a member of a Catholic Singles group which met on Wednesday evenings. The topic of annulment came up frequently at these functions, the only way a divorced Catholic could marry again and remain in good standing with the Church. Unless, of course, the ex-spouse had died. Hers hadn’t, the last she had heard. But, then again, she hadn’t spoken to the man in better than five years.
Peggy eased herself from underneath the covers and padded softly to the bathroom. She could sleep in a little this morning since she was not required to be at the clinic until 11:00. Unfortunately, her bladder didn’t like to sleep in much past 6:00! Jasper silently jumped off the bed and trotted behind her into the bathroom, knowing that enough weaving between her feet and meowing would probably secure his breakfast before his human companion returned to bed.
This had been part of her unchanging routine for a number of years. She facilitated a group therapy session every Tuesday evening and had for most of her years as a nurse-psychotherapist at Franklin Behavioral Health Center. She was almost never home before 10:00 on those evenings, and a later start on Wednesday was compensation for the late night before.
She made a quick trip to the kitchen to pour a cupful of kibble into Jasper’s empty bowl (the one with Psycho Kitty printed on the side, although it had been purchased with “Mama Cass” in mind) and then returned to the bedroom.
”‘Morning, love,” Randy murmured, reaching out to her as she slid in beside him.
It was still dark, wouldn’t be full light outside for almost another two hours, and the house was cool. The bed was comforting with the warmth of his body next to hers. She molded herself against him as he drew her close, pressing her buttocks into that perfect “chair” made by his hips and slightly-flexed thighs as they spooned on their sides. He tightened his embrace as she settled in, and she felt him begin to swell and lengthen, the growing firmness nuzzling her backside. She knew that this Wednesday morning would begin as so many had in the past: drowsy cuddling and whispers, warm fondling and caresses, his expert knowledge of her body bringing her to several effortless climaxes before he finally allowed his own.
All so conventional. All so routine.
But just on the surface.
Her mother didn’t know about Randy in spite of their longstanding relationship, and perhaps never would. Her pastor had been introduced to him as a “friend” after an Ash Wednesday mass several years earlier, a morning service that they had attended together before departing in separate cars to drive to the same office building to begin their workday. Randy, in fact, had co-facilitated that Tuesday evening therapy group with her for quite some time, and they functioned well as a team, consulting on cases with each other and acting as co-therapists in family counseling sessions. Their mutual coworkers realized that they shared a warm friendship, but given the nature of their jobs, that was hardly a surprise. It was not fodder for clinic gossip, and they were not considered a couple in the personal sense, just a well-tuned and sensitive professional team.
Mainly because Randy was gay. Openly gay. Out and proud! as the saying went.
She had encouraged his honesty when he came to work for the clinic as a young man with the ink still wet on his Master’s thesis. She respected him for his courage, his intelligence, his insight. Everyone there had accepted and liked him.
Likewise, he had supported her when she made the decision at about that same time to end her nine-year marriage. That had been a very tough time, and he had been there for her, with a joke, a funny card tucked in her desk drawer, pieces of her favorite candy planted in her coat pockets. Sometimes it was just his caring silence and the warmth of his hand in hers that comforted her. Unlike so many of her friends, he wasn’t afraid to just shut up and be with her!
He was different from the other guys she knew. He was different from the other friends she had. A part of her had attributed this difference, this breath of fresh air, to his gayness. She had never felt so open, so honest, so completely herself as she did when they were debating an issue, winding down after a late Tuesday night group over a chili-burger and a beer at Hinkel’s Grill, or improvising an upbeat piano duet at a coworker’s holiday party.
A gay man had become her closest friend. It was as simple as that.
Or was it?
(Continued here but password-protected to prevent sensitive individuals from unwanted exposure to adult situations, nudity, and frank descriptions of sexuality.)
If one were to read the comments following the post, “Speechless,” one would get a feel for my recent experience on the rather popular dating site I frequent. I frequent this site because it’s free, you can write all the emails you want to any member for free, the quizzes are kind of fun if one is bored, and the blogs can be interesting and entertaining. And did I mention that there are no membership fees and it’s free? Of course, there is also the faint hope lurking in the depths of my soul that I might happen to even connect with a woman on a deeper level, either as a good friend, a lover, or VERY ideally speaking, both. Yes, hope springs eternal.
As I previously said, I found this young gentleman’s blog post on my homescreen sidebar and read it. I read all the comments that followed and continued to read them as they accumulated over the course of the next day to a total of 190. It really got me to thinking about my own history in the realm of polyamory — although I still have trouble even putting that label on my marriage — and how it came to pass that we’ve accepted nonmonogamy as a viable option in our relationship, given that it runs against the grain of what is considered acceptable in our society. I spent the better part of an evening composing my thoughts and committing them to writing. I posted that blog both here and on that dating site’s blog.
I got zero responses to that blog on the dating site, and after roughly 24 hours, I posted my reaction to that in “Speechless.” One gentleman is very popular on the site; in fact, I think he must spend a great deal of time just sitting on the dating site, reading and commenting on everyone’s blogs. Interestingly enough, he is a bisexual man my age and a Twin Cities resident. His profile is well-written. He is obviously intelligent. For those reasons alone, he made it onto my Favorites list during my first week on the site.
Since that time, he has made some blunt, insensitive remarks on my blog on more than one occasion. Sometimes he’s been so far off the mark that I can tell that he doesn’t even read carefully enough to catch the details of what I’m talking about before typing a blunt one-liner. I haven’t really seen any compassion or sensitivity in any other comments he’s made on others’ blogs, either, although generally they’re just one- or two-line superficial comments.
He was the one who said to me in his comment to “Speechless” that the post was too personal and too long, that people respond to “brief and pithy.” My dear friend, Randi Sue, also said that people respond to short, general posts more than the lengthy, complex ones. She herself didn’t know what kind of comment to make on some of the things I write. One commenter to ”Speechless” noted that some of the posts that receive the greatest number of comments are when folks are just having fun, joking around, bantering, and generally partying down on the site.
Well, fine. My error in judgment for even posting it there. I promise, ma, it won’t happen again! Furthermore, I finally did what I’ve felt like doing for awhile and cut Mr. Blunt, the local guy, from my Favorites, along with a mess of other people’s names I’ve collected over my four months there. Not that this has any bearing on anything. They can still view my profile, send me email, and read my blog as long as it’s not a restricted-access post. It just felt good in a useless sort of way to go through and delete the names of people who have contributed nothing to my wellbeing during my sessions on the dating site.
It’s a good thing that it’s free or I wouldn’t be signing up for a continued membership! Since it’s free, however, I may continue to check in one in a while. Like I said, hope springs eternal.
[A continuation of the previous post: "Last Night's Raging Debate."]
My husband and I were young when we got married. I was six weeks shy of my 18th birthday on our wedding day in 1973, and my husband had turned 23 a month earlier. We got married with some conventional, tacit ideas about what our marriage would be like. It was unspoken but assumed that we would be sexually faithful and monogamous. After all, that’s how decent and moral married couples behave. It was accepted as fact that we would eventually have children. All couples did unless they couldn’t. Those two big items were an ingrained part of our upbringing and culture and indoctrination. We didn’t really question either of those issues at first.
But what happens then when the young wife starts to come to grips with her bisexuality? When I first started to become aware of my fluid sexuality, I was a sophomore in high school. I didn’t have a name for it then. I didn’t know how to put it in perspective. I didn’t know what it all meant. I didn’t really think that I was a lesbian, but to be honest, that thought scared me shitless when I was 17-years-old in 1972.
By the time I had been married almost a year, my feelings were starting to make a little more sense to me. I tried on the label “bisexual” to see how it fit, and it felt pretty comfortable. I started talking to my husband about these feelings, which came as no surprise to him since I told him about my sexual relationship with my high school best friend before we were married.
He was supportive and accepting of those feelings. He was insecure, tentative, and a little scared at times when I actually started dating some women in my early 20s, but at no time did he deliver any ultimatums or force me to make a decision about either being married to him or dating a woman.
Oh, I thought plenty about it for both of us during a couple of those years in my early 20s! There was some part of me that was convinced that a person couldn’t really be attracted to both sexes, that a choice would need to be made. And I knew I didn’t want to give up the pleasure of being with a woman! Ergo, I must really be a lesbian and I should just get it over with and file for divorce, thus freeing my husband to be with a woman who could love him without ever thinking of anyone else and I could find my true fulfillment with a woman.
I couldn’t do it. I had plenty of people trying to convince me to do it, but deep in the core of me I knew that getting a divorce wasn’t the solution. I could project at that time what would happen if I got a divorce. First of all, he and I would probably end up back together because the truth of the matter is that we really like each other and enjoy each other’s company. We always have. We share a lot of interests in common and have a similar set of values. I love so many things about him. I’ve never loved a man the way I love him, either then or now. I didn’t want to live without him as a part of my life!
If I divorced and fell in love with a woman and we decided to live together, what then? I knew that I still found certain men attractive. Did I want to live the rest of my life never having that experience of making love with a man again? I didn’t really think so.
The experience of making love with a woman and the experience of making love with a man are two different things for me. Granted, there are similarities. And each experience depends on the individuals involved. But generally speaking, being sexually intimate with a woman has a much different feel, flavor, texture and aura to me than being with a man. They each have their own set of attributes, and one is different from the other. I enjoy them both for what each one brings to my sexual and emotional fulfillment.
Dave did not ever insist that I choose between those two aspects of my sexuality. Instead, he offered me the opportunity to explore those aspects without fear of losing his love and his place in my life. Some “ground rules” evolved, although they were never formal in any sense. Again, they arose from our shared set of values: caring for ourselves and our relationship, concern for the wellbeing of others, the belief that sex should be a part of caring, loving relationships and not a careless, haphazard activity. Our marriage is very important to us, and there is a strong commitment to it for both of us. I put him first in my life, and I always want him to know that. My sexual relationships with women must work well within the framework of my marriage or I simply don’t go there. That has become my Number One rule when considering whether to get intimately involved with a woman or not.
And we communicate. He knows how I feel about who I am, what I’m doing, who I’m seeing. He is NEVER out of the loop. If he has concerns about anything or anyone, I want to hear it. We’ll hash it out.
Polyamory was a word that didn’t exist in my vocabulary back in the earlier years of our marriage. Since that time, I’ve seen a lot of textbook-type definitions of what it is. Those definitions don’t mean a lot to me. What means something to me is the reality of my 35-year marriage. That marriage was built on respect, trust and love. It grew in intimacy because of the sharing of hopes, fears, and desires. What polyamory means to me is the recognition of desires that go potentially beyond the scope of what a single relationship can provide. It is the flexibility to see more than one answer to the fulfillment (or denial) of those desires.
What polyamory doesn’t mean to me is that there has to be more than one person in my life sexually. That isn’t a compelling, burning need. I was monogamous with my husband for a 17-year period in our marriage and was content with that during those years. I was still bisexual; I still talked openly about those feelings and embraced them. It just wasn’t a need during those years to pursue other relationships.
My working definition of polyamory includes the freedom of choice, the freedom to include another relationship as part of our lives if that’s what seems to be the most fulfilling path to take. It is the antithesis of ultimatums, control, demands, and threats. It has been a concept borne of love in this marriage in many ways.
This latest incident — meeting someone, enjoying the experience of meeting them, only to have the next date abruptly cancelled because “I can’t do this!” — brings back a lot of memories. I’ve been down this road before.
In my early 20s, I was actively dating women in the handful of years immediately following our move here to the BiCities. After all, I was prime dating material from the aspects that I was a twenty-something and very attractive! (I’d post a pic from that era to back up that claim, but that would ruin my anonymity, although I don’t think anyone who didn’t already know me would recognize my pics from 1978 or so. Maybe sometime….)
I was doing something similar to what I am now in terms of meeting women — the “personals,” although at that time, there was no Internet. There were Personals printed in the weekly publications, like The Twin Cities Reader and City Pages, that you could pick up in the wire bins in the lobbies of restaurants and bars, student hang-outs at the colleges, other business establishments. At that time, one would write up a Personals ad, fee usually charged by the number of words, and either deliver it in person or mail it to the newspaper. They would print it for the specified number of weeks you paid for. They would assign you an anonymous box number, and you could either have your snail-mail forwarded to an address for a fee or go to the newspaper office and pick it up. You then communicated with your respondents in one of two ways: a telephone call or a written letter, depending on the information they gave you.
This is how I met Rae in the fall of 1978. She was four years older than me, an R.N. with a very intense position of being a neonatal ICU nurse in our large county hospital in downtown Minneapolis, and she lived only half-a-dozen blocks from me. She was living with her male lover who was in his last year of medical school at the University of Minnesota. She had never had a sexual relationship with a woman before but was interested in exploring her attraction.
We got along very well and a sexual relationship did ensue. She even posted a notification in the Twin Cities Reader at one point, saying, “K — I’ve never met anyone as warm and wonderful as you. I think I’m falling in love. Love, R., R.N.” I carried that little scrap of paper with me in my wallet for a long time!
But then things got “funny.” I felt it coming on. The end of that phase of our relationship came on the evening of our six-month “anniversary,” when we went out to a very nice Japanese restaurant and I gave her a card and small gift in celebration. I was driving, and when I took her back to her apartment (she was now living alone, having broke up with the med school guy very recently), she gave me a quick peck, thanked me for the nice evening, said that it was a work night and she had to get some rest, and hopped out of the car. I shrugged, decided then and there that she would call me next; I would make no further invitations.
I did not hear from her. Six months later or so after our date at the Japanese restaurant, another notification appeared in the Twin Cities Reader. It said, “K — Bisexuality is for me a very confusing place to be, but I will always remember and cherish our time together. R., R.N.” Since I was her first woman and she had had a longstanding history with men, including a brief marriage and divorce, I assumed that she had returned to the heterosexual lifestyle and left the unconventionality of bisexuality behind.
More than a year went by since that notification she put in the Reader. Then I got a Christmas greeting from her in December 1980, explaining that she had been in an uncomfortable spot with me a year-and-a-half earlier, but she seemed to be in a better place. She’d like to see me and “catch up.” We then talked on the phone a couple of times and she invited me over to her apartment for a visit. We had a lovely evening together. Just fun! We talked, laughed, caught up with each other, had some hot apple cider laced with a little “holiday cheer.” Just had a nice evening together. As the evening wore on, we sat closer to each other on the couch, and I think there were a couple of rather chaste kisses as the evening drew to a close. Nothing heavy. We wanted to see each other again and talked about doing so.
We talked on the phone a few more times and made plans to get together after the first of the year for a girls-afternoon at a St. Paul former strip club that had stopped featuring “exotic female dancers” but had gone the route of male strippers. We were going to go and laughed at the prospect! I was looking forward to it, just for the lighthearted silliness of it. I needed that in a life that was pretty bogged down with full-time college courses and part-time jobs.
The day before we were scheduled to go to the Payne Reliever (on Payne Ave. in St. Paul), I received a letter from her. (No email then, remember?) She said, “I can’t see you again. I thought I could but I can’t.” I don’t remember what all it said, but it was all kind of crazy. I’ve never had anything affect me like that letter did. It was like a sharp slap in the face, and I burst into tears. I sat there at my desk and cried for quite awhile. Of course, I wrote her back and said that I was fine with being friends; I hadn’t gone into it expecting that we’d be lovers again. I enjoyed her company, and what was so complicated about that that she couldn’t see me again, enjoy being friends with me? I didn’t get any response to that.
THIRTEEN YEARS goes by. A letter arrives. I was still living at the same address I was when we had known each other in the late ’70s, early 80s. (Same address, same husband. Talk about stability!) It had one of those absurd beginnings: “Remember me?” That is such a crazy introduction to a letter when of course you remember this person! It would be like your high school best friend or your ex-fiance in college beginning a letter that way after a lengthy absence. Of course you remember who they are! But anyway, she went on to say that she had actually left Minnesota for quite awhile back in the 80s, had been overseas with some medical group, had been working in California, etc., etc. She had had a couple of lesbian relationships and had been “out” as a lesbian for all that time, much to my surprise. However, she had moved back to the Twin Cities, had gotten involved with a Buddhist Temple (we were alike in that — ex-Catholics who became more Buddhist than anything), met a man at the Temple and married him recently, much to her friends’ surprise. She was reconnecting with a “bisexual” side of herself.
We made plans to meet once again. We went to the May Day celebration at Powderhorn Park in my neighborhood, a celebration that always draws a large GLBT gathering. We went out to lunch a couple of times after that. Talked on the phone. We were estabishing a relationship again after 13 years apart, although a platonic relationship, I presumed.
Then…nothing after a couple of months. No return phone calls. No response to the notes and cards I sent. I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t cry. I had become kind of callused by that point.
Looking in the phone book a year or so later, I noted that her husband was still at the same address she had given me but had reverted to his “maiden” name. They had hyphenated their last names when they got married and both of them then went by the hyphenated name. He was back to being just plain old “Johnson” instead of Robins-Johnson, as they had been listed before, and there was no listing for her. Furthermore, I knew she had changed jobs because I recently had accepted a position at the HMO she was working for, and I knew from checking the employee roster that she wasn’t there. She had done a “disappearing act” again. Taken a powder.
So, yeah, the long and the short of it is that this crazy kind of thing has happened before, the “I can’t see you again” on the basis of a pleasant lunch or a nice evening. For some people, connecting with someone and enjoying a friendship has to be a very complicated thing. For some people, accepting the fluidity of their sexual orientation has to be a very traumatic and confusing thing.
….sigh….
My husband and I, both over 50-years-old, had our annual check-ups recently. The inevitable colonoscopy recommendation comes up at every check-up, a procedure that we’ve both declined to have so far. (No lectures, please. I’m an R.N. with dual degrees in health care fields. I know what the statistics are regarding colorectal cancer.)
We were talking about the pros and cons of the colonoscopy procedure again, a topic of conversation that comes up now and again for obvious reasons. I voiced the opinion that I really doubted that colorectal cancer would be the cause of my death, given my lack of obvious risk factors for it and my clear risk factors for other illnesses.
He said, “Yeah, I don’t think that colon cancer will probably be the cause of my death, either. If anything, I would say that the cause of my death will be a jealous girlfriend.”
“A jealous girlfriend!” I exclaimed. “Whose?”
“YOURS!” he replied.
I laughed until tears threatened to roll down my cheeks!
Of course, it won’t be a laughing matter if it actually happens….
I missed all the Pride festivities here in the Twin Cities this past weekend, but I had a good excuse. I accompanied my husband to his 40th high school class reunion in an Iron Range town about a three-hour drive north of the Cities.
I’ve covered some of the highlights of that event in my general-reading blog. I’ll just relate an enjoyable situation that is best described here in the privacy of this anonymous blog.
The Class of 1968 had a big event Saturday evening in the lobby of an old hotel in the downtown district of the town. We started off with drinks and socializing, followed by a brief program to offer appreciation for those who put forth a lot of effort to make this reunion happen. There was a reading of the names of the 46 classmates who had passed away and a moment of silence for them. (46 classmates was 10% of that class. That seems like a lot of deaths for a bunch who is only 58 years old now. Rather disconcerting.)
Then the browsing at the buffet line started, the drinking continued, and shortly thereafter, the DJ fired up his computer and started “spinning some tunes.”
Now, I love to dance. I always have. I took five years of tap dancing lessons as a youngster and a year of ballet. When I was in my hey-day at the skating rink as a teen, my favorite part of skating was learning the dances with a partner. If my husband enjoyed dancing, we probably would have taken dance lessons over the years in many of its forms: ballroom, country, square-dancing, modern dance, tango, the works! We’d enjoy it and practice together and have fun with it. Unfortunately, this is a “mixed marriage” in more ways than one, and my husband doesn’t dance. I’ve never mastered any of the traditional dance steps, either, because I’ve never had a partner.
What I end up doing at these events is standing on the sidelines, moving and swaying to the music if it ”has a good beat and you can dance to it.” That’s what I was doing Saturday night.
After a bit, a lady approached me and whispered into my ear over the thrum of the music, “If you wouldn’t mind dancing with another woman, I’d be happy to dance with you anytime. Just come and get me!” I smiled and nodded, and she went back to her seat.
Holy cow! I thought. Would I mind dancing with another woman? Hell no! I’d love to dance with another woman! I held back, though, because this woman was an excellent dancer. I’d seen her out on the dance floor with who I presumed to be her husband — and for those of you who know and read my more public blog, this is the man I had complimented earlier that day for being 50 times better looking than he was as a senior in high school! The two of them were obviously accomplished and well-practiced dancers with each other, and they had the moves down! I enjoyed watching them together very much.
I had another drink, told my husband that I had been propositioned to dance by that dark-haired cutie-pie sitting over there by herself while her husband was out socializing with his former classmates. I repeated to him that she told me just to come get her if I wanted to dance.
“So go get her,” was his response. “She’s just sitting over there waiting for you to ask!”
I was intimidated by her expertise on the dance floor, though. I finally did get out on the dance floor with several other women and boogied around for awhile. She was out on the dance floor, too, and sidled over to me. ”You didn’t come get me!” she pouted.
I sat out a couple of songs and then a song I really liked came on. “Go on!” my husband encouraged.
I got my courage up and walked over to her. She looked up at me and I held out my hand. We went to the dance floor together and danced three or four songs together. I really believe that she was eyeing me up, too, and I didn’t mind at all! She was a very attractive, petite woman and I enjoyed looking at her, too, and moving with her on the dance floor.
That’s all that happened, of course.
It was fun, though. It was energizing. And it added some sparks to my evening. I hope that she and Mr. Better-Now-at-58 had a wonderful night together, however they finished it out.
Sometime yesterday afternoon while I was at work, I got an email from Francine. She said, “I could stop over this evening and bring some wine, a movie, and some massage oil. I’m not an expert on massage, but maybe it would help your sore back and neck.”
I pretended that I didn’t see that email in time to encourage or decline such an invitation for last evening. The temptation was there to accept her offer. I’ve been very stressed lately with a combination of a very high workload right now, repetitive strain injuries that are putting me in constant pain, and a low-grade, chronic ache for some physical pampering and TLC. I feel very low and vulnerable right now.
I closed my eyes yesterday afternoon and imagined what it would be like to accept her offer to come over with wine and massage oil. (I knew that in the presence of wine and massage oil, the movie would never be viewed.) Francine and I have had sex on two separate occasions — during the first week of our relationship! It was good sex for both of us on those occasions. I could imagine that the third time would be even better. She was experienced in making love to a woman, and she had given me much sexual pleasure. My mind entertained what it would feel like to share some wine and then take off all my clothes. Maybe a nice, warm bath in the whirlpool would follow with lots of attention to massaging my back and neck as she bathed me with fragrant lather. She would dry me with a large, soft towel, and then naked on my bed, her oiled hands would soothe and heal as she worked the tense muscles of my shoulders and neck. I would give myself over to the ministrations until her kneading slowed and stopped.
Turning over onto my back, I would take her in my arms and kiss her, the inevitable shivers cascading down my spine and arms as her lips teased my ears and neck. Her tongue would run along my collarbone, and soft kisses would trail down onto my breasts. She was fairly aggressive with me before when she squeezed, pulled, and sucked my nipples, and I liked that! I’ve developed a taste for nipple stimulation that is sometimes just to the point of discomfort. It’s highly arousing and I wanted her to do that to me!
By the time she worked her way down to my lower belly, my musky juices would be flowing in abundance, and the merest touch of her lips and tongue to my labia and clit would send me over the edge into immediate and powerful orgasm. It would be the first of several.
But I didn’t answer her email. I didn’t invite her over. One thing didn’t lead to another, and I didn’t have any of that pleasure I craved and imagined.
Why? Because it means something different to her than it does to me in this relationship. We’re in different places with our emotions, and I can’t take from someone like that and encourage her to go down that path of disparity with me. It’s not fair. It’s not caring. Sure, one could argue, she’s willing to give it! You’ve had the discussion. She knows where you’re at with it. She’s an adult and capable of deciding for herself how involved she wants to get in a situation like that. And yet she’s still willing to give you this pleasure! Take it!
It would be oh-so-easy under those circumstances to just take it, to indulge myself in some pleasure. I’d make sure she got hers, too. No worry there. I’m not a selfish lover in that regard. She’d go home sexually satisfied as well.
But to do that, knowing that she wants to be in love with me as well as sexually involved with me, I would have to turn a blind eye to that situation and set it aside for the sake of justifying and indulging in my own needs. She may be a willing partner, regardless of those circumstances, but what would that say about me? Could I be that self-centered, self-indulgent person? Could I be that person who doesn’t want to deal with the complexities of the emotions involved, who places sex on a base plane of acts and physical responses, divorced from the concept of emotional intimacy?
The temptation is there to be that person when I’m feeling needy and vulnerable and achy for all of my own personal reasons. But, no, I’m not that person.
The answer I had to give to myself was no. By omission yesterday afternoon, my answer to her was no as well.
Speechless
July 31, 2008 in Bisexuality, Internet dating, polyamory | Tags: blog comments, dating demographics, popularity | 4 comments
No, no, I’m not referring to me! I’m referring to the others on both this website and the dating site I hang out on. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, this 22-year-old guy wrote a blog post Tuesday evening on our dating site about what polyamory means to him and his wife. By this morning, the comment count was up to 190 comments. Granted, it seemed as most of these people were talking amongst themselves rather than to the blogger, but nonetheless, this fairly simple blog generated a great deal of activity. It probably took the blogger all of 15 minutes to write.
I decided to sit down last night and write my own post about what polyamory personally means to me and my husband. I posted it here and then copied it to the dating site on my blog there. You know what? I got zero comments. Not one. As far as I know, it was completely ignored or never seen.
Why is that?
Yeah, I know. I’m 52-years-old and certainly not in the prime demographics for dating sites. Who wants to even look at the profile of a 52-year-old woman? Who cares what she has to say? She’s old!
Then again, maybe I truly do leave people speechless. I’m sharing my experiences rather than asking for their opinions and advice. Their opinions aren’t going to change the the dynamics of my marriage after 35 years.
I’m not seeking approval or validation for my lifestyle and choices. No one else has walked in my shoes. This journey is mine and my husband’s based on how it all came together for us.
I’m not seeking a feeling of belonging. You’ll never find me joining a group or club that has Poly-Anything in its title.
I’m not out to promote the polyamorous lifestyle or tout its benefits or try to sell anyone on it. I feel that how I conduct my intimate relationship is my own business. It’s a very personal decision that came from the consideration of many factors and alternatives. I don’t discuss it with my coworkers, my casual friends or acquaintances. People know about my nonmonogamous marriage in Real Life on a “need to know” basis.
So, the score? 22-year-old male, married for one month: polyamory post generates 190 comments. 52-year-old female, married for 35 years: polyamory post generates 0 comments.
Go figure!