Fucking Jealousy
One of the ironies of polyamory is that jealousy often works. I’m not sure if it’s a secret not well kept or something most of us would prefer to ignore or pretend doesn’t happen, but for many of us, a bit of jealousy can go a long way.
We spend time reading The Ethical Slut or some other tome on getting it on with multiple people, and there are entire chapters dealing with how to overcome jealousy, sit with our emotions, and not throw them onto our partners as if it’s their fault. And we read and talk, share, and do our best to feel happy for our lovers when they head out with someone new, often without realizing that the horrible tension that’s building inside us might be necessary.
If she’s out on a date, I’m going to want some the next day, even if I wasn’t otherwise inclined. And if I tell her I’m getting laid on Saturday, then chances are high we’ll spend Friday night in bed, fucking our brains out to make sure I don’t forget.
Polyamory isn’t about creating tension or making out domestic lives easier! It’s about loving and being open, man. It’s about letting ourselves be who we are, love who we may, and not holding ourselves back for some outdated standard of relationship-based ownership that doesn’t work for us any longer.
And maybe that’s true some days. Perhaps we can think our way through it, using our intellects to accept things our hearts don’t always understand.
But sometimes jealousy works for such glorious selfish purposes it’s hard to get angry at it. Some nights, we have to set it down, look it in the eye, and say thanks, you son-of-a-bitch. I don’t need you, but my god, did we fuck hard.
And my god, was it good.
Outdoor Fucking Begins Today
Ninth of May, ninth of May, maybe outdoor fucking actually begins today because it's otherwise been quite chilly and wet.
I don't know if there's an art to sex al fresco. But I do know that desperation is your friend. Needy, whiny, urgent desperation that starts in the head, moves to the chest and then grows exponentially in the groin. The sort of desperation that clouds the brain, ruins your judgment, and finds you pressed against a tree with your dress around your waist as someone opens their mouth between your thighs.
You can, of course, approach it more pragmatically if you wish. Set yourselves a goal, mark out a safe spot, and head out to accomplish the thing for the sake of it rather than out of any real need. After all, it will make a good story, and that's as good an excuse as any. And hey, that rooftop counts even if no one could spot you.
But late at night, drunk on champagne and new love was our favorite. The empty streets of Soho made for a perfect backdrop, and those old iron fences that marked off parks and churches beckoned our bodies in like a sacrament. When she knelt and took me in her mouth, I scanned the background for possible trouble while gripping her hair.
And if she happened to sneak into a dark corner or lean over a low stone wall, her ass peeking from beneath her dress, I'd be behind her and inside her within seconds.
Those moments weren't about coming or letting go. They weren't goal-oriented, but they did make the city ours for glorious moments. They let us give in to ourselves, forget the world around us, and fuck like god intended to at one a.m. on an empty city street.
It's the ninth of May, and the day is warm. The night is warm, too, and the empty streets are calling.
Maybe tonight we'll answer.
Fucking Through Life
Life often gets in the way of sex. By life, I mean little things like the dog climbing onto the bed at just the wrong moment or curling up between us when we go to sleep. Sometimes it’s an early morning doctor’s appointment, a dinner so big it leads to a nap, or simply exhaustion from a long day working.
Whoever said domesticity isn’t sexy was onto something. Maybe you can creep up behind your partner when they’re doing the dishes, run your hands beneath their shirt, and slip into a kitchen quickie before finishing the chores, but I doubt it happens very often. Day to day life makes sex challenging, and the busier we are, the harder it becomes.
It makes me think about how sex requires creativity, much like writing, music, or visual arts. When I want to write, I need silence. Not just in the moment, but before I can put a word down, I need enough slow, peaceful time to let thoughts arise (other than the ones about chores or work or grief).
And sex is often the same way. A little bit of boredom goes a long way. Time to sit and talk without logistics or planning. Time to simmer, as my therapist says.
And the truth is, we all need that anyway. The more we slow down, become less busy, and allow time for creativity (and other things) to arise from the silence, the happier we’ll be.
And the more we’ll fuck.
I enjoyed this one.