Born-again Monogamist

Thoughts on Commitment and Fidelity from a Former Relationship Anarchist Control Freak

I'm Abigail, sextech leader, born-again monogamist, and mother of two. I love love and am fascinated by romantic relationships. I like to think of Happy Endings as an interpersonal peep show that showcases my relationship as a reminder that love is alive and well. It's sometimes soppy, sometimes sexy, and will always make you feel something. (Not guaranteed for those who are emotionally constipated, chronically hard, generally insensitive, or psychopathic.)

Rated PG13

Over the last year, a single piece of glitter has been haunting me. I thought everyone knew stray glitter flecks meant infidelity; The 90s version of a lipstick stain. But my husband didn’t get that memo. 

“You have a piece of glitter on you,” I accused.

“Do I?”

He didn’t get the point. Naturally, an obsession with spousal fidelity followed.

I could thank the extra estrogen (as I was pregnant when the glitter stalking began), fueling the extra rapid connection from nervous stimuli to my (irrationally) rational conclusion. Picking reflective plastic crumbs up off my husband's side of the bed and creating a path with them. I could thank the cave women before me, encoding common fears for the impregnated and vulnerable. What I couldn’t thank, surprisingly, was the overpreparations we’d had on this exact topic.

Before The Over-Preparations:

See, the person questioning the extracurriculars of the partner with whom she spent 23.5/7 had introduced herself as a ‘Relationship Anarchist’ on their first date. Love - an unlimited resource, right? Why should it be hierarchical, controlled, and contained? I was in open relationships for longer than not. A year or more spent as a third to a married couple to kick things off. Then later, years spent exploring connections with many, whilst simultaneously engaged in a prolonged post-engagement situation with a former fiance. (Youth does have a way of glamorizing the messy, and blurring all constraints, chiefly longevity. Time, unlike love, is a limited resource. It seems otherwise before much passes.)

The Over-Preparation: 

It felt necessary to define the extra-romantic parameters with the person with whom I was interested in becoming a co-parent. So I enforced a punishing prerequisite for cohabitation and coexistence - a trilogy of excruciating conversations that cut to and through all emotional relational wounds to establish a blood pact on our ‘openness’ stance. 

We agreed that we would be ‘open to being open’. But openness like that of Olympic membership - exclusive and gendered. Gendered in that only one of us would potentially partake (me), and the participants with whom the partaking would occur could not be the same gender as the non-partaking partner (male).

These foundational discussions facilitated the building of our partnership, but they bare absolutely none of its weight. Despite pre-clarifying our notions around adultery, it still weighs on me. So I remind myself - we discussed this at length, before either of us had any reason to deceive. I know how his heart works. I’ll protect his. And he’ll help me not over-protect mine. 

Subconscious Self-Protection:

Maybe it was the glitter, or maybe it was the hormones, but I started having dreams that my husband was cheating on me. 

I dreamt he was sharing romantic texts with a posh blonde cougar from the English countryside. I dreamt he offered a blowjob to his colleague for $333 over airline beers. And in my dreams I’ve witnessed Joe’s identifiable body in vigorous romps with headless women.

The unfaithful weren’t only in my mind. Lately I’ve been a magnet for all things adulterous. One - I binged the Miranda July novel, All Fours, before even knowing the initial premise (spoiler: an affair). Two - I found myself seated on a barstool alongside two midlife women lamenting the inevitability that is the other woman. Their stance - accept it, just set your boundaries. For them, that was ‘keep it out of the home.’

The arrangements adults desire or tolerate are equal in my eyes. So long as they’re both happy, or at least not unhappy. Of course it’s difficult to be happy within a relationship that includes the ownership and control of another (which is, of course, historically embedded in the institution of monogamy and marriage). But this isn’t about that. This is about the needling (and needless) worries that accompany a contented mind.

Me, the born again monogamist, thrilled in a deeply connected relationship, still spends idle and sleeping moments pondering joy’s demise. I'm that lady in the streets, and a freak for control, who takes connection and parenting seriously, and thus, realizes I’m powerless against the nature of genuine connection. In longing for that connection, no matter what previous ideologies she’s touted or which preparations she’s had, she knows she’s letting go of control. That welcomed unraveling might provoke unwelcomed reactions. Self destructive thoughts. Feverous dreams. 

I could clench up, and resist this resolution. But I refuse to let control win over commitment and connection. And so, a final battle of control - against itself - occurs within. Like how Buddhists say you vanquish desire - by desiring to do so.

Evolution of the Mind Fucker:

Miranda July’s narrator in All Fours, considers herself a “mind-rooted fucker:” A person who depends on fantasizing instead of physical feeling (a “body-rooted fucker”) to feel pleasure. This is also my origin story. 

I can say confidently, from the other side, that mind fuckers have worse sex. The orgasms are smaller. The process is less pleasing. Mind-based pleasures are shallow. Embodied fucking takes depth. It takes a slowed mind, and an unclenched body. All of which requires an unlearning of control. Which necessitates a feeling of safety. Preferably alongside someone you love. Someone who’ll humor you through the oral surgery of conversations.

Love begets better sex - nothing new. But saying that sex gets better in relationships is an oversimplification. A couple can better understand each other, of course, but the real improvements come when individuals learn about themselves. And what I’ve learned in rebuilding comfort with monogamous partnership, is far deeper than even embodied sex. It’s the vulnerability of being all in.

See, I believe the intimately mind-rooted are often control freaks. And control freaks, in an interest of self-protection, find challenge in commitment. They give up the former for the latter, if it's constructive. Even if my conscious mind sings que sera sera, my subconscious mind fears losing Joe.

I have another similarity with this All Fours narrator - we are sexual psychics. (Perhaps for all the years spent sexually stuck in our minds.) Before I’d ever experienced an intimate liaison, I could tell my friends exactly how their lovers acted when they were aroused. People's sexual interests are not as private as many would like to think. Sexuality is downstream of self. Naturally, it just takes a bit longer to notice your own self down the stream. 

In bed, or otherwise, we’re byproducts of our consumptions, our choices, our fears, values, traumas, our stars alignment at birth, and our comfort without control. We can toss our hands up and let the cards fall where they may, we can keep our hand to ourselves to avoid risk, or we can play the game. I choose to play. To change. To soften my grip, bit by bit. Yes, it comes with some weird dreams. But it also provides great orgasms.

Commitment Consciousness:

The eve of our elopement, I sat alone on our veranda overlooking Gibraltar Bay. The sun was setting. The big ships were coming in. Or going out, I don't know. Joe was in the shower. And as if cliches animated, I thought, “One dick. For.. ever?” 

Did I really think we’d beat the odds and be together forever? Did I really think Joe meant it when he said, “you can fuck who you want but not if they have a dick.” Well, yes, I did. But I also knew everyone changes. Everything changes. If we’re lucky. And why worry about what may or might not happen? I just knew. In my bones. In the realms of collective ‘one dick lament’ consciousness, that Joe and I were meant to marry. So we did.

Here’s another cliche. Relationships are hard. But I believe it’s the individuals, within the relationship, that take the most work. And if both keep at it, the “we” part is better off.

I’d love to love as deeply as I can. Like, to a ridiculous depth. The sort that takes time to reach, self reflection to welcome, and practice to make the progression less painful. (The primal brain got us this far. After all, it has our survival's interest at heart). So I suppose I have the subconscious to thank. 

The stalking glitter was a microplastic opportunity for self-reflection. To notice my fear and remind myself I am safe. And in being drawn to All Fours, I could see another mentally-oriented intimate-being and know for sure that I’m changing. And those dreams about Joe cheating… I always knew they weren’t premonitory. It doesn’t take a sexual psychic to say so. It’s just Joe. He’s had his favorite shoes for twenty years. 

I’m all in with Joe. He’s changing too. He wears sandals sometimes. I trust that we’ll head where we need to go. One day we will laugh at those useless foundational conversations that were once so important to me. I had so little understanding of the connection that can come from ridiculous time and fidelity. And how when I asked him to not let me overprotect my heart, I’d only thought that meant from pursuing others, but really it meant from myself.

Observation Soundtrack*:

*Yes this is an ironic choice. Monogamy is troubled, but I love it.