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I never thought monogamy was for me.
That was, at least, when I believed I was straight.
Being in a relationship with a man always felt somehow disingenuous, like passing off a puzzle as complete when you’ve jammed the rogue pieces into the remaining slots.
Everything looked okay on the surface, but if I stood back and evaluated the whole picture, it became apparent something was out of place.
Perhaps it was a quarter-life crisis, or an itch that had become unbearable; maybe it was the fact I had a boyfriend who never scoffed at any of my asinine ideas, but a couple of years into our relationship, I summoned the courage to ask for an open relationship.
“What do you mean? You want to sleep with other men?” he’d asked.
“No, women,” I’d responded.
His eyes lit up immediately.
“Oh, so like threesomes and stuff?”
“No. Like just me, on my own, going on dates with women that may or may not end in sex. You wouldn’t be involved,” I’d clarified, before adding, “You can sleep with other people too, obviously.”
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