Is Threesomes a Precursor to Open Relationships?

 Is Threesomes a Precursor to Open Relationships?

I let my boyfriend sleep with another woman five years into our relationship.

 

It wasn’t that monogamy wasn’t working. We were a committed, happy couple who liked each other's company, laughed at stupid things, and had anal sex. But we were 27 and itching to do something insane, anything to make the march to 30 feel less like a death march. A threesome felt like a nice place to start: thrilling enough to push our sexual boundaries, yet harmless enough in the long run if things went tragically wrong.

 

We weren't the sort to approach ladies in bars, and the idea of asking one of our buddies seemed too strange. Later that summer, at a friend's party, we met a young art student. She was the free-spirited sort, the type that wrote poetry and spoke openly about spirit animals. She had light-brown hair and a welcoming grin. She stroked my arm and asked if I'd be prepared to proofread her art competition application. I pushed my partner into a wall. "This is the end!" I excitedly whispered. We spent most of the night conversing with her, and at the conclusion, we asked for her phone number, vowing to continue our interesting discussion about the pros and disadvantages of palmistry over a drink the following week. As we said our goodbyes, she leaned in and kissed me on the lips – a brief, chaste kiss, similar to one between two close girlfriends. But it did, I thought, reveal some unspoken longing.

 

We followed through on our promise and invited her out for cocktails the following Friday night. I'd spent the majority of the day huddled up in a ball on the couch, refusing food and water. Darryn had done everything he could to calm my nerves. "You do realize you don't have to have sex with her if you don't want to, don't you?" I wanted to have sex with her, but I was also somewhat terrified. What would I say or do in that situation? I was heavily reliant on drinks to guide me. We met her in a posh bar by the ocean and worked our way through the beverage menu until someone — most likely me — suggested we go dancing. We hopped in a cab, arrived at the club, and within 20 minutes, I was kissing her on the dance floor. I left to have another drink, and when I returned, she was having sex with Darryn. "Do you want to come back to our place?" I yelled in her ear after 20 minutes. She laughed and said she'd always wanted to sleep with a couple. "Well, now's your chance!" I said, swaying slightly.

 

We passed out at dawn after spending the next four hours in a frantic tangle of sweaty limbs and crumpled bed linens. Darryn served scrambled eggs for us and we sat cross-legged on our balcony, excitedly discussing the night before. I admitted to myself, and later to Darryn, that the sight of him going down on another lady was sexy to me. I'd had little cause to reject the common opinion on monogamy - that it was the only way to have a happy, healthy relationship. Suddenly, that viewpoint appeared to be hopelessly incorrect. What did it mean when I said I liked seeing my spouse have sex with another woman? Why wasn't I envious or insecure?

 

For the following few months, that was all we could talk about. We took pleasure in our own immodesty at every chance — over coffee, at the bus stop, and at dinner. We felt as if we'd been let in on a tremendous secret, and we were laughing at the ordinary mortals who hadn't experienced its exhilarating power.

 

The goal had been to continue seeing our art student acquaintance, but she found herself a guy a few weeks later. Finding someone equally free-spirited would be difficult. I joked one night about hiring a high-end escort. We laughed about it for a few weeks before giving it serious thought. The more we thought about it, the more enticing it seemed, both practically and in terms of giving us a pretty good story. We spent a week looking online for a reputable escort agency — the price per hour was a good indicator — and eventually landed on Karen, a leggy brunette. There was no online booking form; you had to phone and leave your name, credit card information, and hotel information. Making the decision felt terribly immature to me. I couldn't even sit down because I was too frightened, and I had to bite my arm numerous times to keep from giggling. We reserved a posh hotel in town and met Karen in the foyer the next night. We drove her up to our room, me giggling the whole time because I'd defied Darryn's advice and drunk half a bottle of red wine to ease my anxiety. She politely broke the ice with a story about a recent animal-rights march she'd attended, and after admitting she didn't care for Jonathan Safran Foer's current collection of essays, she asked if she could blow up my partner. In her honor, I raised my glass. She was gone in two and a half hours, with half our monthly wage.

I had to leave town for employment a few weeks later. Darryn called me one night and said the art student wanted to hang out. "We'll wait until you go home," he explained. I considered it. "What if you and she hung out – alone?" I proposed. Darryn was taken aback by this. I explained that I was interested in seeing what would happen. I definitely enjoyed watching Darryn with the other women, but how would things feel without me in the room? So far, we'd been extremely mature about the situation. I was willing to take some chances.

 

The art student, it turned out, still had a boyfriend, so she wasn't looking for anything more than a casual drink. The fact that this news disappointed me was a revelation in and of itself. Darryn and I decided to try out an open relationship when I arrived home. How many people are embarrassed even to consider the possibility of sleeping around? We were ecstatic about the idea. The only "rules" we established were that we would not actively pursue someone to sleep with and that we would tell each other everything.

 

A few months later, an out-of-town old friend paid me a visit. I'd always had a thing for him — Darryn knew and tormented me incessantly about it — and since he was single at the time, I figured why not? I quietly informed them of my new circumstances, and a few evenings later, we made plans to go out to supper. I ran about the apartment like a frightened 15-year-old, trying on outfits and seeking advice from Darryn. "There should be nothing that shouts, 'Fuck me now,'" he cautioned. He'd planned to go out with several buddies that night to avoid being alone. I finally chose a light-blue outfit that was more girly than daring and kissed Darryn goodbye, laughing at the absurdity of the scenario.

 

Even though I'd known this person for years, I felt suddenly self-conscious during dinner. Normally, I'd be bold and flirtatious, but now that sex was a given, I had no idea how to act. We discussed movies, novels, art, gun control, and everything except the idea that we were going to have sex later. We didn't even kiss till we'd had a few drinks. We finally got in a cab and made our way back to his apartment. I felt odd taking off my clothes because no one had seen me naked in five years, excluding the art student and the sex worker. Also, even though I knew I wasn't cheating, a small part of me couldn't shake the feeling that what I was doing was still wrong. But once things started moving, I began to relax and appreciate the sensation of another body next to mine. (I recently inquired about his thoughts on that night.) He claimed our chemistry and the degree of comfort we'd previously created through our friendship served us well, and he trusted me not to make any bad judgments.)

 

The next day, I got up early and went home. I was pleased with myself for going through with it, but I was also scared. I needed to speak with Darryn. The rest of the day was spent holed up at a diner across the street from our apartment. He didn't want to hear too many details; he seemed content with the notion that I'd had a good time. We resolved to continue as long as we were careful to promptly disclose any emotions of uncertainty or insecurity. We finished our milkshakes and returned home.

 

We both signed up for Tinder a few weeks later. We were upfront about our open relationship in our profiles, and a few weeks later, I was assisting Darryn in getting ready for his first date. (I opted for jeans and a T-shirt over his blazer and tie.) He wore the blazer anyhow, and his date, according to him, complimented him on his "style." Whatever dude.) I forced him to text me every few hours. I attempted to divert myself as best I could after he went, but I couldn't sit still. I kept looking at my phone. Finally, he texted to say everything was well. He texted again an hour later, saying they were returning to her house. I became terrified. "USE A CONDOM," I replied.

 

I wanted to know everything when he got home the next morning: what she was like, what she said, and how she acted. They did what they did. Knowing everything made me feel calm as if I were in the same room as them. I needed data, not conjecture. But I wasn't jealous; I was more interested and, to be honest, a little turned on. We started going on different dates a couple of times a week. I had terrible luck: I rarely went on a second date with a guy, and I nearly never liked someone enough to want to sleep with them. (Are these guys on Tinder?) Darryn, on the other hand, was meeting attractive, interesting ladies every week. While not all of his encounters resulted in sex, the intimate insights into other people's lives made the experience worthwhile. Darryn's experiment piqued the interest of nearly every lady she encountered. Some people even asked to meet with me. Because I wasn't getting much action anyhow, we ended up complementing our individual adventures with a steady stream of threesomes. We've also established a few close friends this way — just last week, we hung together with a Tinder acquaintance with whom we've both slept on separate occasions. Darryn had left his belt at her house and remembered to bring it with her. It was a weird experience.

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