Let me tell you about that one time I was in a non-monogamous relationship
Oh, and let's examine ‘one-way monogamy' as a phrase too, shall we
“Will you write about this – us?” Henry* said, while standing in my living room, hair mussed from sleep, as he picked up a notebook emblazoned with the title “Be careful or I’ll write you in my novel”.
I looked at him, so fattened on love and desire, that it had blown out my ability to see clearly, and I said, ‘of course not’. This was the first man I’d been in love with since my husband died, and every nerve was a bonfire of feeling. I couldn’t imagine us not being together, let alone for anything to transpire between us that might result in jagged words. I didn’t know that Henry used words like ‘ethical non-monogamy’ and pretended to be a seasoned expert when he was like a man who taught himself how to lift weights without asking for help and then wondered why he had a back injury.
That was five years ago, which I feel is a respectable time-frame to be able to write about the one and only time I was in a non-monogamous relationship. Partly because all sorts of feelings have been stirred up by the use of the phrase ‘one-way monogamy’ thanks to the broken little boys documentary on Netflix, and partly because I’ve just seen Lily Allen live in concert where she performed her entire West End Girl album in order, from brownstone to Duane Reade bag with the handles tied.
I haven’t yet read Lindy West’s memoir about her polyamorous/non-monogamous marriage, but it sounds like it’s along the same lines (husband asked for it to be opened, then broke the rules).
It got me thinking about double standards, shit communication and men and control and monogamy.
