My monogamy is not a preference like belts or a character trait like introversion. It doesn’t compel me like kink or inspire me like poetry because my monogamy is built out of weakness.
A threesome will melt me into a puddle of lust but if you have sex without me, I’m unlikely to feel compersion. My monogamy is just this tiny pile of bricks. They’ll build a room or two, but it won’t be the Empire State Building because my monogamy is about what I lack, not what I have. We could live an epic life in this half-built room, but we won’t get a view of the penguins from down here.
I’ve dabbled in poly-ish relationships a few times in my life, and each has taught me more about my not-so-poly traits—things like the fact that I was glad she had a massive bush and relieved her blowjobs couldn’t match up because he came home wanting more of me.
My monogamy tells a story of possession. Chapter One wants you to be too infatuated with me to notice the brunette at the next table. Chapter Two feels a little jealous that you did. Chapter Three understands you’re married and will play with her permission, but Chapter Four won’t take our story beyond the weekend. I have enough mixed metaphors to build the next chapter, which is made of brick upon brick of absent compersion.
If I had it my way, I’d manage poly relationships with the selflessness of a saint. Lord knows that kind of arrangement fascinates me. The truth, though, is I’m terrified of losing you. I’m positive you’ll run off with the next woman you fuck because she will be groomed the way you like and she won’t make you want me more.
I would feel happy with this story-house if my monogamy was built from what I had instead of what I didn’t have, but it’s not. I’ll keep writing stories, though. I’ll even build a new floor. Maybe next year I’ll have started a second book called “Compersion”.