I Never Thought I'd Wind Up In A Monogamous Relationship

Rachel Krantz is one of Bustle’s founding editors and the author of Open: One Woman’s Journey Through Love and Polyamory, now out in paperback.

Content warning: This piece discusses emotional abuse and domestic violence.

The subject first came up after dinner in Adam’s apartment. It was our second date; we hadn’t even kissed yet. He said, “There’s something you should know about me.”

I was like, oh God, here’s the catch. Because he seemed like an abnormally perfect, intelligent, hot guy, available and interested, and at 27, I didn’t often find those.

He said, “If you were with me, I would never restrict you. You’d be free to date other people and even fall in love as long as you’re honest with me and safe.” He was a psychology professor, and his study of desire had sparked an interest in open relationships.

My stomach sank. I felt a whole mix of emotions: dread, excitement, curiosity. Up until then, I typically dated people for a year or two before feeling trapped and bored.

Polyamory wasn’t a foreign concept to me; in college, I had a friend who briefly took it up. I just had no idea how to explore it. But I was so into Adam, and he was 11 years older and had experience with non-monogamy, so I thought, maybe it’s time to try something different.

For the first year of our relationship, we were closed. Six months in, we opened up my side of it, and six months after that, he began seeing other people, too.

“I Was Encouraged To Be Greedy”

One of my first experiences with non-monogamy was when Adam suggested we go to a sex party held in a Brooklyn warehouse. There was dim lighting, live music, and a Burning Man vibe. It wasn’t like an Eyes Wide Shut masquerade ball with candles everywhere — it was just like any loft party, except people were naked and having sex in the corner if they wanted to.

What struck me is that it didn’t feel that erotic. It was more anthropological, seeing naked people who weren’t me having sex and realizing, oh, that’s what we look like! Some of it looked a lot like porn — the man playing a more dominant role, the woman moaning a lot — but there were also erotic scenes you don’t see as much unless you seek them out. There was one person on a massage table, blindfolded and naked, with seven people just touching her in this really slow, sensual way, not even her genitals. There was another with three men doting on her. It was a space that centered female pleasure.

It was just like any loft party, except people were naked and having sex in the corner if they wanted to.

For the first time, I was encouraged to be greedy. I had my first threesome with two men that night. I learned that sleeping with multiple people in one night didn’t degrade me in Adam’s eyes, but made him more excited. It was this major paradigm shift, like, oh, I’m allowed to want a lot more than I’ve been socialized to think.

As I spent more time in swinger spaces and queer spaces, I really came into my bisexuality. I saw that every woman’s body is different. Some come, some don’t; for some, it’ll only happen using a vibrator, which was what I needed during partnered sex. You hardly ever see that represented in porn. One time, I had an experience with another woman, and she brought a toy, too. It was so cool to see someone else who used one just like I did.

“Our Dynamic Would’ve Happened Anyway”

Adam and I fell in love quickly. A year in, when we opened his side of the relationship, my struggles with jealousy began. Imagining him with other women sometimes turned me on in a painful way, but usually, it was unnecessarily difficult and torturous. He would be dating someone else, and I would get jealous, and then he would try to argue that my feeling that way was unevolved.

I felt increasingly trapped and unhappy. There was also a ton of emotional abuse and gaslighting and even violence. When I would try to leave or break up, he’d be like, “No one else is going to let you be free the way I will be.” He was so in my head that I kind of believed him — an ironic outcome of a relationship that was supposed to be about freedom.

I think our dynamic would’ve happened anyway if we’d been monogamous, but because we were open — one of the most challenging things you can try to do as a couple — it was heightened. I attempted to leave several times, and within a week, he would always pull me back in. After almost four years of dating, there was a situation where I had foolproof evidence that he was lying to me. It was a crack in the idea that no one else would be as honest or ethical as him. At the time, I was away taking care of a sick relative, and that distance was important in terms of helping me break up with him for good.

“A Constant State Of Wistfulness”

I met my next partner six months later. Our relationship was also non-monogamous and also lasted for four years. During that time, I fell in love with someone else. It was hard for me to not be thinking about one person when I was with the other; I was in a constant state of wistfulness — which was pleasurable in some ways but made it hard to be present.

The guy I’d fallen in love with broke up with me to be monogamous with another woman.

The guy I’d fallen in love with broke up with me to be monogamous with another woman. I felt a lot of grief over that, but it didn’t seem appropriate to hash that out with my primary partner. I’d come during sex and then tear up afterward because I missed the other person so much. I think not sharing that with my partner was respectful, but it created distance between us. Shortly thereafter, he broke up with me to date someone else full-time.

“I Was Reassessing”

I took time to be on my own and re-evaluate before starting to date again. What was actually right for me? I love feeling like my romantic future isn’t written but I’ve also had trouble with jealousy and compartmentalizing.

So, when I got back on Hinge, I set my profile to say I was open to both monogamy and non-monogamy. I wanted to meet someone I could imagine being with long-term: someone I felt really connected to and who respected me, a relationship that was both healthy and hot.

My now-partner’s profile displayed that he was monogamous. After we matched a year ago, he said, “I saw you wrote a book about non-monogamy. That’s so cool. But I guess I’m wondering why you reached out to me.” I told him about my history and that I was reassessing what was actually the way forward for me.

Early on, we had a lot of conversations about what kind of relationship we’d have. He wasn’t necessarily closed to the idea, but he knew he’d need a very strong foundation first. To me, it was negotiable whether we were monogamous or not, but what wasn’t negotiable was being able to talk openly about it. Things would have to be able to evolve and change. He was on board with that because he has a similar kind of dream: a lifetime relationship as a collaborative project between two people, almost like an art project you’re creating together.

“Am I Never Going To Kiss Anyone Else?”

A month into our relationship, we went to a party together for the first time. I realized that — even though I wasn’t interested in anyone there — giving my phone number to cute people was no longer an option. Part of me felt really caged, like, am I never going to kiss anyone else ever again? Am I never going to fall in love with anyone new? But this other part of me was like, I’m getting so much more from this relationship than I would from asking someone out.

My partner and I talk pretty openly about being attracted to other people — more on my side, because I seem to notice that stuff, whereas he’s kind of like, “I’m with Rachel so I’m not in that mode of assessing people that way.”

This has definitely been my best relationship so far in every way, including sexually.

Once, I told him I thought one of his friends was cute and he took it well. I like knowing that he’s confident enough to be like, “OK, that’s cool.” Sometimes I’ll point out women we meet and be like, “Is she our crossover?” And a lot of times, he’ll be like, “No, she’s not really my type.” But occasionally he’ll say to me, “Oh, what about her?” We’re learning each other’s type just in case we ever want to go down that road.

This has definitely been my best relationship so far in every way, including sexually. I’d always wanted a dom, like my partner is — a daddy dom, a loving dominance that has a lot of caretaking and nurturing, but also boundaries and rules — so it’s been very satisfying.

But of course, there is less variety in terms of people. Since sex is really important to both of us, we’re talking about how we can still make it expansive and exciting. Role play is great. We’ve done some pretending that we’re meeting for the first time in different scenarios. How would we impress each other all over again? I think it’s important to still have that sense of play.

“I’m Still The Same Person”

Sometimes, I miss all the freedom and adventures but I don’t miss having my nervous system feel as anxious as it used to. I’m in a monogamous relationship because I met someone I want to build a life with, and this is what’s right for us at this moment. If that changes, we’ll talk about it.

I wrote this book about non-monogamy and now I’m in a monogamous relationship, which feels so f*cking weird. I feel like a hypocrite, even though I know I’m still the same person in a fundamental way — someone who values being authentic and making my own choices. I still have desires for other people. I still fear claustrophobia. I just know that I would be really crazy to give up the best relationship I’ve ever had.

I don’t have to pick a side. For me, it’s about balancing the fact that people need both freedom and security. Maybe neither partner feels like they’re getting the optimal, perfect thing on all sides, but everyone’s needs are being met. Any compromises you’re making are worth it.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse, call 911 or the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1(800) 799-SAFE (7233) or visit thehotline.org.