Open: Love, Sex and Life in an Open Marriage (16 page)

that is failing or lacking. But nothing could be further from the truth. Open marriage is not easy. It would have been easier for me to remain unhappy in my closed marriage, actually, but I just couldn’t do it. I have every right to my own happiness, but I’ve had to fight for it; even coming around to believing that I have that right has been difficult.

I think some critics of open marriage are put off by the idea that a woman might consider happiness her right, especially if it’s happiness gained at the
perceived
expense of a husband or family. But isn’t my being happy in my day-to- day life and living honestly
better
for my family? Emily, for one, is as happy as can be. We haven’t told her that anything has changed and, as a result, nothing
has
changed in her eyes. Christopher and I love each other and we’re together, parenting and loving her. What we do in private is not her concern, just as the private lives of parents in a closed marriage are none of the children’s concern. Kids don’t need to know, shouldn’t know, about their parents’ sex lives.

The types of comments I received from
Tango’
s readers often reminded me of the schoolyard banter of my childhood. “Jane’s using two colors of Play-Doh!” “Allen ate a second cookie!” Jane and Allen weren’t bothering anyone else with their behavior, but the tattletales among us—whether they’re elementary schoolers or mature adults with kids of their own—just can’t stand by and allow others to enjoy what they wouldn’t dare to do themselves. A relatively common law of human behavior seems to be: If I have to follow the

rules, then you do, too. It didn’t make any sense to me then, and it certainly doesn’t make any sense to me now. It begs the question: Who has some serious growing up to do?

In many situations, when the subject of my marriage arises, I find myself defending open marriage and defining what it is for us—and more frequently what it isn’t. The perception is somehow that those of us in open relationships walk into a room and say, “Come and get it.” People are quick to classify it as anything but healthy. But it’s been abundantly clear in my conversations with people that, all too often, they’re projecting their own insecurities onto me because they see my behavior as threatening to their ways of thinking or living. Why should I pose such a threat? Is it due to a lack of trust among partners? The fear that I might sleep with their husbands or wives, leaving them out of the loop and out of control? Or is it perhaps that a transference of sorts occurs when they read about the choices I have made? I remind them of their own discontent, and so they lash out at me as a stand-in for their own sexual fears and disappointments, or otherwise painful experiences. One respondent to my article (this time after it was reprinted on HuffingtonPost. com) wrote, “[T]his article to me sounds like a classic case of sexual addiction. The author sounds like a sex-addict.”
4
Interestingly, the person admits that their mother’s second marriage was to a sex addict. Talk about projection.

I’ve spoken of my high libido, and it’s true that I do enjoy sex very much. But I am not a sex addict. In his

book
Contrary to Love,
Dr. Patrick Carnes, an expert in the field of sexual disorders, defines a sex addict as someone who experiences little pleasure, often feels despair in the middle of sex, lives a secret life surrounded by a web of lies, can’t control their sexual behavior, has delusional thought patterns and reality distortion.
5
Carnes explains that a sex addict does, or fantasizes about doing, things that he or she doesn’t even like. This person may also prioritize sex—in thought and action—above
all
else.

Annie Sprinkle, a sexpert, writer, artist, and performer, who has often been called a sex addict as well, has posted responses to this accusation on her website. She goes through a series of questions often used to “diagnose” the problem, and points mainly to the fact that many of the behaviors associated with sexual addiction aren’t necessarily negative in the first place. Sprinkle writes that the diagnosis itself “often makes a disease out of what is often quite reasonable sexual behavior. It emphasizes negative aspects of sex. . . . It can make people feel badly if they simply have an active and varied sex life. Sex addiction can be used as a way to put down socially disapproved of behavior.”
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In other words, the label is often used as a weapon by people who take issue with other people’s sexual behavior and preferences. (And, just as an aside, sexual addiction is not considered a disorder in
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders [DSM],
a hefty volume published by the American Psychiatric Association.)

Another commentator, who went by only the name Doc, posted: “Implicitly selfish!!! Either get in or get out . . . and ice yourself down once in a while. . . . ”
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I had to laugh aloud as I imagined Doc taking his or her own frequent cold showers. Although Doc didn’t provide any personal information, I couldn’t help but wonder if s/he was in a sexless marriage, as the people who respond most negatively to my choices tend to be those who appear to adhere to the “If I’m going to be unhappy, then you have to be unhappy, too” motto.

One poster, who calls himself Anonymous Coward, responded at length to “Portrait of a Marriage” on the
Tango
magazine site. He is an open relationship himself, and speaks to the above point with great precision. “I read through these comments, and I see mostly hatred, shame, and guilt from the ‘happily monogamous’ crowd, and mostly sharing, loving, and life from the ‘you go girl’ crowd.”
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Time and again, the people who judge me for my sexual choices— choices that my husband and I are making together as consenting adults—are those who are lacking something in their own lives, who have deviant sexual desires they’re stifling, or who are so committed to the social constructs they’ve been raised on that they simply cannot comprehend or tolerate anything that exists outside of those margins.

Another downside of being out and willing to talk about open marriage is that I get solicited too often, always by men who are sadly misinformed about what being in an open marriage actually means. For starters, it doesn’t mean

that I have no standards or preferences about the type of person I’d be interested in going out with. I fill people in on my marriage status because it’s my reality. But that doesn’t make me any less picky than I would have been if Christopher and I had gotten divorced and I had returned to the dating circuit. I’m not interested in casual encounters, which I could find very easily on Craigslist or in any number of other virtual “locations,” let alone real ones, if I wanted to. Turns out I have pretty strict standards.

I don’t sleep with anyone who’s attached unless they, too, are in an open relationship, and I don’t sleep with anyone I don’t feel a connection with or am not attracted to. I always tell partners—even potential partners—that I’m married. As many things as I do want, there are as many, or more, things I don’t want. My whole reason for wanting to have an open marriage is to be with people who are right for me under the right circumstances. So no, I tell naysayers, my bedroom doors are not open to just anyone. Not by a long shot.

after being with Lisbeth, Christopher

and I talked a lot about the boundaries of our new arrangement. I was excited to test the waters, but I was also very clear about my standards, and about wanting that connection, which is key for me. I remember specifically talking with my friend April around this time, about various conferences we’d both attended over the years. As I tried to

recall one in particular, she said, “You know—that was the year I had cake and I couldn’t even give it away.” She was speaking literally—she’d taken a cake to attract people to her booth, and yet not a soul had come to partake. I started laughing. It was the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling in this strange new territory of being married but “allowed” to have other lovers. I had the cake, all right, but not a viable taker in sight. I didn’t know where to start, and when I finally did start looking, I came up empty-handed more often than not.

Looking to meet people as a woman in an open marriage is markedly different from what I experienced as a single woman. The most important piece of the puzzle now is that I’m not looking for someone to marry. You’d think this would be a nonissue—that people would be thrilled to date someone who’s not available. But my unavailability and the reasoning behind it bring up their own set of challenges to people’s preconceived notions of what’s “okay.” I would actually argue that people find it more acceptable to wind up in a relationship with a married person “by accident”— even though that would fall into the category of cheating— than beginning one in which both parties are okay with the openness of the situation. The straightforwardness of open marriage makes a lot of people uncomfortable, and it takes a very specific type of person to truly understand the fact that a couple might choose open marriage and be happy with it.

My particular circumstances make finding prospects both easier and harder. It’s easier because it puts fewer constraints on me. It’s harder because I have to really examine what I’m looking for. Basically, I’m free to just be into certain people without having to worry about whether they have a steady job, or what kind of parent they might make. That’s a relief on a lot of levels, but it can also take some real mental maneuvering to enjoy the moment while still recognizing and validating the relationship for what it is—or could be.

Being in an open marriage involves a different type of courting. It’s a very strange dance. My disclosure about my marriage is always in the back of my mind. I know that I’m presumed to be single, and that I put out a “single” vibe when I’m out, particularly at a party or in other social settings. I do want to meet people, after all. But divulge this information too soon, and I seem to be implying that something’s going to happen between the person I’m talking to and me. Say it too late, and it seems like I’m hiding it. Not to mention that saying it at all can be risky: Plenty of times, someone has concluded automatically that I’m a slut. I don’t see myself that way, though I will admit to having used the word loosely to describe my sexual prowess—much like women will call themselves or their friends “bitches” in a way that’s meant to be affectionate, rather than derogatory. And once people get to know me and understand my life, they don’t think of me as a slut, either. But I understand

that some, upon first hearing about my relationship and my sexual appetite, imagine I’d sleep with anyone with a pulse at any time.

The most common reaction I get from people who meet me face to face is one of simple curiosity. And though I’ve positioned myself to some degree as the person who wants to talk about this topic at every turn, the reality is that the questions can be exhausting—just like it’s tiring to get asked where you’re from after several weeks of being far from home. It can wear a girl down to field the same questions every time she reveals that she’s in an open marriage. “Oh my god, really?” “How does that work?” “Your husband lets you sleep with other guys? No way.” There are many times when it would be a heck of a lot easier to keep my situation to myself. But that would completely fly in the face of the very thing that makes this work—honesty.

Honestly is especially important when I’m potentially interested in pursuing someone. I do not want to fail to tell someone my deal and end up with a very pissed-off person on my hands, who feels duped once they eventually do find out. But even in my day-to-day life, I’ve made telling people about my situation a priority, if and when it’s appropriate, that is. Anyone who’s going to get to know me, as a friend, as a colleague, is going to find out eventually that I’m in an open relationship. I expect people to be forthcoming with me, too, and so oftentimes my revelation can be an icebreaker of sorts. In some cases, it’s actually resulted in

deeper friendships. I’m a natural confidant because I’m not judgmental. I’ve been through way too much to criticize what other people have going on in their lives.

However, being the poster child for open marriage is a full-time job, and as much as I enjoy talking about all things body and soul, sometimes I would rather talk about something else. It’s that simple. Above all, I am learning how to find balance, and this whole experience has been about processing and talking through my own feelings about what I’m doing. And the encounters I’ve had that work have been with people who can accept my situation and embrace our dynamic for what it is without minimizing it.

my first experience after Lisbeth

happened when I met Kyle. I was attending a writers’ conference on the Jersey shore, and I’d had a long first day of readings and meeting with agents. I decided I needed a break, and snuck out of the hotel before any of the other aspiring authors could glom on to me; I headed down the boardwalk to a local bar to have a moment to myself and enjoy a drink.

The second I walked in, though, I had the overwhelming urge to run back to the sterile hotel bar that I had summarily dismissed. The place was full of hot twentysomethings talking and laughing and drinking. Hip-hop was blaring. I generally think of myself as a relatively attractive person, and am not often rattled by my age, but seeing all of those

incredibly good-looking young people that night left me feeling out of my element, to say the least. The day’s activities had also contributed to my disorientation: I had been surrounded by many writers in their early twenties, who were vying for the same agents and editors and had resumes far stronger than my own.

I decided not to turn back, though. One drink wasn’t going to kill me, and maybe there’d be some material to drum up in this den of iniquity. I drank my first cocktail a little too quickly. I was already nearly exhausted from vacillating between attempting to look as if I were perfectly comfortable sitting alone, and trying to appear as if I were patiently awaiting the arrival of my now very late companion. But halfway into my second drink, I was done faking it.