Monogamy is to have sex and emotional relationship with one person. An “open relationship” can take many configurations, sex with others, at home, in a cheesy airlines lavatory, under a desk at work, or emotional relationships with others, a straight gym trainer or a priest in a confessionary. The aviary of “open relationships” has birds of all feathers and singular flights of fancy.
For someone like me, who has been always in open relationships of one ilk or the other, giving petty opinions comes easy. I carry in my blood memory a little recipe book of failed and successful delicatessen. Even opening me up this way, includes indirectly the life of my husband and enhances a delicious risk and guilt.
How far to extend my philandering and trembling hand, to cup the pizza delivery boy, to court someone who speaks Kurdish and lives thousands of miles away, speaking in tongues through a digital translation app?
When does you gut tells you that you are peeking into the rabbit hole of open relationships (known or unbeknownst to the others involved in your “opening”)? When your gut swallows? Swells? When you feel pangs of shame, guilt and conquest? When a thick dick seems to be reaching your gut with a high horse of conquistador horse galloping?