By Spouse A and Spouse B
Sexuality is so wow – the way I experience mine is certainly amazing.
A few years ago, I identified as deeply monogamous. Many years before then, I was a lesbian with the supernatural ability to engage men in romantic relationships. And then I couldn’t interact with men in any way that involved my pussy and/or mouth. About a year and a half ago I was a hoe who insisted on monogamy for stability. And now, I am poly and curious about dick that comes accompanied by money.
Spouse B’s absence in this country is hard.
I don’t know what to do with all this space and time. It is difficult to navigate emotionally and in all other ways. My body is definitely feeling it.
I am thirsty. Hungry. Damn, I am near hangry for it. It’s so desperate that my pussy pulsates every time I get a Tinder message. But Cape Town tinder is a mess. Between white women and broke men, I am worried I’ll turn to sand before orgasming by the touch of another.
I guess I could make more of an effort to meet people outside of Tinder, but I have social anxiety whilst fearing that fucking with someone else while Spouse B and I are apart – and finding our footing in the relationship – could unsettle us. Though it is important to cultivate a space in our relationship where we have the freedom to explore and express ourselves honestly, I worry that tide would do us more harm than good.
We could catch feelings, though we are not trying to. And wouldn’t it look so much simpler to love someone in the same country? In the next block?
Lord, I couldn’t handle it.
But my pussy will not listen to reason. It’s crying out for touch and I cannot ignore it.
I decided that my pussy and I were fully decolonised. Minus white women, Cape Town Tinder comprises of friends and colleagues, exes of friends, friends of exes, friends who are fucking friends, colleagues who are fucking friends – so a TV show kind of web. I did not want to fall into that messy net.
Enter daddy Tinder.
I have gone out on one date with a really cool guy. Not daddy age. Or rich. But he looks nice, and he’s not masculinity’s bitch so hanging out with him didn’t make me want to put pens in his eyes, or mine. But it didn’t make me want to pop it for him either. I just feel so gay. Wow. Like it’s a thing to be so gay? So much gay?
Telling Spouse B about the date was very chilled. Which I quite appreciated. (Although I low key wanted her to be a bit less excited about it – only a bit.) And I have taken news of the guy she’s been hanging out with relatively well. Minus the bit of panic post learning that they were going on a third date. Which became a thing for me because I didn’t talk when I felt like the rules; to not catch feelings, were being ignored. Now that we have had the talk, I feel affirmed and readier to get some.
I think we’re doing well. Given everything. I am surprised that we have not cracked more than the expected and healthy bits of conflict and insecurity – considering everything that we are dealing with. I think we’ve been dealt a pretty rough situation but we’re doing best, and that is affirming. It feels like honey and milk love. You know? Soft, healthy love.
I’ve never paid that much attention to my sexuality. I mean. That’s absurd. Of course I have, but not in the ways I’ve always imagined other people (especially other queer folks) do. And this is more absurd because there are obviously no generalisations to be made when it comes to sexuality, attraction, libido languages and the ways we live within, outside of and on top of (personal favourite ) all of them. I live my life like rivers do; not intentionally, but Pisces just thrive in the water, you know? And I’ve learned that sexuality travels in much the same way.
So no matter who/what/where/when/how I’m fucking – or not – I’m gay and no one can say shit because that’s why feels right to me. Other things shift, swing, and slide over but gay is comfortable (except when I’m with family, but that’s a whole other pile of nonsense).
Now I’m in a new-ish relationship after three years of single bliss and there are new things and old things and always more things to (re)adjust to; all remixed into a stunningly symphonic partnership. Something new for me is polyamory. I’ve been “curious” for a while – many bouts of being monogamously fractured kind of confirmed it wasn’t me – and so was remarkably excited to learn my partner had another partner. I was a little frightened of the unknown, but was mostly like, “yes, I will welcome these new things with my new and improved (but not really) poly arms open wide!” And it was fucking thrilling! And then two seconds later it was complicated, and challenging, and at times overwhelming. But still beautiful. And still feeling right.
There’s about 16,000 km of space between us, but this kind of distance in a relationship is more severe to quantify. The things we share now are snippets of phone time when we wake and before bed, moments of missing, and furious tinder swiping. Outside of the crusty dick and white women overload (we’re both the same this way), there have been a few shining stars who’ve illuminated our pussies and our insecurities. It’s painful to be both happy for your partner and to watch the seeds of weeds grow out of hand: to feel that pull of resistance stand in the way of an easy kind of love.
And we’ve found there is no quick potion to the fertilizer. It’s been a mixing of many talks and tears, some anger and passive aggression, and too much temporality. The threat of insecurities is instability. Moments will seem fine until they shape shift into another ugly monster that preys on our relationship. It’s heartbreaking, but enlightening too. We’re learning to make our insecurities talk to each other rather than wage war because, at the end of the day, our insecurities are the same. We both don’t want to lose the love we have for each other, and ultimately, the person we cannot imagine being without. This means taking moments of pause amidst the hurt and confusion to affirm each other of our love and care for the other. And with that interruption things settle and smooth, turn gentle again. A honey and milk kind of love, truly.
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