Jealousy

It’s the basis for many love songs and poems, the driving force in plenty of books, and a motive behind many a murder.  It is something most of us experience, none of us enjoy, and it is so often a road block of relationships, especially ones with more than two partners. I wonder, however, how inevitable is it?

All the books on open relationships tell us that jealousy is a social construct: since monogamy itself is a social construct, and once upon a time we all lived in polyamory, one has to assume jealousy wasn’t as widespread and socially accepted, or at least not as powerful and detrimental of a feeling. The causes of jealousy are easy to find – the biggest one being probably our fear of loss. We are scared of losing our loved ones to others, whom they will love more. In a material world, we are probably also afraid to lose our share of the resources, that in monogamy only we get to have: their affection, their time, their energy, their desire toward us that is now being satisfied by someone else. There is also that voice of insecurity that whispers in our ear – if our partner wants to be with someone else, what am I lacking? Why am I not enough? Am I not good enough of a lover? Am I replaceable? If he can touch another like he touches me, how am I special to him? How am I unique? But that fear of being one of many seems also tied to the fear of loss – if I can be replaced once I stop being a novelty, what will keep him from staying with me? But that’s the thing, isn’t it – why would I want him to stay with me, if he no longer wants to? Why would I want the affection that’s insincere?

One way out, I suppose, is to be arrogant: after all, we’re never jealous of those we don’t want. If a lover you don’t value finds another, you’ll still feel a loss, but it won’t be that great. So, perhaps, if we stop feeling insecure, we will stop feeling jealous. If you know that no one else will match up to you, and all your lover’s lovers will only remind him of how special you are, or, if you know that you can easily find another lover just as good – then loss is not something you will fear. But there is something fake in that approach. Something that objectifies others and forces one to constantly compare. And how many of us can truly feel so secure without being full of ourselves – and fooling ourselves?

Another route, I suppose, is trust – feeling sure that the person we love will love us back no matter what, that other lovers – and sex in general – does not affect one’s feelings and that love – or whatever keeps your relationship together – is bigger and more important than constant novelty, that it will remain worth coming back to. But trust is a whimsical thing to grow: too hard to keep, to easy to lose. And often enough, it will be betrayed. The Ethical Slut tells us that this is the risk we run, opening ourselves up, but more often than not, the love we give will come back to us, one way or another. But even they warn – you can’t be afraid of being alone. Well, what if I am?

The only reasoning that keeps me sane, that actually works for me (every once in a while) is the hope that if we don’t restrict each other, our partners won’t want to leave. I mean, don’t we rather add friends as we grow older, than lose them? And I know that we only have 24 hours in a day, and a limited amount of energy. I also know that selfish animals that we are, we’d rather spend our time having fun than helping those in need. So how can I trust, having let my partner go and see others, that when I need him, he will be back, and waste his time and energy helping me? I can’t. But the thing is, why would I want a person by my side who wouldn’t do that anyway? Who wouldn’t love me  -- and care about me -- enough in the first place? 

Tamed

I have given The Little Prince to every significant lover I’ve had. I consider this book essential for reaching one’s emotional maturity. It is not a book for children, as many mistakenly believe – though I am sure that many kids will appreciate its light humor and its condescension toward adults. But really, it’s a book for grown-ups – those who risk forgetting the child inside them, the always curious, never letting go of a question, never taking anything lightly. It is a book for those who grew up and never quite learned responsibility that comes not from duty and obligation, but from one’s heart, from genuine care for those we have “tamed” – and those who tamed us. 

                                          

“What does tamed mean?”

“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means ‘to create ties’…”

…”I’m beginning to understand,” the little prince said. “There’s a flower… I think she’s tamed me…”

It seems to me that this responsibility is inherent in any working D/s relationship, and the entire book can actually be a good lesson for those of us pursuing this lifestyle. Without this genuine sense of care one would be living either in a highly-explosive and emotionally harmful relationship, or skin-deep, not going further than technically-kinky sexploration. And the first thing that needs to be acknowledged is that this responsibility goes both ways – just like a Dominant tames his submissive, a submissive tames her Dominant. This act of creating ties, of making someone special to you, whether through taking care of them or accepting that care, is irreversible, and just like the little prince will always be remembered by the fox for his hair, the color of wheat, or by the narrator, whenever he looks at the stars, one will remember a lover one truly cared about, no matter if or why the relationship had to end. 

                                        

The little prince went to look at the roses again.

“You’re not at all like my rose. You’re nothing at all yet,” he told them. “No one has tamed you and you haven’t tamed anyone.”…

Many spectators mistake D/s relationships for ones where the submissive gives up control and allows things to be done to them, and where the Dominant is in charge, doing those things, and thus shouldering all the responsibility. There is nothing further from truth in this misapprehension, and if one enters an arrangement believing this, one is likely to get nothing out of it – and hurt the others involved. If anything, a D/s relationship assigns ways of caring, tasks if you will, that work for each partner, while at the same time exposing the extremely delicate balance of power that has to constantly be maintained and nurtured, one that has to come out of sincere care for each other, genuine appreciation and interest – not because of accepted morality or what society deems appropriate. That is the “taming” described in the book, and it has nothing and everything to do with control: it is not exercised, but comes naturally, as in a bond that holds and thus restrains each participant’s movements through their willing submission, their desire to be tamed. And while the cost of it may be tears (and always is), the benefit stays with you forever: out of 7 billion people on earth, you’ll have a few who will always be, irrevocably, yours.   

                                            

“It’s the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important.”

“It’s the time I spent on my rose…,” the little prince repeated, in order to remember.

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose…”

The Double Triple Life

I’ve been wondering what kind of person it takes to lead a truly polyamorous lifestyle. And by that I don’t mean a mostly heteronormative couple that every once in a while accepts a third partner – or another couple – into their bed. I am talking instead about having lovers – multiple lovers, who themselves have multiple lovers – or living in a communal arrangement, even as small as a threesome. On one hand, it seems like most people’s ultimate fantasy – in the time when fear of commitment has become the norm, and most of us don’t want to close ourselves to the numerous choices and options that may become available in the future, this is a way to ensure that we never get bored, never have to settle down. On the other hand, though, there is the reality of such an arrangement and all the emotional responsibility that it carries.

I suppose there are those who manage to get away with staying fuck-buddies with their multiple partners and not really feeling jealousy towards their other arrangements, as well as having the confidence to believe that those buddies will always be there when they are needed, without much upkeep or maintenance of those relationships. There are people who feel this way about friendships, and so, I suppose, in sex they act the same. But what if one is looking for a deeper, more permanent connection than that, a chance to really get to know the people that they sleep with, to form a bond that would be more than an every-once-in-a-while escape from the monotony of life? What if one wants to have someone they could count on when they are in a pickle, and also, perhaps, share some of those tasks of life that require a longer commitment – like living together, or raising kids, or taking care of each other’s pets? Is that still possible in a non-monogamous relationship? And if it is, what is the price? This kind of arrangement can’t be careless, “let’s see how it goes and split when it doesn’t” one – there are legal issues involved, and more importantly, other people who didn’t get to choose this lifestyle (like the children who are born into it). So that means commitment, a very serious one, to stick together through thick and thin for a lengthy period of time – even if not living together, then at least working with each other in a peaceful and reliable manner. But then, in a polyamorous relationship, how many people can one possibly make this commitment to? Without even taking it that far, how many people can we be accountable to, even for minor things, emotionally responsive and decent to? In an economy of a human life, that cannot exceed 24 hour days and a certain limit of energy, how much can we actually give? 

There is time that you have to spend together – or at least communicating with each other – for any relationship to continue without the partners losing touch with each other’s real selves (as opposed to the illusions we have of each other when we are not together, ones that may eventually have no basis in reality and lead to us questioning in dismay: who are you?). Then there is occasional help and care that you have to provide if you ever expect to be cared for and helped when you are in need. There are reassurances that we all need sometimes. There are nights when we don’t want to be alone. There are events which are more fun when attended together (kink parties, movie viewings, museum trips) – or at least more bearable with a partner (weddings, office parties, funerals). And then there is down time, time we need for ourselves, to do our work, to reflect, to think – or just empty our minds and take a break from constantly thinking about everyone else. All of this is hard to fit into a day even if you have just one other person to keep in mind – in addition to the rest of life, of course: work, chores, children, friends. Can it all really be done with multiple partners? And if so, what a carefully arranged and balanced hierarchy it needs to be….. 

I was thinking, too, how easily an arrangement like this can lead to schizophrenia or split-personality disorders. If every person you are with brings out a different side of you, an intimate relationship will do so to an even higher degree. The power dynamics will be different. The things you do (or want to do) with every partner will be different. In kinky relationships, I imagine it would be even more pronounced – as your lovers will have different kinks (or at least, prioritize them differently), the fantasies that you act out will put you in completely different roles. And those roles, in turn, will influence your identity – what you perceive yourself to be. While I am all for dropping the rigidity with which we define our identity, how fluid can it really be before we lose ourselves completely?

Nine ½ Weeks: The Issue of Consent

I know it’s an old film, but it has been on my mind a lot recently, for one reason in particular. Reading some of the critics’ reviews of the movie, I was surprised at how well some of them actually understood the dynamic between the characters: Elizabeth and John. But even Roger Ebert, whose review I generally agreed with, saw the ending of the film as a victory of personality over purely sexual desire: while kinky sex is all well and good, in the end without a deeper connection and knowledge of each other, Elizabeth walks away from John, thinking that she just spent nine and a half weeks having an erotic affair with a perfect stranger.

But somehow, watching the film after I already began my journey into BDSM, I didn’t see that lack of a more personal connection as the reason why the two characters split up. Kinky sex, or any sexual experimentation outside of the traditional heteronormative relationship, I believe, necessitates a deeper intimacy, as the participants are thrown off balance, taken outside their comfort zones, away from the prescribed reactions and responses: this is how you’re supposed to feel when he does this, and these are the sounds you make when you are feeling pleasure, etc. When you’re experiementing, you give up the advance knowledge of your body’s responses. All of a sudden, you may find yourself moaning in pleasure as you’re being hurt, or screaming in pain as you orgasm. You may find that you are not experiencing pangs of jealousy as your partner fucks another, or, you may realize you like to do things that for the outside vanilla world sound disgusting or even debasing. There is a kind of honesty inherent in such new experiences, that comes from simply not having had the time to fake a reaction, or from not having a prescribed path to follow. And from that honesty, in my experience, comes a deeper personal connection – not necessarily love or even a long-term partnership, but a deeper knowledge of one another in each other’s vulnerable and unscripted states.

So why is it that Elizabeth is so freaked out by the end of the film that she has to leave, while she’s still, obviously, longing for John? I think it is the issue of consent and communication. While we can tell that John is more experienced in this kinky lifestyle than Elizabeth, and that he is naturally dominant (which makes him responsible for her), he still makes the mistake of assuming that Elizabeth is self-aware and strong enough to follow him into his kink without getting hurt: that she knows her desires and her limits, and can stop him without breaking what they have. But Elizabeth has no idea what she is getting into! And having had no experience stepping outside her comfort zone, as well as being in a vulnerable place to begin with -- she is recently divorced, she does not have the sense of self, or the strength, to control her situation. And this is what most of the critics reviewing this film (and probably most its viewers) didn’t understand: in a D/s relationship, while one of the partners does submit to the other, they both shoulder the responsibility for the relationship, for setting and abiding by each other’s limits, for being able to safeword out of a scene that isn’t theirs. Though they are in a power dynamic where one dominates the other, they are still equals in the amount of power each of them has to stay in or end the scene, and to ensure that balance they have to communicate their desires, state their hard limits, and discuss the scenes either before or after (or both) to see what worked and what didn’t. Without that openness, they don’t leave each other room for mistakes, and every error or misunderstanding might break their relationship. This communication, in turn, involves consent on both sides, and even though it may look like the submissive has no control, she has to consent to giving it up – and even then, she has the power to get out of the scene she is not ok with through safewording. Anything other than that I see as a dangerous abuse of power that is fraught with danger of physical and psychological harm, or at least, misunderstandings fatal to any relationship.

Elizabeth doesn’t have the power of consent, because John doesn’t give her that option. We see throughout the film that she doesn’t know how to end a scene except by leaving after the harm has already been done: as we see when John puts her in a room with a prostitute. Because she never knows what’s coming next, Elizabeth can’t prevent things from happening, and so it really puts John in complete control over her (granted, he takes that control and doesn’t leave her with much of a choice). Yes, that makes for a better film that’s much more enjoyable to watch and shows the life of kink as much more dangerous and erotic than if we got to see the behind the scenes negotiations and the gradual growth of the characters that would prepare them properly for each scene – let’s face it, successful lovey-dovey relationships that don’t hit any major roadblocks don’t exactly make for great stories. But I think that’s exactly what goes wrong between John and Elizabeth in the end – they get into a scene that doesn’t work for her, one that pushes her limits too far, and she runs away. Their last meeting shows us exactly how much John cares for her – he is not the selfish careless bastard who just wanted her for the fulfillment of his sexual fantasies. I believe he really wanted to explore Elizabeth’s kinky side, to push her to open up to the desires hidden inside her, but because he didn’t do it gently enough or carefully enough, giving her the choice to either consent or break the scene without leaving him or getting hurt, she doesn’t see his love, and so he loses her. Without clear and open communication between them, he forces her to reveal aspects of herself without revealing much of himself, and that swings the balance of power unequivocally to his side, creating an unhealthy relationship. And while Elizabeth is strong enough to walk out when she is pushed beyond her limits, she is not self-aware or knowledgeable enough (neither about him, nor about her own choices in their relationship) to stay and fix what they have, to negotiate and make it work for the two of them. But she doesn’t leave a bad affair, one that only hurt and didn’t benefit her; on the contrary, she leaves with a lot of regret for what it could’ve developed into, but didn’t have a chance to become.

Three Thoughts on Threesomes

Experience: bringing two of my lovers together, one -- a lover of sometime, whose body I knew, whose emotional buttons I knew how to push, but we have begun to fall into a routine and drift apart, to different desires and separate futures. The other lover was new: in fact we had never actually made love before. We spent a night together, caressing and kissing, and then falling sweetly asleep in each other’s arms. I think I may have been her first girl. 

The threesome wasn’t my idea, but my lover’s long time fantasy, and I went along, begrudging the intimacy I’d have to give up, the private, one-on-one explorations of each of their bodies and souls. The intimacy that can only grow, I think, when you’re alone with someone, for a long time, talking, kissing, touching, opening up your hearts. I was afraid that when two of the people I was in love with – or was falling in love with – would connect, my deep connection with each of them personally would somehow be trivialized. I wasn’t jealous, not at that point – I knew that both of them were more attracted to me than to each other – but I was worried about a loss, of some kind, an emotional dulling. 

It started innocently enough, though slightly unnaturally. In my mind, I had a picture of my female lover and me meeting first, and starting to make love to each other as my other lover walked in and joined us. Perhaps, since we haven’t had sex yet, I wanted to have that moment – our first – to myself, not having to share it. But instead we talked, fully dressed, not very comfortable with each other, apprehensive, not sure how to start or what to do first. The rest of the night went accordingly. When we finally ended up in bed, all three of us, and started exploring each other’s bodies, it felt too manual, too trial-and-error, and not erotic or passionate enough. I still feel that in the privacy between two people this initial exploration can be very exciting, because no one will see the mistakes you make, you’re following your gut, not performing for the audience, worrying about making it look good. I also felt like a mediator between the two of them – constantly making sure no limits were pushed, nothing was done to spoil or end the scene. I felt more like a guardian than a participant, though during moments when we fell in sync, even I managed to relax and enjoy. I loved the feeling of their hands all over me, not knowing which touch was whose; I felt overwhelmed to the point of orgasm by the constant caresses that flowed into one another, the two bodies moving with mine, the heat that was building up between us. I peaked in the selfish moment when I forgot my role and let my body be pleasured. 

So where was the pain in all of this, the punishment I need in order to cum? I suppose I should’ve mentioned that it all started with a playful spanking, the two of them taking turns at spanking and whipping me with their hands at first and then different implements. While being dominated and hurt by two people I love is one of my hottest fantasies, this too felt a little too staged, too manual, my experienced lover teaching the other how to wield a belt – a lesson with my body as the training textbook: “ouch, too hard! Hmm… not hard enough… right there, like that! Again!” That is not a punishment I can believe (or fully enjoy). And most of all, just as I suspected, I was too dedicated to making this threesome work for everyone else – I was constantly performing, trying to make it look better than it was. 

The hardest part, in retrospect, was watching my two lovers make love to each other. While they still managed to involve me – I was right there, by their side, caressed and kissed all through their act – I felt I couldn’t watch, like, if I opened my eyes, I’d see a scene I would never be able to erase from my mind, their faces actually showing how much they were enjoying one another. Though not jealous at the time, I was afraid of future jealousy it would cause, because at every future moment I would be making love to them, I would know that another body, another person has caused that same expression of bliss, that same physical pleasure. It would simply be…. less personal… next time. That was the loss I was so afraid of! 

And so, this experience behind me, I am still not sure how I feel about threesomes. I am still not completely certain I have been in one. And having spoken to the other participants, I see that none of us truly enjoyed it. I wonder – what went wrong? What could or should have been done differently? I am curious to try this again, perhaps with people who are more experienced, but I am also still reticent…. Why bother with a group? Why not keep the sex one-on-one, and share my lovers by speaking about the experiences with one another (because that excites all of us, sharing intimate stories, imagining each other making love to someone else). Or does that just work for me? 

Ironically, the three of us have grown a little further apart since. Perhaps that is temporary, and we’ll find the way back to each other. We did have a good time just hanging out together, before and especially after. It still felt a bit awkward (for me), but being out and about, socializing, enjoying ourselves together but not in any intimate ways, helped relieve some of the tension and pressure that our somewhat failed menage-a-trois didn’t release. I guess time will show…. Meanwhile, how do I get myself out of this down, this ridiculous and really unfounded fear that I am a little less loved, a little less special to my lovers? 

So my three thoughts on threesomes (a note to my future self): 

1. Do not bring your lovers together. As the old wisdom says (though for different reasons), you're bound to lose them both.And being a constant mediator is no fun.
2. Make sure the attraction between all three members of the group is somewhat equal and balanced. That way, there are less chances of any one feeling left out. Perhaps, spend more time together. Grow to like one another. Get more comfortable.
3. If you begin with an apprehension, your fears will most likely come true. Perhaps it's like a wish-fulfillment -- you get exactly what you expect, and if you're afraid of something, it will happen, because it's already happened -- or has been prearranged -- in your mind. 

I have more thoughts than this, but I am afraid to sum up too neatly an experience that hasn't yet resolved itself in my mind and heart. I don't know where it's all going to take me, and for now, I'm ok with that..... 

    

How it all began....

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