This week, a polyamorous sex writer goes on dates and has a bad experience at a sex party: 31, married, NYC
DAY ONE
6:31 a.m. I open my eyes to a gentle tap on the face. It’s my puppy saying, “Mom, time to get up!” with his paw. We’re at my dad’s house in the California desert. We’re heading back to NYC today. I’m excited. I miss my routines and kissing my husband, Evan. And I have a date tomorrow night with a new man.
7:02 a.m. Say good morning to my dad. The last time I lived in this house was eight years ago, when I was 23, before I built my life in Brooklyn, around when I came out to my friends and family as bisexual and polyamorous. A very different time.
7:45 a.m. I pour myself, my dad, and my grandma coffee. We sit on the couch, talking about the girl that broke my heart a few months back and Evan’s music industry job.
11 a.m. Through security at the airport. My phone buzzes. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow night, beautiful. It’s Andrew, whom I’ve been seeing for a few weeks. We met at a burlesque show. We’ve gone out twice. I’m impressed by how much he turns me on. When I told Evan about our first date, he was surprised and happy for me. It’s not often I’m attracted to, or even comfortable with men. I’m more of a woman-on-woman girl outside my marriage.
4 p.m. I’m a love and sex writer. On the plane, I work on a listicle of 40 kinks and fetishes to try. I notice a woman looking over at my laptop as I go.
9:30 p.m. Uber home and shower. Evan’s away for work.
