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Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

Latest excruciating self-torture in The Zoeverse: Falling in love with monogamous men.

I don’t fantasize. 

I replay. Recall an erotic encounter so intense I didn’t fully take it in, and then repeat it over and over again in my mind, deepening my relationship to it in every sweet, hot, juicy, dripping detail. Exquisite remembering. Perhaps this is its own form of fantasy. Who knows. I hear it makes good writing… 

It’s almost always whatever leads up to their orgasm. I love a man losing control. Straining for release. Revealing. Showing me. Struggling. Holding on. Letting go. 

During the heat of summer my favorite lover and I text/audio/video sex for up to sixteen hours a day for three weeks straight. (Eventually, I’ll be ready to write about it). Now I literally hit replay. I’ve memorized His memorialized orgasms. I’ve downloaded a library of our virtual fucks and backed them up on multiple hard drives and to the cloud, lol. 

And speaking of Him…

To be abundantly clear, neither of the monogamous men I am falling in love with are monogamous men. That would be sheer folly, says the part of me that will make any excuse for them…

They’re polyamorous men in monogamous relationships. 

One of them (He of marathon cybersex) was in advanced-level polyamorous relationships for years. The other is just coming out as polyamorous. 

I have fantasies that they’ll create their partners as women that can take the truth. Toe-dipping fantasies that will never come true unless I myself decide for that truth. I haven’t, though I know I’m worth it. I know that if they don’t see and live and feel me at my worth, they suffer. And oh so do I.

According to the monogamous model I’m fooling myself. According to any model, they are cheating. And lying. I don’t fucking care.

I watch all the movies about affairs. Make organic popcorn and cry into it.

I state what I want to Him. Five days, five nights, four times a year. And to still be fucking Him and fucked by Him, against a tree in the orchard He tends, when He’s 80 and I’m 75 and We are both acclaimed writers. I broadcast my impossible desires. I am better for having said it. He knows exactly what I want and so lays down His tools, abandons the forge of a doomsday of obligations He can’t meet. 

It took me a year to put words to my desire for Him. Dare I fantasize for this new one? This Brahmin.

Falling in love is something I can only do in the continuous and present tense with men in monogamous relationships. If I fall in love fully and truly there’s no way he can be monogamous. But he is and He is and they both are monogamous men.

And so it is failing, flailing, and ever the feeling of falling. The fall is Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the joy and the heartbreak, opening and breaking at the same time.

Terrifying, tempting free fall through tempest tempered by tidal lull.

I’ve examined even with professional help whether it’s that they’re monogamous and therefore it adds tension and excitement and necessitates not being prioritized for all that that brings with it, both safety and mystery. Is it that sneaking around is a fucking thrill that draws me, binds me, and blinds me? 


They’re amazing. It goes against my life’s purpose to say No to Love. They are Life. It’s not my fault that they are monogamous men.

Heartbreak over regret. Whatever I experience is worth it. Tis better to have loved and lost. Etc. But where are my desires in this? Am I brave enough to live into them despite the wind rushing through my hair and the rain lashing my tears and the ground ever rising so fast and hard?

Do I have fantasies? 

How can I tell you, oh new polyamorous man in a monogamous relationship… how can I explain the joy down the road? When you can’t see how any of it could be possible, and you can’t see anything past the inevitable pain of growth? If hurting is all you think about, how can you see the potential? When preserving something you’ve put so much into how can you let it go and let it be real? How can you know the absence of something without having experienced it? How can I explain it to all the monogamous men?

There are no words for the feelings.

I can only tell you my stories, and here is one of two polyamorous men:

My partner of eight and a half years and my husband of two years and I are only in the same place for one week. We are in Colombo. 

Our skin reeks of cinnamon.

It is born here, and we rush to find it. Dusty crimson handprints. And then we fill the air with it, and the aroma of ceylon cinnamon mixes with cacao and vanilla and nuts and fresh vegetables and tea and chilis and onions. 

They both love spice.

The two of them in the kitchen cooking my recipes with The Plant Whisperer’s kitchen experience and foraging/harvesting/procuring and DH’s precision and a Tamil twist. Every morning DH makes tea Persian style from the two kilos of “ant head tea” given to him by our host in Kolkata, carried through India and months to this new island that will forever to me only mean the first meeting of my partners. 

They both drink tea, but not coffee. 

We weave new rituals. Interwoven threads that pull us all, simultaneously, in different directions, connecting and supporting us. We reflect and process. Sink into the sweet depth of living together, however temporary. We share. Laugh. Cry.

At first DH finds Couchsurfing, refusing the invitation. I am desperately disappointed, and annoyed by the fear and resemblance to monogamous men. I rent a two-bedroom house on Airbnb anyway. He stays with me alone the first night and then moves to his host. The Plant Whisperer arrives and I spend one night alone with him.

The next day DH returns. It turns out what felt right to him was letting us reunite without him. It turns out that would be what he needs too. But he missed me and didn’t want to waste this opportunity to be together. He stays the rest of the time we are in Sri Lanka.

And I learn that discovery takes time. I don’t panic when I see them take the time they need. They both need time.

The heat and humidity and the smell of rain and citronella and flowers. The Plant Whisperer plucking them and placing them in my hair, and then smiling awkwardly, he places a flower in DH’s hair, because it is long and will hold the flowers, and because DH pouts slightly at being left out of the moment, and then smiles broadly when he’s adorned and so I do as I see the love between them budding. And we all breathe in the scent of jasmine and I kiss The Plant Whisperer. And I kiss DH. Jasmine kisses.

I sleep in a different bed each night. Until one of them will annoy me by snoring, or there is a mosquito in the room, or the temperature isn’t right – then I switch to the other room. No sex. Just love. Just me in undies and a t-shirt padding sleepily from one room to another. Until I’m all loved up all the time with no space in my love meter for any more.

My husband tells me that he likes that I seem to give equal attention to both of them. 

They are both polyamorous. They are both formerly monogamous men.

But He is not. And even during this time of saturation, my fuck meter jerks to max when my favorite lover writes to me and I to Him. The one time He is alone that I let him down. Cannot be with Him. 

“U alone this month?” I ask.

“Yes alone.” He says. 

“Until when?”

“Jan5. Why? Can u magic urself across the world?”

Instead of flying across the world I share with him one of my favorite poems, The Cinnamon Peeler… and it reminds me of Him in its intensity, even though my husband and my longest term partner are here with me in the room that smells of cinnamon and we all are dressed in next to nothing and covered in smudges of the fragrant dust. I tell both The Plant Whisperer and DH about His messages, and they smile and share a knowing look with one another as if to say 

“Can’t fuck with her desire for Him.”

And we all laugh, and He knows that I am with them and He likes me ever more because of it, and the poem is beautiful… but what can I do with that I am a part of the dark shadow He hides from her. What can I do with the split life He has chosen

I let Him go, for the moment, and choose the integrated moment. Block out the tempting tendrils of His monogamous lies and live in the here and now and soak in the love of my partners.

I walk down the streets holding hands with them. The Sri Lankans don’t care. 

We have drinks at a rooftop bar, and there they kiss me and whisper sweet nothings into my ears at the same time. DH romantic and tinged with Persian and The Plant Whisperer dirty and sweet and hot.

We go to the movies and their hands in the dark whisper signatures.

There are no words for the feelings. 

The feeling of seeing them form their own relationship, these two formerly monogamous men.

Them feedbacking off of my happiness.

Sparkling. Buzzing. Warm. Free. Safe. Buoyant.

The lightness and brightness of experiencing both of their love at the same time. How could I have fantasized an ecstasy I did not know possible? All my fantasies were from a container that is expanded so much by the experience that it creates space for a reality beyond my dreams. I am still living in its ever-stretching horizons.

The sheer fucking joy of it.

The humanity that pours out of us when we let go of fear and insecurity and scarcity. 

And so I heed my own words – and am letting go of fear and insecurity and scarcity. How can I be mad at you for quenching your dreams if I don’t let mine out?

I don’t need consent to have fantasies.

Monogamous Men

I want to spend a night in the most expensive Biltmore or Conrad or Waldorf suite in London with you, courtesy of my Hilton Honors free night and Diamond upgrade. We’ll have at least 24 hours of time (check in early, check out late). I want to start in the bar, have a couple drinks, and talk about what you would love to be a part of your erotic encounters and what you’d love to be a part of them with me. I’ll share too. 

We’ll talk and set boundaries and see how our moods overlap. We’ll concur. And then I want to get it all out of my system. All the fucking we should have done by now. 

I’ll order room service. We’ll bathe together. You’ll let my sudsy hand work your cock as much to make splashes and ripples as to get you off and you’ll guide me into you and I’ll finger your prostate underwater and soap your cock until you come on my creamy, floating tits, foam sliding down over my peach nipples into the water. 

I want to touch you. Don’t want to stop touching you. I want to touch you everywhere. I don’t want to break the circuit.

Grab me in the middle of the street and push me into a dark corner and fuck me from behind against a wall. 

And we’ll cook for each other. Cook together. I want to explore tantra with you. I want to take LSD with you. MDMA. Find closeness we haven’t. Facilitate your learning that it doesn’t require commitment. That these moments we share are not the beginning of some chain of obligation called a relationship. They are moments we share. Just moments we share. They are beautiful moments made for us to share.

Stop the story. Monogamy is a train to a destination. Not this. This is not that. Do not make me into and/or when I am both/and. This is an exploration. This is a rainbow of energy. Ride it with me. Ride me.

We’ll make each other laugh. I’ll take you to my online yoga class. You’ll see what my body is working through. Hold my hand, get high and go to museums, roll around in parks and whatever else this world lets us do as long as it does. We’d bloody well better get to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, after all this.

I want to make you feel better than you ever have. Fulfill your fantasies. I desire your desire. I want to send you texts. Pictures. Audio. I want to distract you. I want you to send me video. Audio. I want to hear you come. Over and over. I want to hear your voice. Want you to confess every time you get hard because of me. I want you to give me something to back up to the cloud.

I want to debate. To argue. Fight. Adventure. Lead. Follow.

I want you to cum on my tits. My belly. Ass. Back. Claim me. Mark me. I want to make you come in your pants. In public. I want to make you so hard, make your heart race, make your blood pump. Wanna make you do dumb shit. I want you flustered and red-faced. I want to feel your cock under the table. With my hands. With my feet. I want to do a good job. Want to be the hottest you’ve had.

I want to remind you that you are alive, in the now, not waiting on the future to live. Come see how many times you can make me come. Break all my records. Bury your face in my beautiful breasts. I want you to park that big mack truck right in this little garage.

And oh yes I get to suck you off on a cable car, high above the Thames. I’m sure it’s so easy to get our own car in the New Normal. I think about whether the car would sway from the motion. If I put my back into it. I know how quick you can come for me. Tell me I did a good job. Paint my throat.

I want to give you your first dab. I want to fuck you in the raw. 

I’ll sit on your lap. Clothed, in public, it’ll remind you of the times I’ve done it naked, in private, facing you. Facing away from you. Abusing chairs. Couches. I’ll lie on top of you, naked, with your hands on my hips, and your cock deep inside me, steering me while I breathe in your scent, and kiss you. Sitting up, moving for you, posing for you. Put me where you like me. I want to come while you’re inside me, over and over. Straining to clamp down hard enough to get my release but held open by your cock. I want to wake up next to you. 

I want to fall asleep fucking. Wake up fucking.

I want to travel somewhere warm with you. Stargaze. Climb something. Get high on a new city. 

And those slow moments. The quiet. The blossoming, fractal present.

We shall get caught in rainstorms. Go swimming. Naked.

Let’s get drunk and hate fuck, pouring all the rage we don’t want trapped in us into it and just letting whatever ugly shit comes out be there.

Until it drifts away, curling and dispersing to be borne by us all and we lighten.

Read my book. Keep reading me. Give me things to write about. Give me more fantasies.

I want you to talk dirty to me. Tell me what words to say to make your cock jump. I want to hold you and talk to you while you’re inside me. I want to fuck you slowly. Strip for you. Dance for you. Dance with you. Teach me words in Hindi. 

I want you to lick me. I love how you lick me.

Push me face down onto the bed. Tease the entrance to my cunt with the head of your dick. Fuck me like you can’t wait. Like you’ve waited too long. Punish me. Praise me.

I want to be able to grab you and kiss you and take you whenever I want, however we want, and know that you always want it because you want me. I like understanding what makes your dick hard. What makes you come. I wanna watch you beat your cock like I’m not looking. Study me as I play with my pussy.

I want you to let me use your cock as a toy. Want to show you my history, my stories, my scars, my crushes.

I want to sit, legs intertwined, in front of a window somewhere beautiful. I want to hear news that shocks the world with you. Sing to you. Sing with you. I want your arm around my shoulder and kissing you three times a block because we can’t help it.

I want to breathe with you. Come to my parties. Make all the monogamous men jealous. Sneak you off into a closet and suck your cock. I want to wrestle. Pin me down and fuck my face. I want to be covered in your sweat.

I want you to cry on my shoulder, tell me your stories and your secrets. Manifest with me. I want to massage each other. Everywhere. I want to talk to you. Just talk to you. Just sit and talk and talk and talk.

But I want to see you even try to be in the same place with me and intend to be platonic friends with me. I want to see what happens, feel the joy, the anguish. So you’re a leper again now. Untouchable. I want to see how those intentions make it so much hotter for you that everything explodes. 

Convince yourself it’s possible now. I can’t wait to feel the desire in the room as lead in my pussy dragging on my clit and to just by staring at you make your dick throb so hard you can’t resist me and look around for water and relief and anything to hold onto as you shake. That painful, gut-wrenching effort pulling against a magnet of ultimate good. I can’t wait to feel you try. To feel my cells as filings dancing in the field of your denied desire.

I want you to feel my love and sex as a blessing, a lesson, a session. 

No: Weight, expectation, dependency. Yes: Desire, manifestation. Deliciousness. Depth.

I don’t want to hurt you, I know I’m hurting you. I wouldn’t if your worth wasn’t so clear, potential so powerful, pain such a necessary part of expansion. If I wouldn’t come back to you. If I wouldn’t take you with me. I wouldn’t if you didn’t look at me with that mountain stillness and those deep forest eyes and say things like 

“Yes. I mean, yes, I understand, but I disagree.”

I want to fall in love with you. 

But I cannot, if you don’t tell her the truth

And if you put it off, it won’t work. We are the divine manifested in what we would love and avoidance of this is our death. You are not at choice, you are not free. You are not living into a life you love. Ain’t no one got time for monogamous men.

You cannot move forward performing a role that isn’t you. Nothing is real if the truth would change everything. Your life is a fantasy.  Every moment you waste in false security living a lie adds those years to your eyes that you don’t see in mine. And I cannot watch the decline from any distance.

I want but don’t need to fall in love with you. I don’t need to be in love with you for my fantasies to come true.

Feeling it off you like an exhaust of slime from a slug. Like a trailing veil you hate but it’s beautiful and made just for you. Dragging around a heavy cape you have to carry even when you aren’t wearing it.

It’s why if you choose to waste these bleeding edge present moments with delay and break my heart it won’t be hard to move on. I can’t carry that for or with you or at all, and to slip out from under it will be to evolve. Slip away into “Nexxxxxt”. Shrug off the burden of monogamous men and feel myself rise.

Can’t hold His rope. Can’t carry your cloak.

Even now underneath it I am suffocating. How can I play with all this weight? I’m strong as fuck. You alone can choose to drop it and embrace me, where I am, where I stand, with open heart and open legs. Both, and.

I don’t need to fall in love with you. But I think you might need to fall in love with me. I think you might need me to fall in love with you.

You said that you have a partner that doesn’t believe that it’s possible to be in love with more than one person at a time

What do YOU believe?

More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:

1: Cheater

2: His first discretion? The European Lovers: Hookup

3: In more detail: The European Lovers: Barcelona

4: Will He Or Won’t He?

5: Agenda

6: Naked in the Dark

7: Use a Condom

8: Stuck

9: Rapid City

For more about my Favorite Lover:

How we met: The European Lovers: Hookup

The first time: The European Lovers: Barcelona

Favorite Lover as Muse:

1: Whoring for Lifetimes

2: Cheater

3: Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

4: Speaking of the Future

The first of our cybersex duet series: Halloween Lover


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