We meet like any other guy I meet online: “Hey how’s it going? You’re handsome and seem interesting.” He either replies, or does not. If he does, it then becomes a delicate conversational dance to eventually work up to meeting up. In my case, that delicate dance is usually a stumbling waltz to bad music and I end up falling onto the other guests, grasping at a tablecloth and then I’m pulling the buffet down on top of us. In this instance, though, this guy Jerry is startlingly handsome, and is weirdly nice. He compliments my photography and we chat about our jobs, our art. We seem to vibe well, the chatting is easy and kind, which is a relief after a couple recent incidents online with clearly unhinged people. Jerry mentions he travels a lot and it’s then I look at his profile closer, he lives across the country. Because of course he does.

It’s around this time that someone else messages me. It’s Jerry’s partner, Ben. He says they’re in an open relationship and he finds me attractive too. Oh!I’m not sure where or when I knew I was “old fashioned”. Maybe it was growing up in a Catholic household in Albuquerque New Mexico. All the relationships I saw in media and in real life were heteronormative: a man and a woman, monogamous, lifelong partnerships were the goal. This was the 80’s, when the AIDS epidemic was being brushed under society’s rug. When I went to high school I started developing powerful crushes on guys and of course had to conceal these feelings as best I could. In my fantasies of my futures with these guys, my ideal was always the white picket fence with the dog and the kid, and of course we would be loyal lifelong partners forever. Two of the guys who I had the biggest crushes on, Ben F. and Joe J., I also got the closest to confessing my attraction to. Neither of them turned out gay that I know of. That I know of (dusts off Google).

Ben explained that he and Jerry were recently open after starting the relationship monogamously. Genuinely curious, I hesitantly asked more about this: do they only fool around together? What are their rules? He replied that they tried to be sexual with a third person only together, rarely separately. This made perfect sense to me, but I also have speculated in the past about this being a hard thing to do. It always seemed to be that when you start a relationship you sign a kind of unwritten contract, and when you changed the rules halfway through, it created a new contract, a new kind of relationship entirely. I think now that this may come from a place of naivety, of a lack of experimentation in my life.

People talk about their crazy college days, about their experimenting with their sexuality or with drugs in school. I could not have been a more boring college student if I had tried. I promised my brother in recovery I would never experiment with drugs, so I didn’t. I had my first drink, a Bartles & James wine cooler, in my sophomore year of college. I passed out after drinking it. I wanted a boyfriend, and I had a crush on a boy, so I asked him out and then we were a couple for over two years.

It bears acknowledging that this part was almost too easy. I knew what I stood for, which was wanting an exclusive, traditional, old fashioned relationship, and I got one. My college boyfriend was the person I lost my virginity to. In hindsight, I wonder what would have happened if things had been harder for me, if I had dated a lot before finding someone? Would I have experimented more? Would I have been open to other types of relationships than what I thought I wanted? What formed my opinions, my values, that monogamous relationships were the ideal and everything else was less than? In my early days, I was a Judgey Gay. Once when I made my mom an espresso in a new machine she tasted it and puckered; she clearly hated it but managed to croak out “That’s good espresso” through the biggest grimace I had ever seen. I wish I had a gif of her face that moment, because that is the exact face I would make whenever someone brought up threesomes.

I arrived in Seattle in late morning. The three of us were on a group text and I let them know I was headed downtown to find a rubber fish for a photo. While one of them has an iPhone, the other does not, and the texts are that crestfallen shade of green that looks like the exact shade of disappointment. I itch. Specifically, my crotch itches. Before I left Portland, I trimmed my pubic hair. Hey, great: it not only had the weird effect of making my junk look smaller but had the unintended side bonus of making my hips look massive (insert “high-five” emoji here). I have to admit, it has been awhile since I made sweet sweet love to anyone. I am a sex camel, it has been literally months since I last fooled around (before sweet, kind Chris and I ended things).

I am a little nervous as I get the text that they’re on their way downtown. I made sure a week or two before that we were all aligned expectation-wise before my trip, and in a lot of ways, I haven’t really changed. I didn’t want this to be a solely sexual encounter, I was inclined to date them if things worked out, despite the distance. They discussed it privately and decided they were open to the idea too. I see Jerry and Ben enter the coffeeshop, and what a relief, they are as handsome and charming as they’ve been over the past weeks too. We spend the entire day together and I wonder absently if they realize they’re on a double date with me and my anxiety.

They’ve been going nonstop since the morning and so have I. We are officially Tuckered Out. They need a good power nap before they crash back at their Airbnb and invite me. I wonder if “nap” is a euphemism for doing unspeakable depraved things to their fannies and I decide that I’m just crazy, they’re probably not that into me, or one of them isn’t, and gave the code to the other: he put his finger to the side of his nose, or maybe when he ordered the decaf latte that was the signal, but no matter what, a nap is just a nap.

It turns out to be not that.

I am nothing if not awkward, and this is the case here too. I talk too much, I ask consent constantly no literally I feel like I am facilitating someone cheating on their boyfriend right in front of them and I can’t stop apologizing. It is weird, it is wonderful, it is guilt-ridden, it is adjectives that sound like sounds and not words, it is the sweet synesthesia of skin and sight. Under it all, I mutter to myself “What are you doing, what are you doing, wait what the fuck are you DOING MR. SCHNEIDER?”

I did not expect it to be this affectionate, to have this much eye contact, I expected a cold disconnect. I did not expect us to smile so much at each other.

Things strike me all at once or several hours later: the way a calf tapers into an ankle, the constant making sure I am being a good lover and paying attention to both, holding in my gut so I look skinnier. One of them mutters “I love you” to the other and I do not know this wave of emotions, I do not know what I am feeling right now, who is that doing that to me and do I even care, how does this work, where does this go, who am I who am I.

It’s the next day and I am on a ferry to where I am staying with my friend Jennie when I am startled awake by my own fart. I look around, everyone has pretended not to hear it. It occurs to me that I have finally done something out of self care for myself. It occurs to me that I do not know my heart half as well as I thought I did. It occurs to me that I still feel deeply that I will end up with a single special human being and be monogamous. It occurs to me that the simple act of writing about this may alienate people I want to connect with.

My phone buzzes, I look at the message. “We miss you and want to see you again.”

I type back my reply.

To read the next chapter of this, click here.