Before I was polyamorous, I didn’t think cheating was a thing in non-monogamous relationships—not because I thought ethical non-monogamy was a free-for-all, but because I had a very narrow definition of cheating in general. In monogamy, the universal agreement is: Don’t bone anyone who’s not your partner. But in polyamory, there is no universal agreement. Cheating isn’t just about sex; it’s about breaking the rules of whatever boundaries you set with your partner(s).
Maybe you mutually decide that you can have sex with other people, but you can’t sleep over after. If you do, that’s cheating. Or maybe you have a “no kissing” policy. (Which I, for one, cannot stand. I was literally inside a guy, doing the nastiest things to him, but upon going in for a kiss, he said, “My boyfriend says I can’t make out with other guys. I can only take their loads.”) Whatever you define as cheating depends on you and your partner's specific needs. It’s nuanced, but ultimately, it’s not that complicated if you're being honest with everyone involved. I, naturally, learned this the hard way.
When Angelo and I agreed to be boyfriends, we only made one agreement: We were in an open relationship, not polyamorous. In other words, I couldn’t have any other boyfriends, girlfriends, or theyfriends—but I could keep fucking others. (Nice.) We didn’t specify anything beyond the labels we couldn’t have with other people, and that ended up being a huge mistake. Was I allowed to have friends with benefits? Could I take others out on dates? Could hookups sleep over and cuddle? It was all very unclear. |
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I can’t believe that it’s 2023 and we’re still fighting for the same damn issue that my mother’s generation fought for: bodily autonomy. But it was a pivotal experience I had as a teenager, supporting my mother as she exercised her own right to choose, that has always reminded me why we have to keep fighting.
My mother has been a registered nurse for more than 50 years, dedicating her whole life to caring for others. But when she was the one who needed help, an abortion provider—Planned Parenthood—was there for her. For us.
When I was 14 years old, my mom discovered she was pregnant. It was one test result in a folder full of test results: She was in the hospital, battered, recovering from a severe car accident—the same one that gave me the scar on my arm. Driving home from the Hindu temple in Malibu, our car was thrown off the road, falling 40 feet down an embankment. It took nearly 2 hours of sawing through trees and metal to rescue us.
My mom, stepdad, and I all suffered life-altering injuries, but my mom was the worst off: Half her rib cage, her arm, and her hand were broken, her sternum was severed, and her heart was under massive strain from a cardiac contusion. Both my parents were looking at monthslong recovery periods where they’d have to stay home from work without pay to regain mobility on top of a mountain of medical bills.
This was the state she was in when she learned of her pregnancy. |
| Brb, buying one in every color. |
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| Everything you need to know for the upcoming week. |
Everything you need to know for the upcoming week. |
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“I want to thank Selena for speaking out, as her and I have been discussing the last few weeks how to move past this...” |
“I want to thank Selena for speaking out, as her and I have been discussing the last few weeks how to move past this...” |
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Their wedding anniversary was on Sunday. 😞 |
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