I’ve been ethically non-monogamous for nearly a decade, and in that period, I’ve had half a dozen serious partners. Each relationship was a different shade of non-monogamy depending on our specific needs and desires at the time. I’ve been full-on polyamorous, living with my boyfriend, his wife, and his wife’s girlfriend. I’ve been in an open relationship, meaning we just had sex with other people but weren’t actively dating others or looking for other emotional connections. I even had a brief relationship with a woman who implemented a one-pussy policy, meaning I could sleep with other men, but no other women. (Yes, I’m bisexual.)
The thought of returning to monogamy, even temporarily, never occurred to me. Monogamy has always felt restrictive—like an attack on my personal freedoms and sexual autonomy—and I didn’t want to feel like a bird with clipped wings. That’s why I’m still shocked that I (a proudly non-monogamous sex and relationships writer) suggested a temporary stint of monogamy to my current girlfriend.
It didn’t come out of the blue. We had just returned from a Bi Week Takeover at Hedonism II, an infamous swingers resort in Jamaica. And while we had an absolute blast—loving the people and all the sex—some big feelings arose. Instead of feeling compersion while watching her have sex with other people, I felt jealous. Like, really jealous. Jealousy that had previously felt manageable (which, contrary to popular belief, is normal in non-monogamous relationships) but that for some reason I couldn’t yet identify, overwhelmed me this time. When I shared this with her, I clarified that she hadn’t done anything wrong and that I wasn’t asking her to change her behavior. (We were at a swingers resort to have sex, after all!) I was simply sharing to get some additional support from her—specifically, words of affirmation. Turns out she, too, had been struggling with jealousy.
It was weird. We’d seen each other fuck a bajillion people over the past year of our relationship, which had always been open from the start. This wasn’t even our first swingers event together! Why was jealousy coming up so strong now, when otherwise, things between us felt extremely solid?
After some reflection, it hit me: Our sex life had changed. It hadn’t been as passionate or even as regular as it was at the beginning, when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It used to be that the first thing we did when she walked through my door was have sex. Over time, that intimacy diminished (as can often happen in long-term relationships) until eventually we were hardly having sex at all. When we did, it often felt perfunctory. So to see her having passionate sex with someone else felt like a little dagger to the heart—one that made me feel insecure about our relationship.
For context, waning sexual desire with a primary partner has always been an issue for me. Admittedly, sex with strangers and new people has always felt more exciting than nurturing a healthy sex life with one person, which requires vulnerability, introspection, and, yes, hard work. So whenever I’ve felt that desire start to wane, I’ve gotten my sexual needs met elsewhere. Being non-monogamous has enabled my avoidance, so I end up falling into a pattern of sleeping with other people rather than the person I love. It’s just easier.
For a while, I thought my brain was simply wired differently, and that to me, worthwhile sex was about novelty. I had a therapist who suggested this and I ran with it. It wasn't until I saw a different therapist that I realized my diminishing sexual desire was, in fact, related to intimacy issues. And I've never wanted to put in the work to address them until now.
For what it’s worth, I haven’t been unhappy in previous primary relationships. My partners and I were still intimate—cuddling, having romantic dinners, and more—but sex wasn’t typically part of how we expressed our love. I assumed all my relationships would (d)evolve this way, and I made peace with it. But early on in my current relationship, my girlfriend made it clear she didn’t want our dynamic to turn sexless. She wanted it to be a fundamental expression of how we communicated our love and facilitated intimacy—a very reasonable desire!
I also wanted this. I still want this. So, I decided the first step to sexually reconnecting with her was to take a break from sleeping with other people. A brief return to monogamy, if you will. Why? Because consistently hooking up with new people takes time and effort, and, given my history, I know that time is better spent focusing on the connection that means the most to me.
I’m also not a guy who can or wants to cum three times a day. If I hook up with a random dude on Grindr one afternoon, I’m going to be sexually sated and not have any desire left come evening. And I need that desire before anything else. If I’m not horny and I’m struggling with unresolved intimacy issues, there’s no way in hell I’m going to want to have sex with my girlfriend, no matter how attractive I find her or how much I love her.
When we spoke about this, she agreed that, yes, maybe the energy I was spending on outside sexual encounters was energy I could be investing in our relationship. But sex isn’t a zero-sum game for her the way it is for me. She can still be horny and want to sexually connect with me even if she fucked someone else that afternoon. Her other sexual relationships haven’t negatively impacted our relationship. That’s why we decided it didn’t really make sense for her to stop seeing other people.
“Zach, this doesn’t seem fair,” she said. “I get to fuck whoever I want, and you don’t get to fuck anyone else.”
I explained that it would be one thing if she’d suggested this, but it had been my idea. I also clarified that the goal isn’t to punish myself; it's for us to reconnect sexually. What it takes for me to do that and work through my sexual avoidance is different than what it takes for her. Having the same “rules” just for the sake of it doesn’t make much sense.
So, after ten years of polyamory, I embarked on a foray into monogamy. At first, it felt limiting, and I was constantly second-guessing my decision. I kept wondering if all this was actually necessary. Why am I depriving myself? I thought. But I stuck with it, and six weeks in, my girlfriend and I have made some serious progress. In part, simply acknowledging what was happening and having this open conversation together was part of the battle. Another part was not beating myself up for it. I needed to learn to accept, embrace, and even love where I am in my sex journey; otherwise, there would be no hope for change.
Now, my girlfriend and I are focusing on taking action. One thing that’s really proven helpful is de-centering penetration and focusing more on other ways we can be sexually intimate. This includes making out, some BDSM (light impact play and bondage), incorporating wax play, edging, and sensual massages. Tied into this has been reframing the question of “How do I reignite the spark?” to “How do my partner and I experience pleasure together?” (This is something renowned sex educator Emily Nagoski talks about in her latest book. Come Together: The Science (and Art!) of Creating Lasting Sexual Connections, which I highly recommend.) We’ve also been doing some eye-gazing exercises and mutual breath work together to help us connect.
To be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll remain monogamous. It could be six more weeks, or six more months. One thing I am confident about is the knowledge that I’m not built to be sexually exclusive long-term. But unlike in past relationships, I really do see myself being with my girlfriend for the long haul. I want to marry her. I want us to be DINKS (double-income, no kids) and travel the world together into our old age. In short, I want our relationship—us—to work, and I’m willing to try things outside my comfort zone to get there. I’m confident that we will.
