Vulnerable AF: How NOT To Start a New Relationship

March 2021 

Despite all the fun with BDSM, my seasonal depression raged during the winter lockdowns of 2020-21. It was even worse than my postpartum, particularly in the two weeks leading up to my periods. I turned down SSRIs because of the no-orgasm side effects, instead retreating to bed and blank stares for far too many days. 

I was such a mess that we seriously considered moving to Florida, where I was inexplicably convinced that life would be all sunshine and serotonin. As if to prove my temporary insanity and Jack’s neverending support, we packed up all six of us plus our two rescue dogs into our minivan and drove south to scope out some neighborhoods and job prospects. In the end, I was reminded that the real adventure I wanted wasn’t a new home — I wanted to connect with people. 

If you’d have asked me about relationships then, I’d have told you something woo-woo about infinite ways to love, being open to all the possibilities, and the innate goodness in people.

Problem was, those sentiments made me vulnerable as fuck. Moving probably would have been less traumatic. 

Instead, I met Ned.

It seemed like great timing. We’d just returned to work in-person, but business was slow and I was bored.

I’d confided in only Veronica and another close guy friend at work about my sexual exploits, but that was enough. The new hire, Ned, had bragged to my guy friend about his open marriage. My friend immediately turned around and gave me the gossip.

Ned had obviously learned about me, too, because boom there he was the next morning, in my group’s gossip spot. Did everyone sense that tension between us as we checked each other out? We were practically eye fucking. The COVID masks made it all the more alluring. 

Yes, what I really wanted was to be with a woman, but after scoping Ned out, I determined that he was more than acceptable — he was foursome-worthy cute. It was a big deal for me to find a guy attractive; most dudes don’t do it for me. Jack is more than exceptional — he’s an exception.

And so was Ned, apparently. 

I hadn’t really considered my “type” before all this non-monogamy business. I liked Jack, of course, but after our marriage, I’d sort of tuned out everyone else. Blame hormones, blame Catholic values shoved upon me regarding so-called adultery and what it meant for your eternal soul to be queer. Point is, I’ve really come to notice that I have a clear view of what’s hot and what’s not.

Jack, hot. I don’t want to make you jealous, so I’m not going to ramble on about his giant biceps and six-pack abs and strong jawline and pecs and, well, you’ll hear more about his cock in the coming chapters. He’s on the short side, though, so that keeps his ego in check.

Actually, shorter people are my jam. They make me feel more adult, more erotic. It doesn’t do it for me to sit my small frame on a six foot something guy. I’m a submissive, but I don’t have Daddy issues. 

Anyhow, Ned was an inch shorter than Jack, but still about seven inches taller than me. This was working.

I love Jack’s full head of hair, but I also don’t mind the bald look, so Ned was good there, too. He was slim, definitely not as ripped as Jack, but clearly in good shape. A gaiter mask covered his prominent Italian nose and framed out his dark eyes, a stark contrast to Jack’s blue ones. Like a novelty. Hot.

We moved the conversation to somewhere more private. Snapchat, at his insistence. Is it weird that he wanted to communicate on an app where messages disappear after only 24 hours? 

I didn’t read anything into it. Instead, I jumped headfirst into a weekend of messaging. We covered all the usual things — how we got into this, our relationship with our spouses, what we were looking for, what our lives looked like in terms of kids and hobbies. 

He also told me about Tarah. 

His version of the story went something like this: she was originally a lesbian, but they fell in love instantly upon meeting, despite his penis-clad body. To accommodate her needs, she’d continue to date women on the side, sometimes bringing them home for group playtime. 

Note — that’s his version, not hers, but I’m told that a good book builds anticipation, so…wait for it. It took me months to get to the truth; you can wait a few chapters.

Anyhow, Tarah. Her short blonde pixie cut and skinny yet curvy frame were like a Gwen Stefani and Tinkerbell mashup. And when Ned described her personality? It was like he was describing me. 

I may have relayed all of this to Jack in what he refers to as my “squirrel voice.” I was a touch excited. 

Jack, meanwhile, was like, “Whoa, slow down there, killer.” He pointed out all the obvious things that could go wrong, from workplace dynamics to four-way compatibility. He didn’t want me getting my hopes up too high. 

I suppose it’s worth noting that I have a strong family history of bipolar disorder, though I’ve never bothered to go out and get an official diagnosis for myself. Jack points out to me that I’m often either all or nothing, full throttle excited or downright depressed. Then he does his best to help me find the peaceful middle ground, because it’s a bitch when my high crashes into a low, for both of us. 

But this time, Jack was too late.

My dopamine continued on its uptick when Ned and I met up the following week to discuss all of this again, in person. The eye contact alone was arousing, but there was some business to get out of the way. 

I had aspirations, and I practically laid them all out on the office desk that divided us and our sexual tension. I practically drew a picture, from the lesbian sex to my personal philosophy on living life to its fullest. 

Wouldn’t you know it? Ned felt the exact same way, and his situation was eerily similar to mine. 

I thought we had so much in common, but I was naive. I didn’t realize then that Ned didn’t have a clearly defined purpose, other than getting pussy. He agreed with everything I said, faking intimacy and compatibility. The technical term for this is “mirroring” — telling me what I wanted to hear, so that he could lure me in.

It would take me another year to realize that Ned is one of those people who’s not capable of actual connection. He’s emotionally stunted and immature, but he’s not stupid. I was the stupid one here. I was so desperate for connection that I lapped this shit right up.  

I was completely honest about how little experience Jack and I had in this realm, but Ned didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he quite liked being “the expert.” He gave me tips like “don’t call it the lifestyle — say open” and directed me to better dating apps. 

But the stories I found most intriguing were about the couple that they’d dated over the past year. It was almost like a boyfriend/girlfriend situation, like a big family. Sometimes, they swapped, either him or Tarah going to the other couple’s house and one member of the other couple staying at theirs. 

Swapping partners hadn’t been my thing, but was that just because I hadn’t found a guy that I was actually interested in? I’d already acknowledged my desire to have a lesbian relationship on my own, and I surmised that Jack would be perfectly happy fucking a hot blonde friend without me, if given the go.

Ned went on to describe how even their kids had bonded with this couple, and I suddenly found myself dreaming of something deeper than friends, more akin to “chosen family.” It seemed the perfect anecdote to the guilt I’d feel when leaving the kids to go on a date. With this model, my kids could benefit from our other relationships with the addition of people who were practically extended family.

I was smitten.