I’m going to tell you something about so-called “open relationships” that you probably already suspected. I’m using the term of art “open relationship” to mean any longish-term relationship in which both partners have agreed in principle to the freedom to pursue trysts or concurrent relationships without punishment, and are fully aware in the abstract if not of the sordid details of each other’s extracurricular lovers.
Without giving away TMI and triangulated coordinates of secretive Chateau vaults, I have peripherally known a couple of honest-to-goodness swingers. They had a club and a meeting place where bacchanalia would attend under the tacit permission of local authorities. Spouse swapping was on the menu, along with sundry sexually experimental arrangements. The two men of my brief acquaintance were proud participants in the open relationship lifestyle.
One was a giant goony ambassador for the pleasures of polyamory. “It’s not for everyone,” he would snobbishly intone in a preface to a twenty minute discussion about free love I had chanced into one evening. Decked in a soul patch, a three piece suit, and fondling a cane topped with a dragon’s head (“from Bangkok”, naturally), his “primary” — the woman with whom he lived — was a dumpy, squat, mid-30s Janeane Garofalo mimic. She was one of those bountiful fertility goddesses with steatopygia in the front and back, a strange trick on a white girl. She was with him, so I got to see up close the goth eye shadow and ghost rouge concealing her moonscape pores. After the dapper gargantugoon felt sufficiently pleased with my and my company’s feigned curiosity and he had regally delivered a layman’s guide to his sex at dawn, I was presented photos of his third wheel — strangely not referred to as his secondary — dressed in a slutty vampiress costume and biting his neck, and not to put too fine a point on it, she was butt ugly. Younger — maybe mid 20s — but ugly like Chinese crested dog ugly.
He crowed about sending her off on her own in seedy nightclubs to gather concubines into his whoreticultural goonhouse.
Months later, I met, through unusual coincidence, the second of the two self-professed polyamorists. Omega to the max. Besides his gangly physical asymmetry and receding chin, he had no discernible personality. Weathertalk filler would’ve added charm to his crashingly dull conversational skillset. Which surprised me, because one figures a man embracing a radically alternative sex life would have to be interesting along other dimensions.
This second meeting was far more disturbing than the first. I learned, diffusely through him and later more pointedly through his female companion, that he was his girl’s main man, meaning he lived with her, helped her keep up the home and hearth, and shared her pussy with another man (of whom he was aware) and possibly with innumerable men beyond his ken and his care. My morbid interest piqued, I tried my best to extract the juicy raunch from the moldy rind of their polyamorous polygon. Best I could piece together was that this outstanding specimen of malehood had three jobs: Paying the rent, attending auctions with his girlfriend, and eating her out.
Apparently, penis in vagina sex was off the table. Or uninteresting to him. Because the pride that welled up in them both was evident in their florid descriptions of his oral facility at parting her dandered waves of mange. And, more distressing to yer humble serrator, she clearly evinced delight explaining how this sexual selflessness would turn her boyfriend on so much he would stroke himself during the act to sterile inner calf-splattered completion.
As for her, while not entirely repulsive to the eye, her looks were not the sort of showstopper one would expect capable of enslaving even a wretched omega male into perpetual financial and cunnilingual servitude. Tall, bony, breastless, pockmarked with various tattoos and piercings, she had at least the saving grace of residual youth and thinness and a recognizably human female face. A solid HB5 in good lighting.
The worst of it was the emotionless cadence that infected his voice when he proceeded to explain how a polyamorous agreement meant monogamy didn’t “coerce” either of them to stay in an unfulfilling relationship. Both were free to love on the side, although, “at the moment”, only she had the pleasure of another lover (and the timely dart of her eyes suggested other lovers). He was, he noted, at present “not that excited about meeting more women”.
Of course. I thought at the time, and still do, a man can’t go lower. The incel homeless bum and his penis encrusted with twenty years of smegma has more dignity than the willing cuckold with the tongue glazed by the skankhole deposited sperm of better men.
Two anecdotes, to be sure. But adding my brush with polyamorists to the collected literature, a focused picture of the reality of open relationships emerges.
Open relationships are almost never two-way.
One party to the “creatively ambiguous” polyamory agreement is getting the metaphorical shaft, and the other the actual shaft. The shafted is typically, but not always, the male (no need to sully the word “man”), whose role is as the eminently mockable “beta bux” (or beta hugs) available for service during those three weeks of the month when the female’s libido goes into hibernation. That he may live with his openly open-legged girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s getting the lion’s share of her vagina. But he is getting the lion’s share of her feelings and tantrums and moodiness.
Even males who manage to fulfill their implied rewards from an open relationship are rarely sole owners of the sexual excess. The first polyamorous couple described in this post survived on the male’s willingness to whore out his “primary” to fellow travelers at their favorite swinger spot. And as CH readers should know by now, the sexual profligacy of women is a far more serious infraction in biological (and hence, psychological) terms than is the sexual profligacy of men.
Genuine, egalitarian, open polyamory for all practical purposes doesn’t exist among white Westerners. There’s always one or another party out in the asexual or anhedonic cold, nursing feelings of rejection and traumatic self-doubt. And if that party is a willing participant to his or her sexual/romantic exclusion, it’s a good bet he/she is psychologically broken, mentally unstable, physically repulsive, or suffering from clinically low sex drive. In other words, human trash.
Open relationship participants are almost always hideously ugly.
Polyamory is a mating ground for human rejects. Whatever else it offers, the open relationship ruse assists the comically low value sector of humanity to live amongst each other and experience pleasures of the diseased flesh.
True open relationships are predominantly polyandrous.
The general complexion of contractual open relationships — where all participants are voluntary and aware of proceedings — is one ugly to mediocre-looking woman on the pre-Wall fast track lavishing in the flaccid attention of two or more omega males. Invariably, the more masculine (and it’s all relative, so maybe it’s better to say “the less androgynous”) of the males would be the one who is actually porking her.
For a visual of this reality, see here.
Illicit open relationships are predominantly polygynous.
“Open” relationships that form organically from the unspoken (and initially unacknowledged) impulses and romantic decisions of one or another partner nearly always manifest into polygynous arrangements: That is, illicit open relationships are distinguished by one high value alpha male discreetly juggling multiple concurrent female lovers. Pickup artists call the illicit open relationship the MLTR: Multiple Long-Term Relationship. Genghis Khan called it Tuesday.
The MLTR exists in the gray area of the female mind where she senses a disturbance in the romantic force but can’t summon her courage, or dismiss her love, to disentangle herself from the web of lives. Illicit open relationships — soft harems in popular nomenclature — can have surprising endurance, because women’s love for an alpha male is stronger than their pride. For quite some time, a woman in love with a sexy alpha will sacrifice her pride and prejudice with a swiftness complete. This is true whether the alpha player informs all his lovers of their complicity in his pleasuredome, or if he keeps his dalliances on the down low. In the latter case, I have only ever seen girls promptly eject upon discovery of participation in alpha male soft harems if those girls were very beautiful, or getting on in years. Very beautiful women have perpetually groomed coteries of alpha male suitors to tap in times of crises. Older women have ticking egg counters and desperation that help their escape.
Illicit open relationships — polygyny circles — are far commoner than forthright open relationships that typically assume the polyandrous or rarer volatile and highly unstable polyamorous forms. Sex differences practically guarantee that this would be the reality we see, rather than the reality homely polyamory proponents would want the benighted to believe.
In the real world, the openly polyamorous nirvana of ‘sex at dawn’ is really the circus sideshow abattoir of ‘sex before personal hygiene’.