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I’m a little bit of a prude, but I’m getting better. I used to just assume if you weren’t like me, you were broken. (That seems ironic, now.) Or evil. Or misled. But I’ve come to understand that it’s not that simple. So I accept…

Polycules and metamours, Ethical non-monogamy, whores, Swinging and BDSM, serial monogamists, The kinks in our dna that make us like feet, or fur, or infidelity. That the people who desire love the most are often least equipped to handle it, That life is complicated, and trying isn’t enough. Threesomes and orgies and open relationships, Our bodies promising forever, then getting bored. People bouncing off people like pinballs, Connection is strange and fragile.

I accept it, but I don’t want it.

Is it too much to ask for a person to hold on to, And a couch to snuggle her on? Something simple, where sex connects, and intention matters. A place with strong doors, where everything we need to be can wait outside, And we can be comfortably naked in everything we are. (Even if that’s an overdressed prude). A place where we hold on and don’t let go. Why is that so hard? How can such a simple, beautiful thing be so rare and difficult?

I am tired, and I am defeated. I don’t think I have it in me to try again. I’m not even sure that what I want exists. Perhaps it is a figment. Perhaps my kink is the most unhinged one, after everything. Let me breathe a moment. There, that’s better. Alright then. Perhaps one more try…