I was back to being single.
Which meant I was back to re-evaluating my rules about relationships.

When you’ve been wrong that many times, curiosity stops feeling like rebellion and starts feeling like due diligence. Not What do I believe? but What actually works—for anyone? I wasn’t trying to be edgy. I was troubleshooting.

It was time to think outside the box.

That’s when consensual non-monogamy entered the chat.

Based on what I’d seen, picking one person and pretending they could meet every emotional, physical, and intellectual need was…a lot to ask. People were clearly improvising anyway. Maybe polyamory wasn’t chaos. Maybe it was honesty with better lighting.

I didn’t know. So, I did the mature thing and asked someone who seemed genuinely happy.

I had a friend who was polyamorous. She was in a throuple—also called a triad, which is just a three-person couple with better branding. She had moved in, with her three kids, into the home of a married couple and become part of their relationship. They also all dated other people, because apparently love is abundant and calendars are optional.

She loved it. Truly. She told me it was amazing. Enlightened. The future of love. Everyone should do this.

According to her, polyamory meant radical honesty. No sneaking. No lying. Everyone’s needs were spoken aloud and respected. Love wasn’t finite; it multiplied. Jealousy wasn’t a failure—it was something you worked through, like childhood trauma or a difficult yoga pose. Monogamy, she suggested gently, worked for some people. Polyamory just worked better for her.

And I believed her.

We talked about it over brunch. Several times.
Brunch is where ideas are less intimidating.

Logically, I got it. I really did. I could follow the reasoning. Emotionally, though, I needed to see it in the wild before forming an opinion. I don’t buy a swimsuit without trying it on; I wasn’t about to restructure intimacy sight unseen. So, she invited me over and asked me to bring wine.

I had to ask exactly which kind, because at that point I still didn’t know the difference between a Merlot and a Moscato. I was instructed to bring Blue Nun, which—of all the details my brain has chosen to preserve—feels important.

When I arrived, it wasn’t scandalous or decadent or anything you’d associate with sexual liberation. It felt like a regular family house. Maybe a little messier. It smelled like cigarette smoke. This was not a fantasy. This was a household.

And here’s the thing: nothing about it felt wrong. No one was being mistreated. No one was coerced. Everyone seemed to be choosing this arrangement freely and thoughtfully.

It just felt like…a lot.

A lot of talking.
A lot of processing.
A lot of feelings being checked in, checked out, clarified, re-clarified, and scheduled. Everyone was kind. Everyone was earnest. Everyone was exhausted.

If polyamory was about abundance, I seemed to be watching a lot of emotional inventory control.

I visited a few more times, trying to understand it. And every time, I left feeling tired—like I’d attended a meeting that could have been an email.

It slowly became clear that polyamory wasn’t immoral, or broken, or doomed. It just required skills I do not possess. I am not great at sharing. I have seen people fall out over fries. I am not emotionally agile. I don’t enjoy committees.

And I was never quite sure whether the whole thing was quietly exploratory—whether I was being gently auditioned for a role I had not agreed to read for. So I stayed stubbornly oblivious, and our hangouts remained strictly social.

In the end, I realized something important: polyamory wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t me.

It wasn’t a moral objection. It was logistical. I could barely keep up with what one person wanted. Multiple emotional spreadsheets sounded like unpaid labor, and I had already done enough internships.

Polyamory requires a very particular set of skills.
I have been informed I do not have them.

Shortly after crossing polyamory off the list, I was immediately confronted with the universe’s commitment to irony.

One night, I went to a blues dance in Salt Lake. Blues dancing already lives in a gray area—intimate, expressive, and full of people who say things like connection while maintaining aggressive eye contact. Afterward, a woman I knew casually mentioned she was having people over if anyone wanted to come. Casual. Social. Normal.

I went.

Only one other person was there. A man I’d just met at the dance. He told me he was staying with her for the week. He was visiting from France.

She excused herself to tidy up in the other room, leaving the two of us alone. I sat on her living room floor, waiting for the rest of the dancers to arrive so the party could begin.

They did not.

He was very friendly. Then I realized we were not waiting for the same thing.

He sat down next to me and put his hand on my thigh. This felt forward, but he was French, so I briefly attempted to excuse this as a cultural difference and not a warning sign. Then he kissed my neck and I froze. Then he started to pull up my skirt.

That’s when my brain caught up.

I did not know this man. He was staying with her. I had to assume something was happening between them. And if there wasn’t, and he really was THAT confident to make a move, she was in the other room. What was the plan here?

I panicked.

I left.
I left the house.
I left without saying a word.
I left without closure or dignity.

Just cardio and confusion.

Later, my friend called.

Apparently, she had been attempting to initiate a threesome.

Oh.

Okay.

That was not clear.

There had been no explanation. No agenda. No consent-based preamble. I thought we were dancing. She thought I was psychic.

She invited me back the next night—with context this time. Against my better judgment, and because curiosity remains my most dangerous trait, I agreed.

Nothing bad happened. Nothing coercive. Everyone was kind, respectful, and genuinely enthusiastic. This is important to say, because the problem was not ethics.

The problem was me.

Here’s the thing about threesomes: they require skills.

Spatial awareness.
Emotional regulation.
Timing.
Confidence.
Knowing what to do with your hands.

The ability to make eye contact without apologizing.

I do not have that set of skills.

You know how showering together is presented as romantic, but in reality, one person is cold, damp, and waiting their turn?

That’s a threesome.

What followed was less scandal and more logistics. It felt like trying to merge onto a freeway while apologizing. I was painfully aware of my own presence. I did not know what to do. At one point, I was sure I was doing it wrong, though I could not have explained what it was.

I learned something about myself that evening.

I’ve been accused of being gay many times. It never bothered me. Girls always seemed tempting—clean, pretty, good-smelling. Soft skin. Soft lips.

In high school, I walked around holding hands with Megan. It was affectionate. People assumed it was sexual. I never felt the need to correct them.

Years later, I went to dinner with another dance friend—also named Megan. I was in a dress. She was in a suit. We sat at a diner counter, eating and laughing, and received so much support. Smiles. Thumbs up. Two people actually came over to tell us we made an adorable couple.

It was weirdly wholesome. I loved it.

Despite being raised Mormon, I never had issues with homosexuality.

In the back of my head I wondered if that was the reason I was unable to find a man.

But I learned that I am not homosexual.

Vaginas are terrifying.

Yes, I know I have one, that does not make me feel any better.

For years afterward, I would physically shudder when thinking about that night—not from trauma, but from secondhand embarrassment for myself.

Never again.
Not for me.

I’m glad people explore. I’m glad consent exists. I’m glad joy comes in many configurations.

I’m just not built for group projects.