By Cherry Rose

‘Babe, I almost cheated on you this weekend,’ I say to my husband of several years. I’m in my late twenties, having married young. After I explain, ‘I don’t think I would have called that cheating,’ is all he says. We leave it alone, and I’m wondering what it means that the man I married doesn’t see my almost sexual relationship with my best friend during the weekend she stayed with me whilst he was away as cheating. He hasn’t given me his consent to explore outside of him.

I can still feel the rush of the late-night impromptu dip in the pool at my apartment complex with her. Standing in the water, t-shirt clinging to her breasts, I wanted to kiss her. I see her strip off to her bra and panties as soon as we walk into my flat. She runs to the shower. I take my own clothes off and pop them in the washer. Should I hop in with her? I hesitate. I’m so nervous.

She told me that she’s sure she’s a lesbian even though she married a man. I know I’m bisexual; we both followed tradition within families that wouldn’t have wanted to see us be our true selves. In the end, I don’t interrupt her shower. I go to my bedroom instead and masturbate to thoughts of seducing her. I love my husband. I’m attracted to him sexually, too. But I want, I need to be with a woman.

The conversation doesn’t come back up for a while. Several years, in fact. I watch girl-on-girl porn. I fantasise about him being a woman sometimes during sex. The interest I have in my lesbian friends’ partnerships is hidden, but I observe them. I long to experience what they have. I have chats with other bi friends or bi-curious mates. I have discussions about open marriages. I make mention of some of these topics to my husband.

One summer night, 2022, we’re lying in bed. ‘I want you to have what you want, Cherry,’ he says suddenly. ‘I want you to have that pleasure, because I love you. I just don’t know how to make it happen.’ I ask, ‘Do you see it as something more than entertainment now? Do you see me being with a woman as a real sexual relationship?’ He admits he wants to learn; he doesn’t want to objectify someone if we invite them into our bedroom. I sleep that night with a smile on my face. We’re getting closer.

A few weeks later, serendipitously, I’m on the beach one evening around a bonfire with mates. ‘I was with a couple just last night – it was so hot!’ an experienced non-binary friend divulges. I listen to the conversation intently, watch my friends gawp over the screen as the app Feeld is explained. I go home that evening and bestow the gift of a digital door to a new lifestyle to my husband. Two days later, we’ve both set up profiles and linked them together as partners, so we can explore connections with like-minded people.

We’re ethically non-monogamous. Keen to have fun with emotionally intelligent, kind humans. This is what my profile reads. I’m the most excited I’ve been in a long while about my sexuality. Having met my husband so young and being teenage sweethearts, we’ve actually never slept around. We’ve only ever been with each other. Now there was the biggest, widest door open before us. I was so fucking ready. 

The first few months were a whirlwind of hot summer fun. I’m in this to finally explore sex with other women, and I do – but not in the context I originally thought I would. We meet a couple with whom we begin swapping evenings together. Sometimes the other wife and I meet as well and ‘play together’, a phrase that I learn in this lifestyle. We also have different variations of threesomes together and sometimes manage the logistics of getting together all four of us for filthy, sexy fun (we both have children).

We click on so many levels with this couple. We can’t get enough. I’ve found a girlfriend, a boyfriend, and I’m enjoying my husband more than ever before sexually as well. We both see other people outside of this couple, too. My husband and I commit to sharing everything about our new lovers with each other, and we delight in exchanging stories of what it feels like to go on a first date, the nervous excitement of touching a new body. We thrive off of being a sounding board to one another in this new world.

Our friendship increases exponentially, and the smiles on our faces are evidence we’ve cracked open something to which we’re well-suited. ‘You guys look so good,’ many of our friends tell us. ‘Whatever you are doing, keep doing it!’ Our confidence levels are up – the engagement from strangers telling us we’re attractive – and the affirmation from new lovers that we’re dynamic and enjoyable in bed is a heady, addictive concoction of hormones that feel so good. It’s a new drug.

We process so much together: my husband expresses his gratefulness for my intuition in pointing us in this direction, his suppression of his non-monogamy, my apparent propensity for this level of non-traditional marriage all of this time. I used to always tell him who I found attractive (who not to let me be in a room on my own if he didn’t want me to cheat on him!). He used to always downplay any attraction to anyone else, which made me feel so guilty. We find a freedom from these boundaries.

Three months in, however, our pace with the couple becomes apparent that it’s not sustainable. We try to make some changes. We discuss polyamory – not something we thought we wanted, but it does start to make sense to us based on our personalities and how much we enjoy people, and the level of intensity we’ve always wanted in our friendships with other couples.

Jealousies and insecurities start popping up for the other couple, and to a small extent for us as well. I find it so beautiful, though, going through the deep conversations the lifestyle requires. It is a profound way to work on ourselves, to be proactive in looking after our mental health, and setting new workable boundaries.

Eventually, it doesn’t work out with the couple. And having opened up our hearts to them, we experience deep heartbreak and loss. Relationships are complex, and some people would rather not add that to their load in life. But we haven’t shied away from it. The benefits still outweigh any risks to me.

I’ve continued into 2023 on Feeld, meeting and dating new people. Through this experience some of the deepest desires of my heart have been fulfilled – and there are still more to be satisfied.

 Cherry Rose writes as a means of navigating her own sexuality. She also enjoys creating fiction where her characters explore their kinks, open up their hearts and find intimacy. Cherry Rose is a pen name, so she can find her own way discreetly while she waits for those close to her to catch up.