One of the odd features of my sexuality, of my psyche, is that I have an insatiable hunger not just for sex, or for feeling desire/d, but for the complexification of that desire, for its refractory multiplication. I don’t just want you. I don’t just want you to want me. I want more: I want you to want everything I want, for me. If I want you and I want her, I want you to want me to have her. I want you not just to approve of my wanting her, of my getting her, but I actually want you to get her for me, to share her with me, and to want that. I want, in the words of one friend, to have my cake and eat it too.
I don’t just want for you to comply with me, to give me what I want, to do as I ask. I want you to keep up with me as I ask more and more and more and more.
From time to time, this presents challenges.
Sometimes, it presents challenges to/with the person of whom I’m asking infinitely more. More often, it presents challenges in a different way, a way that is if not unique to me, at least unique to my (odd) situation as a slutty, polyamorous, swinging, married blogger: a key part of what I want from you, in addition to your desire, is your acceptance of my exhibitionistic renderings of the fulfillment of my desire with others. So when I post a series of posts, as with the recent ones on Véronique, sometimes one or both of my (two, currently) distant buddies gets unhappy. Or a bona fide, real-life friend does. She may be unhappy because she’s jealous. Or maybe because she sees familiar aspects of her relationship with me depicted in some other relationship, which makes her feel cheap, or interchangeable, or not special. (L used the word “disposable” in a recent conversation on the subject.) Or makes her think that I’m cheap, or somehow slimy.
This is part of the burden of being me, I think, as well as of the burden of accepting a bit of an involvement with me. Alas.
See, this is the thing: I like women. And I like you. They’re not mutually exclusive. And the liking of you doesn’t in any way diminish my liking of other women. And vice versa. This is one of those things that seems so clear in my head, but rarely seems clear to anyone else. It’s one of the ways, I suspect, in which my neuronal wiring is simply off.