The other night, I went out for a drink with one of my oldest, dearest friends. We’ve literally been friends for half a century. We have a lot in common and are very different. One of our commonalities — one that brings with it a fair amount of difference — is that each of us is in a marriage with at least some degree of openness. My marriage you know all about. His is relatively new to the open terrain, and he and his wife are gently, gingerly feeling their way forward. Neither having yet tasted the fruit of polyamory.
My friend and I meet typically every four to six weeks for dinner and/or drinks. We’ve stepped up the cadence of these meetings in the last couple of years — as I became an empty nester and as his own nest is beginning to empty. Our stated purpose on our most recent evening together was jokingly to pick up chicks, or more seriously to put ourselves in a position where flirting might happen, and who knows what else might ensue.
I drink alone in bars quite frequently. Although for the last month I’ve been on an alcohol hiatus. In general, it’s not uncommon for me to sit by myself for an hour or two at a bar, making small talk with the staff and with any patrons who might be near me. Back in the day, when I drank at the bar, this led — on half a dozen occasions — to furtive kisses in the bathroom, even a little more once or twice. But since the pandemic, since the bar closed, although I’ve finally found myself a regular spot, it doesn’t turn out to be a great place for me to meet ladies.
So on this night, rather than bring my friend — whom I’ll call Judd — to my regular bar, I took him instead to a giant place I’d been two or three times before. A sort of themed cocktail bar with lots of different nooks and crannies and a diverse, large, always-hot crowd. The place didn’t disappoint. As I waited for Judd, I sat between — on my left — two lovely forty-something women engaged in an animated conversation, and on my right an attractive thirty-something straight couple. I nursed a non-alcoholic beer, lately my go-to drink while I’m mostly vacationing from Scotch. And I took in the crowd.
After half an hour or so, Judd arrived. The straight couple reluctantly, begrudgingly slid down one stool, making space for him. “I nearly punched that guy,” I said to Judd. It was ridiculous. His evident resentment at being asked to move was both palpable and absurd. Not long after he had begrudgingly complied, he and his date left — to be replaced not by two, but by eight or ten. A group of women in town for a sort of convention of professionals in an obscure, arcane corner of the financial services industry.
Judd and I quickly struck up a conversation with the three seated next to us at the bar. The one closest to us was the most enthusiastic. The one in the middle seemed curious as well. And the one at the end was just a little too far away. All three were hot. A redhead, a brunette, and a blonde. Three different body shapes. Three different styles. The one closest to us — the blonde — was unmistakably the one with whom the most fun could be had. Although we never touched on sex, I have no doubt that a romp with her would be profoundly fun.
It’s been a long time since I was in a bar with anything approaching a wingman. My marriage’s openness, my polyamory, is such that T is the closest I ever come to that. However game and fun she can be, wingman is not a role at which she excels — or in which she is even particularly interested. While the two of us have had lots of fun dates with other couples, none of those ever began in public. Rather, they begin online, via apps or ads.
And among my male friends, there are exactly two who — like me — are in open relationships, other than Judd. One of them, D, happens to be one of T’s boyfriends. And the other, J, is another childhood friend, but one with whom my relationship is sufficiently complicated that going out together with the purpose of flirting and having fun of that particular sort doesn’t really feel accessible or safe. At least not to me. I won’t speak for him.
Judd, though, is nothing if not safe for me. And I mean that in the best possible way. I trust him implicitly. I know his motives and appreciate them. I don’t worry about betrayal, undermining, or any of the threats that loomed with our other friend. And they do loom.
Anyway, it was lots of fun sitting there together, drinking in our neighbors’ curious exploration with us. And imagining unlikely futures.