Identities, for me, are not permanent. Well, not all of them, anyway. I allow for plenty of fluidity and lots of possibility for change in my life, so when I say I am monoamorous, I generally mean "have been up to this point in my life."
This time of year has a tendency to present the perfect conditions for me to question everything about my life. It's not a great time for me to be alone, but it's when my instincts tell me to withdraw from having to be present anywhere where I have to put on a mask to hide what's going on inside.
Once or twice a year I let my mind wander and imagine what it would be like to have another romantic relationship in addition to the amazing one I'm already in.
I would never have to enjoy my life without him. I would have my pepperoni forever. He made me happy. He loved me. I loved him. This whole pizza thing was making me hungry and confused.
There was that one time when he had me tied up and was in the middle of sexytimes with me when she called...
I want to do it again. I want to understand why last night my tolerance for pain was so high I couldn't feel any of it; where other nights the sting of a slap on the ass makes the walls turn white.
In which I learn to reframe a particularly rude and infuriating question that gets asked at every family function.