You dear reader are sitting in the park. A well-intentioned, progressive, politically minded hotty comes up to you. You give them the eye.

They say, “Hey sexy! Wanna fuck?”

You say, “Yeah, but just so you know, I’m polyamorous.”

They say, “Oh groovy, I think it would make a great statement about our commitment to social justice, economic theories based in abundance, our refusal to participate in dominant cultural patterns of heteronormative, monogamous, slavery-based relationships and our willingness to challenge our own internal sense of entitlement and culturally constructed desire to ‘own’ an other.”

Suddenly, boner wilted into a soggy mess, pussy withered into labia jerky, you look away searching for a reasonable lay that doesn’t give you the jeepers creepers.

Why?

For you, fucking, polyamory, and relationships aren’t serving a political commitment to progress.  Sure you’re radical. Sure you like to care. Through free will, you carefully navigate matters of the heart by the principle of self-care and autonomy, refusing to conform to a political, philosophical, or theoretical mandate to practice open relationships.

You, dear liberated reader, don’t have to feel shame when you’re jealous, possessive, or awkwardly shy and sluggish to forge new relationships. Hard emotions say nothing about your commitment to social justice other than, “Look at me Stalin, I have feelings, I won’t fucking build Gulags for progress. I’m strong enough to know I don’t have to be perfect to appease the Politically Polyamorous Judge-In-The-Sky who views pain as a sign of personal weakness and underdevelopment.  If the revolution depends on me breaking my heart in ways I don’t want to, fuck the revolution.”

You sweet friend are fully open to the vast array of emotions, even the horrific ones, that you choose to enjoy because you want to be open to the possibilities afforded selfishly to you via polyamory. If you decide you don’t want to deal with those emotions anymore, you say, “Fuck it.  Today, I’m going to do what I want with my life. Perhaps I’ll try monogamy or celibacy.”

Your individual will to decide what you want to do is radical, hot, and sexy. You’re in charge of your shit and you own it.

You look up. I’m there. You give me the wink. I wink back. We romp around like horny horses. The evening ends with whiskey and cuddles.

Fantasy over.

Jerking off to this new you who is committed to matters of the heart and body for personal pleasure and growth rather than a doctrinaire radical position, I cum all over myself, engaging in the only autonomous, fully non-coercive, politically expedient form of romance—masturbation. Next day, I see you. We awkwardly say, “Hello.” Who knows what happens next…