I lived with Cooper and Claire for about eight months, and it was one of the best periods of my life. They had been married for nearly 10 years and were polyamorous—and for the first time, I was too.
While Claire and I didn’t have a sexual or romantic relationship, Cooper and I did. I had dated guys before—sometimes for months on end—but this was the first one to reach capital-B Boyfriend status. Living with Cooper was fucking awesome. We worked out together. We had a ton of gay orgies. I forced him to watch Drag Race. I even liked living with his wife.
On top of the excitement and generally queer-affirming experience that comes with having a same-sex partner, I loved that our relationship was honest in the purest sense of the word. I had a level of transparency with Cooper that I had never experienced before, partly because polyamory necessitates open communication and expressing your feelings to ensure your relationship(s) don’t implode. I let him know if I got bad vibes from one of his new partners or if I thought one of his friends was taking advantage of him. I felt like I could say anything to him; he’d never get defensive, and I’d never be judged.
This newfound ability to be direct and truthful helped me realize I needed to step off the “relationship escalator,” which refers to the expected progression from dating to marriage on a standardized timeline. It goes like this: You meet someone. You have sex on the third date. You decide to be monogamous after three months. You say I love you after five. You move in after a year and a half, propose after two years, are married six months later. Then you buy a “starter house” and pump out some rugrats. A few years in, you make some monies and buy a “finisher house.” You remain married to your spouse until death do you part.
If I sit and think about this for more than a minute, my testicles shoot up into my stomach. To and for me, the escalator feels foolish, an unrealistic restriction on my life(style). I plan for the future, but I don’t plan for forever.
It should come as no surprise that this makes me very ill-equipped to be monogamous. Monogamy’s entire apparent success, and even its appeal, is predicated on “forever.” And whereas you absolutely can be in a polyamorous relationship forever, and many poly folks want to be, that’s not what drives people toward polyamory. It’s about the freedom to love many, the potential to grow with and from your partners, the ability to forge your own type of relationship(s), and the love you receive from your supportive poly(cule) family.
Also: I simply cannot fuck one person for the rest of my life. Is that a joke? Bitch, I am bisexual and need dick and pussy and titties in my face. I need to get railed and spanked but also need to pull someone’s hair. I need to get called a lil bitch boy and be daddy while also being baby. I need to be in a dark room enjoying a tight bootyhole so much that I don’t even notice or care when my wallet gets pickpocketed.
I had that sexual freedom while living with Cooper and Claire. Guys would come over during my lunch break for a quickie. But…Cooper and I never had great sex one-on- one. I couldn’t pinpoint why, since I found him attractive, and he was objectively talented in bed. He wasn’t a selfish lover, he communicated, and he was open to trying new things. That’s really all you can ask for in a sexual partner.
I convinced myself that I was putting too much sexual energy elsewhere: When I fucked another guy a few hours before Cooper got home, there was a decent chance I wouldn’t have a desire to fuck my main man. So I began to cut out my lunchtime romps, but still, we weren’t connecting sexually. One night while we were lying in bed reading, he said, “So it’s clear you don’t like having sex with me.” His bluntness may seem abrasive, but remember, that’s why we worked.
I responded, “Why would you say that?”
“Well, do you?”
I paused before saying, “I don’t.”
“It’s okay, Zach,” he replied.
“I don’t know why,” I continued. “I love you. I find you attractive. You’re good at sex, but I get so in my head.” Anddddd the waterworks began.
“Zach, it’s really okay. I know you love me,” he said.
“I just can’t help but think that something’s wrong with our relationship, but I can’t figure out what.”
“Zach, we don’t have to have sex again. We can have a celibate relationship,” he said. “It’s okay. We both have great sex elsewhere.”
“No!” I quickly protested through my tears. “That’s not what I want.” But looking back on it, that’s exactly what I wanted.
A month later, Cooper asked me if I still wanted to be his boyfriend, and I cried when I told him I did not.
I thought—hoped—that my inconsistent desires would end with Cooper. Moving forward, I vowed to fuck all my romantic partners with the passion of a drunk gay American getting railed on a beach in Mykonos. Unfortunately, my lack of sexual desire became a running theme in all my romantic relationships from then on.
For years, I thought something was wrong with me. That I was emotionally stunted or had “commitment issues.” That I had an avoidant attachment style. That I was afraid of getting “too close.” That I was suppressing unknown sexual trauma. I explored these possibilities and more in therapy, but nothing ever emerged. Besides, I could have intimate relationships with partners. I was open, vulnerable, and loved them dearly. When I took sex out of the equation, my relationships were pretty great.
In 2020, a new therapist defined “fraysexuality” for me as the opposite of the better-known term “demisexuality.” Demisexuality means you experience sexual attraction only once you’ve developed an emotional connection with a person. A demisexual person doesn’t see a fine-ass man on the street and think, Oh shit, I wanna bone. A fraysexual person experiences sexual attraction toward those they are not deeply connected with and loses attraction as they get to know an individual. Put plainly, fraysexuals like to have anonymous and/or casual sex with different folks.
I cannot tell you how much better I felt when I learned about fraysexuality. It meant that I wasn’t alone.
I had this same feeling—revelation—when I learned about bisexuality too. And I had the same sense of relief as when I learned that other folks shared some of my more aggressive kinks. But it wasn’t just feeling “normal” that alleviated my concerns; I could finally take action. Instead of looking for the unknown cause of my (lack of) sexual desires with romantic partners, I could focus on having a fulfilling sex life with a bunch of different people, and I could have a romantic partner with whom I don’t have sex often—and that is not an indicator that something is “wrong.” It’s simply reflective of my personal relationship with sex.
I still talk to Cooper. He sends me memes, and I always see him while I’m visiting my brother in San Francisco. We usually stay up until 7 in the morning talking about our lives, though nothing too deep. Last time, even though I slept over, I was afraid to cuddle him. As if cuddling him would lead to sex, and I would be “triggered.” I’m embarrassed to admit that I was stiff as a board as we fell asleep.
But we love each other. We always will. And he’ll always have a special place in my heart as my first boyfriend, the first person to introduce me to polyamory, and the first partner with whom I could be brutally honest.
Excerpt adapted from the new book Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto, by Zachary Zane. Published by Abrams Image © 2023.