My Husband is Having Better S** with His Girlfriend Than with Me
Polyamory is not a contest for the sexiest partner trophy, but a journey of experiences, growth, connection, challenges, and love.
NatalieDavis Adventures
NatalieDavis Adventures
Mar 24 · 6 min read
Photo by We-Vibe WOW Tech on Unsplash
“Oh….oh….oh..oh..oh..ohohoh!”
I stop what I am doing and look up, as if I expect to see the plasterboard that separates my bedroom ceiling from the guest bedroom floor actually vibrate like an earthquake tremor. I squint. I hold my breath to listen closer. No bits of paint flake down. No bed frame crashes through. It’s just s**. And coming. And maybe giggling.
I am not sure exactly what my husband and his girlfriend are doing, but I know the gist. It’s 11 p.m. and it’s her night with him. Since Molly moved into our upstairs guest room during the pandemic last year, we have been rotating the schedule so that Eric sleeps two nights at time with each of us — unless one of us is with another partner. Molly moved in so she would not have to quarantine and covid test each time she wanted to breach the six-foot social distance mandate and trade bodily fluids with Eric, my husband.
Living with my metamour — my partner’s partner — was not a situation I had envisioned, even as a polyamorous person. Molly, Eric, and I have been navigating our covid accommodations with as much communication and honesty as we can muster during these trying times. Sometimes there are tears and sharp words, but mostly, I have to say, it’s working pretty well. No one is dead, divorced, or even seriously injured. I count that as a win.
She is sexier. She is more fun. She is more free. She is more than me in so many ways. I am the wife — the boring ball and chain.
But when I hear them going at it, some base instinct grabs hold of my gut and all I can think is…
They are having great s**. They are having amazing s**. They are having so much better s** than he has with me. She is hotter. She is more daring. She is sexier. She is more fun. She is more free. She is more than me in so many ways. I am the wife — the boring ball and chain. I am the one he files joint tax returns with, discusses whether to repair or replace the heat pump, and if we are doing the best we can at parenting. They don’t talk about that. They don’t have to. Their pillow talk is only about steamy, fun topics. She coos at how he feels inside her and the prowess of his oral skills. She caresses his muscles and tells him how lucky she is to have him as her strong, studly boyfriend. He smiles and eats it up with a spoon the size of Montana.
Photo by Artem Labunsky on Unsplash
What scandalous lingerie is she wearing for him that he cannot get enough of but that I don’t wear? What s** toys is she breaking out that make his mouth water? What photo shoots are they doing or s** videos are they making that are exciting and wild? What s** stuff is she more game for than I am? In what multitude of ways is the s** they are having better than the s** he has with me?
I really don’t want to know. It might hurt. I don’t want to hurt. I am not a masochist. That’s another strike against me — no pun intended — in the kink-driven world in which I play only a minor role.
Whooooooooaaaaa.
“Stop,” I tell myself. Extract yourself from the alternate universe where women have perfect Barbie breasts they harness in sleek latex bindings, walk easily on 6-inch stilettos, and never have headaches or menstrual cramps. Real people don’t live in that world, including Molly. She is a person. You are a person. You both are s*** and alluring. You both can be a pain in the a** on some days and a conscientious helpmate on other days. Molly may even feel the same things you do when the noises are coming up from your bedroom to hers, on Eric’s nights with you. Who’s to say she does not have the same insecurities and engage in the same self-talk that you do? Has Eric done or said anything to lead you to believe he wants to spend time with her more than you, that he wants to have s** with her more than with you?
Well, no, but… the green-eyed creature sure can burrow into me like a carpenter ant into a wooden floor. And hearing them have s** somehow triggers its ugly appearance, like repeating the name of a demon three times in a horror movie.
He says, “My wife is so hot. I want to get a picture of your perfect a**.”
I have a closet full of lingerie I know Eric likes. I know because he tells me — on the occasions that I make the effort to shed my covid-issue yoga pants and fasten garter nub to stocking — those contraptions are much harder to assemble than Mad Men would lead you to believe — and because I feel his fingers linger over the silky hose or lacy garter belt or racy peekaboo this or that. I watch his grin widen. When I turn away for a drink of water and then turn back, I catch him with his phone in hand. He says, “My wife is so hot. I want to get a picture of your perfect a**.”
“Oh, Eric, please,” I demur. “It’s the same a** you’ve seen since college.”
“Yes, and it looks just as good now as then. I still love looking at it.”
Maybe he is just placating me, like husbands do. But he still presses his warm, hard, delicious, familiar body against mine, into a groove we have worn into each other over the years, a groove that feels like home. After more than two decades, we still twist the sheets and make each other moan and lie panting afterward.
I don’t know what naughty p****** or fruit-flavored lube or ingenious restraints are in Molly’s repertoire. I don’t know what sweet nothings they whisper to each other. That is really not my business, just as what I do with Eric or any other partner is not hers. Knowing they are having s** is the cost of doing poly business. Eric knows that I have s** with other men, albeit not men who are living with him. Does he wonder what I am getting up to with them? Probably. Does he torture himself with images of men he views as sexier, stronger, funnier, more inventive, longer-lasting, more something/more everything? Maybe, but likely less than I do. My lizard brain goes into overdrive when I hear what’s going on upstairs, and sometimes it takes me hours to get over it.
If I am being self-pitying, I shake my fist at the ceiling in vain and stay up to the wee hours to distract myself with rom-coms or other bad t.v. If I am being self-aware and productive, I write about it, so maybe someone, anyone, might gain insight or feel less alone when a partner is with another partner and you are listening to them over your head. Try to remember, as I do in my less pitiful moments, that your partner loves you and actively chooses you every day they are with you. Try to remember polyamory is not a contest for the sexiest partner trophy, but a journey of experiences, growth, connection, challenges, and love. You could think that some days you’re the windshield and some days you’re the bug, but I would rather think that most days I am the driver, choosing my path.
I choose Eric and he chooses me. He also chooses Molly and she chooses him. Those choices speak to me, even above the s** din overhead on my nights alone.
Medium
Me: Wow!!