Sweet reader,
What is romance? Picture a relationship. It may be a queer relationship, maybe not. Nevertheless, how many people did you picture? If you are like most people—regardless of being queer—chances are you pictured two people in love with no one else involved, since anything other than that is considered infidelity.
If you are like me, romance is more fluid; it can be shared with multiple people and still be a genuine, loyal romance. The queer community is no stranger to the fluidity of gender and sexuality. ‘Queerness’ at a fundamental level is about deviating from the (hetero)normative. We’ve accepted that gender is a spectrum, that love can be between people of any identity, and that we can identify or not identify ourselves in whatever way we want. However, what is often excluded in this discourse is an acceptance of the fluidity of romance itself—there can be fluidity in the way we love and allow ourselves to be loved. Throughout my journey of learning from romantic relationships, I realized that I didn’t want to be confined to monogamy; I could have romances with multiple people simultaneously without it being regarded as disloyalty. But the idea of loving and being loved by multiple people can be a little scary, don’t you think? While queer spaces have the intention of being inviting to all, I’ve found that they tend to focus more on the individual queer experience: your sexual orientation, your gender identity, and most frequently your one partner.
Despite a lack of representation and discourse about non-monogamy, these identities are a reality for many people. Growing up, I always had strange feelings about romance. My most recent long-term relationship—and my first sapphic relationship—ended after a year and a half of dating. The relationship evoked so much passion and excitement. Despite my commitment and happiness with my partner, I was curious. I developed crushes on other people and wished to explore these attractions and interests, but never did. I never shared these strange feelings with anyone. Even though it was not explicitly mentioned, monogamy was the expectation in my relationship. My partner and I would fantasize about moving in together, getting married, and having children. While these fantasies came naturally to me, they were often met with my curiosity to cultivate romantic relationships with others. At the time, non-monogamy was not an option. I never saw non-monogamy in the media, and I was often a bystander to conversations that deemed finding another person desirable while in a relationship unacceptable.
We watch romance movies where the main character is often trying to find their one and only, and once they do, their interest and attraction for anyone else goes away. If there is interest in someone other than their one partner, it is seen as wrong and offensive. I don’t think the exclusive portrayal of monogamous relationships in movies is ill-intended; nevertheless, it reinforces monogamy by (un)intentionally presenting any romance that deviates from monogamy as inappropriate. Like many, I was socialized to view monogamy as the only legitimate practice of enjoying romantic relationships, believing that finding and committing to a single lifelong partner is the ideal romantic fulfillment. Yet I found myself questioning this premise: could one person truly satisfy my romantic needs and wants across a lifetime?
Non-monogamy was never an identity I was able to resonate with because of its lack of representation in physical spaces. In physical spaces, monogamy is seen through exclusively single-partnered ceremonies (marriage), activities (Ferris wheels often seat two), and home-setting architecture (double-sink bathrooms). I was introduced to non-monogamy in a gender and sexuality class during my first year in college. My past self felt seen and validated while my professor described the identity I currently identify as.
cover image by ariel paul
