Let's talk about sex... and tiramisu.

Warning: Mom and Dad, I know you read this. Don't try to hide that tidbit of information from me. We all know that you cyberstalk me and live vicariously through my oh-so-exciting life. And while I don't intend to disclose a whole lot of personal information in this entry, you probably don't want to read any further. I'm talking about sex. (Oh, and this warning goes for anyone else who would prefer to believe that I am approaching thirty and still chaste and virginal.)

My boyfriends have always had a penchant for comparing me to food. More specifically, they seem to enjoy comparing sex with me to food.

I remember The Psychologist likening one's sexual options to a buffet. He described an assortment of flavorful and luscious things. Caviar, steak, chocolate covered fruits from far away lands, exotic breads, rich and delightful confections. And hotdogs. One can be presented with a cornucopia of grandiose gustatory delights, designed to gratify even the most discriminating palate. But one may, instead, choose to eat hotdogs for the rest of one's life. One can be satisfied with hotdogs. Hotdogs are yummy.

Ignoring the obvious (that I was clearly the hotdog in this scenario), I asked him: "But wouldn't you get bored with hotdogs?" He looked at me as if I were insane. As if to say: Who on earth would ever be bored with hotdogs??

My next relationship after The Psychologist was with Best Friend Mike. Mike was recently divorced when we met and reasonably insane. He, too, prepared a list describing all sorts of tempting and titillating foods, likening them to sex. He concluded with: "But sometimes you just want a cheeseburger."

Ignoring the obvious (that I was clearly the cheeseburger in this scenario), I asked him: "But wouldn't you get bored with cheeseburgers?"

Mike's answer was far more honest than The Psychologist's look of disdain. "Of course I'd get bored with cheeseburgers. I want pizza, too. And steak and lobster. And falafel and tiramisu. But not those last two together." He then paused and thought for a moment. "Actually, if we're talking about sex, I wouldn't mind having falafel and tiramisu on the same plate."

That is how Mike and I entered into a polyamorous relationship. He didn't want boring monogamy. I wanted to be able to sow s'more oats with women. We cared deeply for each other, sure. But does caring for each other, maybe even loving one another, mean we should cut ourselves off from the excitement of novelty? Does a romantic relationship mean eating hotdogs or cheeseburgers forever? Surely not!

And with that, my role quickly shifted from cheeseburger to falafel, and we went on the prowl, searching for the perfect tiramisu.

However, finding the perfect tiramisu proved difficult. And why? Because even though I wanted to eat whatever I desired, I wanted Mike to stick with cheeseburgers. Or falafel. Or whatever the hell I was.

The vast majority of time in my relationship with Mike was spent sorting out the "rules." How could we overcome sexual jealously? It was clear that I would be his primary partner, but how to handle the rest? Secondary partners? Tertiary? An intimate network? We discussed having a "closed group" relationship, where certain people were "approved" for sexual activity. Any new entry into aforementioned group would, of course, have to be approved by the both of us. But what if he got attached to a new girl and I fell by the wayside? What if our secondary partners became our primary partners and we became two people who just used to know each other once? What then?

The lines of communication were open, but the time expended keeping them clear was exhausting. We knew each other well. Even now, he knows me better than anyone else in my life, if only because of the interminable hours spent discussing our ever-evolving relationship. We never did find anyone else to join our relationship. Instead, we'd find ourselves in strange, surreal and comical encounters with other people. It was exciting and fun, sure. We were partners in crime; we were unstoppable. The feelings of guilt generally associated with sex (and even more pertinent in activities sometimes considered taboo) were assuaged by the fact that we were in it together.

It was fun and wild. I got high off the feeling. Literally, high. I would walk around the week following some ridiculously sublime weekend completely buzzed. The feeling became addictive: the thrill-seeking, the acting on wholly hedonistic and quite possibly self-destructive whims. I lusted after that feeling.

In the end, our relationship didn't last; it couldn't last. Our entire foundation was unstable, and that instability is what made it so very fun. Mike is still my best friend and I adore him. But after what we had together, we can't go back. We can't have a "normal" romantic relationship. We've been thrust into the Friend Zone, that evil, dark place where platonic love lurks in every corner.

I've had boyfriends since Mike. With them, I've had a horrible track record regarding monogamy; I've cheated and have rarely felt badly about it. Now I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I'm in a romantic and sexual relationship with someone I am actually in love with. This is pretty cool. Chris is wonderful, wonderful, and even more wonderful. So it should come as no surprise that the only "fight" to speak of, the only real conflict we've had, has been about sex.

Don't get me wrong; our sex life is incredible. It has traveled well beyond the Land of Hotdogs and Cheeseburgers. But I want more. And by "more," I mean that I want to be with women. I have no issue sharing. I long to bring a women into our bordello-styled boudoir and unwrap her. Slowly. I miss the sensuality. And, of course, I miss the newness.

Chris and I spoke about this. He wants a threesome insomuch as he wants to sleep with two women at once. He's had one before, but of course, he had the sort I hate: one man and two straight women. Nothing in it for the women, really. I mean, other than penis worship. I have no interest in that, and I explained that to him. I want it for me, not for him.

I seem to be in love with someone who has values and morals, who isn't seduced by promises of threesomes and whatnot, and who knows that any sort of polyamorous relationship would end badly. And you know what? He's right. It would end badly. I know that it doesn't work. I know that it would never work for me; not with Chris, not with anyone else. The reason for that is, in large part, my own double standard:

I miss the fun. I miss the wild and the crazy. I'm still addicted to that feeling I had when Mike and I were out and partaking in various forms of debauchery. I want to go out and fulfill my wanton desires, but I don't want my partner to do the same. I crave emotional monogamy, but miss the uninhibited and savage, unbridled sexual hedonism.

I want to have my tiramisu and eat it, too.

But I know I can't.