Polyamory: Chapter 1, An Introduction

“I’m not boyfriend material.” What an opener. We had only just met, we’d been apart less than 10 minutes and those were the words he chose for his opening text. I barely knew what material the clothes I was wearing were made off, let alone the type I’d want my next shag to be. Now, call me old fashioned, but I always thought “Hey, we met at the bar last night, how’s your head this morning?" or something frivolous like that was the way to start a conversation.

His opener to me at the bar was smooth as hell, if a little cheesy, so I was expecting something similar. Even a dick pic in this day and age is more conventional than that. He had complimented my choice in wine, said it was unusual for a young woman on a girl’s night out to not order the cheapest and be done with it. I had then, in the classiest of manners, flashed him my credit card and replied, “I don’t drink piss for no one.” He chuckled and asked what my name was. I told him it was Rosie.

“Ah, a classic English Rose. Charming and beautiful.” I blushed, but not wishing to let my guard down, I came out with the first thing that came to my head, which, unfortunately was, “That must mean your name is Thistle, the national flower of Scotland.” Then pointed at his slightly gelled hair, with a smirk on my face because I’d made a vaguely topical connection to his line. He laughed, then, without saying a word, gave me his phone and I knew what to do; I wasn’t THAT stupid. His eyes were fixed on mine as he turned to leave. “James” he stated, with a wink. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

He was hot. Ruggedly handsome, with a smile that still makes me feel weak at the knees thinking about it now. It was like the feeling you get when you see Tom Cruise smile, prior to remembering the fact that he’s a scientologist, of course. He had the bad boy exterior and slanted smile like Danny from Grease, but the grace and manner of the military man I assumed (correctly) he was.

I didn’t know if I wanted this man to take me right there and then on the bar on the sticky, alcopop soaked bar, or take me out for a lovely dinner and woo me first.

His eyes were so sharp they were giving me visions of being bent over the nearby pool table, and that was just with his first words. I could feel my pelvic muscles tense in that all-familiar manner, if only he’d turn me round and force my front down onto the rough pool table cloth, sending balls flying and knocking into each other ringing out with that lovely blunt twanging sound they make. Then he’d urgently push my skirt up over my arse and hold it there with the same clenched fist he was using to hold me down, my face pressed against and smelling that beer-saturated classic green carpet. Pulling my also saturated Frenchie’s ever so slightly down then pushing into me with one big, hard, urgent thrust.

However, his voice was so smooth I also had visions of a beautiful restaurant looking over the nearby harbour. The way he spoke reminiscent of Hugh Grant’s Mr. Darcy; he would assertively choose a wine off the menu, showing some slight manners but also proving he knows how to get what he wants. We’d speak late into the evening, flirting ever so slightly, but mainly I was being drawn in by his piercing eyes that glanced over every contour of my body, unclothing me as they went. In this circumstance we’d feel the tension rise, waiting with shallow breath to release it. Delay the gratification.

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“A little presumptuous, what if I only took your number because I needed a new chauffeur?”

Not only did I not know the correct way to respond to this message, I’m also famously sarcastic, so it's therefore a struggle to flirt in any kind of conventional way, especially through the written word. It’s hard to make bat-shit crazy seem sexy in a funny way via text.

“I don’t do traditional 'relationships.' I do whom I want, when I want. Not because I can’t love just one person, but because I don’t believe in the power of monogamy when I spent a minimum of 9 months a year at sea. If I’ve been underwater for 4 months and rise in, say, America, I’m not going to spend my 16 hours on land having sub-par phone sex with my S.O., I’m going to go out and fuck something real.”

I’m sure many women will agree with me when I say that familiar alarm begun sounding in my head: ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE.

This was particularly hard to ignore seeing as I had continued drinking with some friends back at mine after the bar, so I actually did have several women screaming, "ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE ASSHOLE" in my ear.

But despite myself, and those surrounding me, I was intrigued. My judgement was probably a little impaired due to the several glasses of Pinot I’d had by this point. I was open to different ways of having relationships, I was aware of Polyamory, I even knew a couple who practised it. Now, this guy could’ve just been a plain asshole, but I believed I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Polyamory?”

If he was, in fact, just an asshole, I wasn’t going to indulge him with more words than necessary. Also, I was getting to the formidable sleepy phase of a night on Pinot, typing loads of words and fighting autocorrect was effort I didn’t want to put in.

I didn’t get a response that evening. I was consoled with more wine and a group of friends telling me there were plenty more great shags with sailors out there, plenty more “seamen in the sea,” as one friend delicately put it, followed by screams of laughter. Nothing was lost; he was just another bloke at a bar who had a dangerously charming smile, the danger being the fact that he was just an asshole.

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I’d like to say I sprang out of bed when the morning chorus blew in on the gentle breeze, but instead it was much more of a “FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING PIGEONS” type situation.

Bottles of wine and Bailey's were strewn across my floor with girls in various stages of undress scattered on my bed and hardwood floors. If someone with a filthy mind saw us they’d assume it was a screen shot from a clip on PornHub. I stumbled to the kitchen, my mouth dry from about a million fags and wine, and Bailey's, apparently. Coffee. I needed coffee. Or more wine, but I thought I’d leave it until at least 12 noon for hair of the dog. I opened the fridge to get milk; the thought of black coffee was too much to bear at that moment. The milk came with a little surprise: my phone. I’m sure there were many plausible reasons for this: awful selfies, calling an ex, etc. However, there was also the very real odds-in possibility I just left it in there when I went for the Bailey's.

“That’s a big word considering how much wine you had…”

“Don’t patronise me, I once knew a sailor who couldn’t even count to 9.”

That was a lie, but I do hate being patronised, and I was incredibly hungover and slightly blamed James for my coffee not being ready yet. If you trace back it is his fault, kind of. He came back almost immediately, my phone hadn’t even had time to lock.

“No, I was teasing, I find it very hard to express myself properly in text. I’m actually pretty excited you seem to know what it is.”

COULD I HAVE BEEN MISTAKEN?! Is this man my soul mate based on the sole fact he, too, cannot function correctly unless in the spoken word?! AND he replies quickly. But I was still annoyed, my pounding head was wanting me to respond, “Why shouldn’t I know the word? Did you not see me as being intelligent enough?” I do that. I’m a classic fire-starter. I put my phone down to add milk to my coffee; unless I got coffee in me soon I would probably just end up insulting him continuously. Before I could even think about responding, my phone started playing the opening chords of the YMCA loudly, which led to groans from my room as the zombies began to rise from their graves.

“Dinner this evening? I’m very intrigued by you, and I’d like to see how many more times you can surprise me.”

My first thought was, well fuck, that’s the being bent over the pool table scenario off the cards. That was unlikely anyway, as I knew the bar manager and he wouldn’t stand for any of that funny business. I didn’t want to give too much away, but I was intrigued by him, too. I’d met many sailors, living on the south coast of England slap-bang in the middle of two ports; they’re a common occurrence. James was different, though. He was older than your average matlow, he wasn’t the fresh face and spotty, the straight out of college or Uni type. He was mature. And those eyes; I almost came just from his gaze. Then there was the ever-so-slightly bizarre chain of texts the evening before; if anything I’d get an interesting debate about monogamy and the structure of modern day relationships.

You learn quite quickly about young sailors. If you give them your number it’s going to be quickly followed up with, “So am I coming back to yours?” with a wink face. This means—you can’t come to mine cause I’m in barracks, and I want to fuck. It usually ends in a subpar shag that’s over before it starts and then an early rise as they must run back to base. They basically just want a bed that isn’t a bunk with two levels for the night. So with no mention of sex in his texts, naturally I was bemused.

“8 PM, meet me at The Ship? First round is on you, as punishment for patronising me.”

I thought if he was going to be a little assertive I’d try and be assertive back, with a little cheek. At this point, Tina came into the kitchen. Like most women, T is incredibly good at reading faces. “What have you done?” were her good morning words to me. After enlightening her to the situation, she had many words to say about my impending date with a man she only knew as asshole until 30 seconds prior. It went something along the lines of, “He’s probably got a wife and 5 children, you’re just falling for his tricks, you’re just one in a long line of women who’ve fallen for the mysterious charmer act.” It went on, but, like any good girlfriend, she agreed that after we’d had a hair-of-the-dog slap up lunch, she’d help me get ready. In her mind, if I was potentially going to be sleeping with a married man, I had to look good enough to make him want to leave his wife.

I was just having my first sip of the ice cold, well-spiced, and well needed Bloody Mary to my lips and my phone goes off again. I really need to change my ringtone.

“It’s a date. I will just warn you though, if you try and tell me what to do again, it’ll be you being punished, Rose.”

I spat tomato juice down my front. Had I hit the jackpot, or was this guy just a creep? My muscles tensed at the thought of a firm hand on my arse. I could already see my arse turning red with hand prints. But only if I didn’t spit my drink down my front during dinner, here’s hoping.