What It’s Really Like Being In An Open Relationship

The immediate response to telling someone I’m in an open relationship inevitably results in one of two ways: the first, “I could never do that,” and second, “I wish I had that.” This always strikes me as ironic, because both reveal two absolutes within relationships as a whole — jealousy and desire, which are really just two sides of the same coin. That is, monogamous or not, we all want; and polyamorous or not, we all experience the consequences of that wanting.

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Where it all went wrong…

The first time I had to reckon with those consequences was with the second person I saw outside my relationship, several months into being open. My partner and I had set up certain ground rules and established our boundaries, one of which was that we wouldn’t be intimate with mutual acquaintances or anyone the other might have to interact with socially. If I’m being perfectly honest, this was a rule I suggested. And yet, it was the one I ended up breaking.

I met someone on a dating app — let’s call them B. I told my partner that I was interested and wanted to meet them for a date.  I had no idea who this person was, but to my surprise, my partner did. Hong Kong is small like that. Disappointed but understanding, I accepted that pursuing this would cross a boundary and decided to move on. Still, B and I kept chatting, about books and music and other topics that felt totally kosher. I liked their vibe. I convinced myself that maybe we could just be friends.

A few weeks later, I told my partner I wanted to meet B — not on a date, but just for coffee. My partner was skeptical, but agreed. After a few failed attempts to align our schedules, “coffee” with B turned into drinks. To make matters worse, I happened to already have plans that night, and proceeded to have a few too many pre-drink drinks. Long story short, I arrived to our date without a lot of composure, and we ended up kissing.

When I went home that night, I told my partner that the date went well, that I really liked B, and that I thought my partner would as well. I even suggested we all meet at some point. Casually — maybe too casually — I mentioned the kiss. In the moment, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Kissing has never been a strong boundary for either of us (even when we were monogamous), so I hadn’t felt seriously remorseful — until I said it, and watched their face crumple.

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Dealing with the consequences…

“So you cheated on me,” they said. Still fairly tipsy, I was taken aback. I thought they might be joking around, playing up their feelings to elicit some reassurance or extra attention from me. They weren’t. We went to bed that night upset (a rarity), and in the morning they left without saying goodbye. It was tense for days. They felt I had broken their trust; that I prioritised my own immediate wants over what we had mutually agreed upon. In retrospect, they were right.

When we did finally sit down to talk about it, it was an illuminating conversation. What they were upset about was obvious (and valid!), but I also felt the need to defend myself. Because when I really reflected on it, I was angry too. They had gotten upset over something that felt completely frivolous to me. In turn, it seemed they were ignoring a major factor of why I wanted to be open in the first place: my freedom. If they were allowed to veto someone they barely knew (and that I had never met) and felt betrayed by a simple kiss, what was the point of being open anyway? I wanted to kiss B, so I did. Why did my partner get to have a say in that?

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Redefining our terms…

Harsh, I know. But after discussing it, we realised the answers weren’t black and white. Freedom in our relationship doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it doesn’t imply the absence of rules, boundaries or accountability. In the same vein, open relationships don’t necessarily imply embracing anarchistic chaos — they just reject arbitrary social scripts in favour of personally defined (and self-imposed) agreements. It isn’t a free-for-all; it’s a collaborative effort to redefine what “commitment” and “trust” look like outside the traditional framework of monogamy.

I recognise that, from a monogamous point of view, this all might sound ridiculous. It’s the type of situation that makes people advocate for traditional relationships, which avoid the messy, complicated or “unsexy” parts of polyamory. After all, aren’t open relationships supposed to be about embracing hedonism and free love, or whatever you wish to call it? Perhaps on the surface, but in reality (at least in my case), it emphasises the opposite. I was open to seeing B, yes, but it was my responsibility to do so under the conditions we had agreed upon — a demonstration of trust that, in my opinion, is far more convincing than in monogamous partnerships. Because, at least for me, the denial and suppression of desire is not true commitment.

To me, true commitment means accepting that my partner and I are autonomous beings with our own individual (and possibly conflicting) desires. Our commitment isn’t about erasing or controlling, but actually embracing and exploring those desires — while also being accountable for how they impact one another. In other words, it’s a commitment to being honest about what we want, and the consequences of that wanting, together.

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