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Love, Leather, and the Art of Letting Each Other Be

People hear that I’m happily married and I sleep with other people and their faces do this adorable little thing — like their brain just dropped its coffee. Confusion, intrigue, a sprinkle of judgment. It’s fine. I used to think that love meant monogamy too. That the truest expression of devotion was exclusivity. Spoiler alert: it’s not. Not for everyone. Definitely not for me.

From day one, we talked honestly about desire — not just for each other, but for others. Fantasies, kinks, the whole complicated human mess. And somewhere between the late-night talks and the occasional nervous laughter, we discovered something magical: we could be faithful to each other’s hearts while being wildly, consensually open to other bodies.

It’s not always easy. Jealousy happens. Insecurities flare. But they’re not the enemies — they’re signals. We talk. We adjust. We grow. It’s relationship-as-living-organism stuff. Messy, resilient, and alive.

People ask, “But don’t you worry it’ll ruin what you have?” And I get it. We’ve been taught that love is a glass thing — fragile, easily broken. But honestly? Our love feels more like metal. Bent and reforged, hot from the fire, stronger for being shaped over time.

So no, I’m not broken. I’m not confused. I’m not settling. I’m in a marriage where we can be each other’s everything — without having to be only.

We choose each other. Every. Single. Time.
And we also choose freedom.
And that, to me, is the hottest love story of all.