lessons in latex
a week in the life of an ENM babe
Some weeks my life looks the same as every other twenty-something trying to make it in the city; I work my marketing job; I watch The White Lotus with my housemate; I frequent beer gardens with my best friends; and I cook MOB kitchen meals with my boyfriend. Some weeks my life is so choc-a-bloc with the regular that I can’t move for all the ordinariness – let alone write a Substack.
You wouldn’t think, to look at my boyfriend and I, that we’d be latex-clad and engaging in group sex on the weekend – especially not my partner, whose wardrobe solely consists of quarter zip fleeces and second-hand flannel shirts (or maybe that’s precisely the uniform of every polyamorous metrosexual man in his mid twenties?). We binge TV on the sofa, we read side-by-side before bed, we operate (and appear) like many other heterosexual couples.
But behind the domestic facade lies a darkness – a scandal. Between the movie marathons and home-cooked meals, there are cracks (chasms) where infidelity, debauchery, and complex-interpersonal-dynamics take place. Therein lies our secret shame; our ethical non-monogamy.
monday 10th march
Like most hot-young-very-in-love-things, my boyfriend and I often spend our Sunday evenings together; a nice dinner, curled up on the sofa in front of the telly, heteronormative romantic bliss. Normally on Mondays, I’m still recovering from the weekend, so having a man around the house to help with things like taking the bins out and making lunch is a bit of a godsend.
tuesday 11th march
We awake next to one another and spend the first 30 minutes of our day swiping through my Hinge. My boyfriend berates me for not texting anyone back. He guesses whether I would swipe left or right on certain profiles, trying to perfectly pre-empt ‘my type’. He assumes the role of some kind of sexual PA (he’s a Virgo?), filtering through the noise (men) to identify who my next-first-date might be.
We get up. We do our jobs. I cleaned the fridge. There’s really very little to report. Ordinary, mundane, banal.
wednesday 12th march
I confess that we occasionally fall into the trap of consecutive sleepovers that can go on for most of the week. What with him living in West London and myself living in East, there’s an hour-long door-to-door commute which, to be honest, is a bit of a ball-ache.
But today he did need to make himself scarce; I had a third date with a girl I’d matched with on Hinge and there was every chance – all being well – that she’d be coming back to my place. And I can’t think of anything more off-putting than going on a date with a woman only to come back to her boyfriend watching Walking With Dinosaurs and making his way through an entire Terry’s chocolate orange.
So, before I finished working for the day, I sent him home to give myself space to shake off the domestic bliss of playing house for four days straight. As it turns out, I could have done with more time to get myself amped up for the third-date-level-of-intimacy that differs enormously from that of my long-term-relationship.
I met my date outside the Tate Modern, where I’d booked for us to attend the Leigh Bowery x Queer Beer launch event – the perfect set-up for a third date. For the first hour or so I grappled with the code-switch of hanging out with a long-term-partner to getting to know a potential new one. It took a couple of pints and some quiet contemplation of Leigh Bowery’s posthumous exhibition (which I can’t recommend enough, by the way) before I felt fully present with my lovely date.
Long-story-short, she did indeed come back to my place. We had a fun, sexy sleepover. I told my boyfriend about it the next day. He was nothing if not pleased for me.
thursday 13th march
My date left for work before 7am, after we’d gone to bed at around 4am. I could barely open my eyes to say goodbye properly but she thanked me for a lovely night and showed herself out.
That same evening, I caught up with one of my longer–term lovers – a man I matched with on Hinge over a year ago (long before my partner and I put a label on our relationship). We speak most days; he’s also a writer, so we have a lot to talk about.
Although he’s monogamous, he enjoys the low-stakes, mutually beneficial and highly-transparent nature of our dynamic. With ethical non-monogamy (and, I would argue, any form of dating) comes the need for finely tuned communication. We always knew we weren’t “the one” for each other (largely owing to his being in his late thirties, and me in my mid-twenties), but have enjoyed each other’s company for the past year regardless.
I love how ENM relationships make space for non-linear relationship dynamics; we’ve been in the “casually dating” stage for a year, both know it’s never going to move past that, but are content to remain in sexual stasis – at least until he gets himself a girlfriend / future-wife. I trust him to communicate this with me openly and would, of course, be happy to become friends once he bags himself a monogamous relationship.
We were both hungover from our respective Wednesday nights, so we caught up over a couple of pints, some Banh Mi, and called it an early night.
friday 14th march
This morning I foolishly plunged myself into financial ruin (my overdraft) by purchasing a baby-blue plunge latex body suit. My arse and tits do look really, really good in the tightest of tight sheen of latex. For £165 this felt like a reasonable first-time-investment in a latex piece. And you can hardly put a price on feeling like hot shit, right?
One of my friends organised a St. Patrick’s Day quiz down in South London. I went, managed not to lose the quiz (the only Irish person in the room was on my team), and evaded subjection to ‘the Irish bowl of shame’.
saturday 15th march
We (my boyfriend and I) have two friends – let’s call them Mary and Frank – over for dinner. Mary’s been feeling a little low recently, and I thought there’s no better salve for a low mood than my macaroni cheese. Not to blow my own horn, but I do make the best macaroni cheese (I’ll bequeath the recipe to some lucky someones in my will).
For context, my partner met Mary long before we properly got together – they used to sleep together and have since transitioned into being friends. A month before the macaroni cheese, Mary and Frank had come to my best friend’s Valentine’s Day party, where the night ended in a naked pile of Mary, Frank, me, and my best friend (with whom I have a sexual history, naturally).
We laughed about the ridiculousness of the web we’d created between the four of us, now extending into my own social circles. But what else do you expect to happen when you get so many hot people together in one room? It’s just a shame my partner had KO-ed upstairs after a bump of ket sent him tumbling into the abyss…
Group sex was off the table for tonight; we simply enjoyed each other’s company and some piping hot homemade macaroni cheese.
sunday 16th march
Does anyone know how to wear latex without getting a camel toe? Serious question. And how are people supposed to fuck me in a one-piece that is STUCK to my body? In the absence of talc, I resorted to lubing the piece up, so that I could get in. I felt like I was squeezing myself into a wetsuit; wet, cold, tight – about as uncomfortable as a garment can get. But I looked fucking good.
And we all have to make sacrifices in the name of sex-appeal. Beside me, my boyfriend braved a tasteful pair of pink heels, a matching ball-gag, and my very own ultra-cropped Jaded London vest top. Getting ready, we blasted COBRAH, Kim Petras, and other queer clubby artists. He dutifully made us vodka crans, and we painted each other’s nails.
We pre-gamed with Celine Dion (another of my partner’s former flames – another made up name) and her friends – four gorgeous ENM babes; two of them there as a unit, and the other two present without their respective partners.
In the queue for the venue, we sank buzzballs in broad daylight (the joys of day raves) and reviewed the rules of the party (knowing we’d be quizzed by the bouncers before being permitted entry). Consent must always be continuous and enthusiastic. Don’t assume anyone’s pronouns. Don’t be a colossal prick.
Upon entry, we made a b-line for the smoking area where we could chat and mingle. Someone I’d been on a few dates with was there with their partner, so I caught up with them (got papped) and we bemoaned the lack of equipment in the playroom.
Over on the dancefloor, the web thickened as tongues entered new mouths and it seemed everyone was making out with everyone within the group. My partner and I ended up in a make-out-scrum with two of the people we’d arrived with, so naturally we took things to the playroom (and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, you pervert).
Re-donning our civvies, my partner and I tottered onto the Northern Line to get home. He propped me up as I struggled in my six-inch platform boots. We went via Choix and debriefed over fried chicken and fully-loaded fries.
Thank you for spending the week with me, an ENM babe. I hope it didn’t leave a nasty taste in your mouth, that your toes didn’t curl all the way into your feet, and that you had as much fun as I did.
Feel free to ask questions. I know you have them.
Nice! I appreciated the little details. I don' know loads of poly people in London, so it's nice to hear about the everyday bits of your life.