I think I got cursed with the gene for monogamy. Not the sweet kind. Not the healthy, well-adjusted kind with matching coffee mugs and mutual hobbies. No—I mean the kind that turns obsession into worship. The kind that rewires your nervous system to believe you are safe only when you’re someone’s one and only. The kind that makes “casual” feel like a threat instead of a choice.

It’s frustrating, because I understand polyamory. I support it. I’ve seen it done beautifully. But my body doesn’t seem to care about theory. It wants to be claimed. Fully. It wants to be someone’s favorite, someone’s constant, someone’s kept. Even in kink, even in scenes that are supposedly temporary, my brain is scanning for signs of permanence. Did they mean it? Did they feel something real? Could they want me beyond this?

It’s embarrassing sometimes. I try to play it cool. I say I’m fine with fun, with fluid dynamics, with undefined connections. But underneath it, I’m craving obsession. Devotion. I want to be chosen with urgency and held like property. I want to be the only one they see when they close their eyes. The one they ruin things for. The one they come back to when everything else feels flat.