So my worries escalated throughout the summer Ryan and I spent together (half of it in a one-room apartment in Tokyo, an experience I do not recommend for those seeking sanity in intimacy.) My worry translated into hysteria, and he countered by accusing me of letting my insecurities get in the way of the polyamorous arrangement I'd once promised.

When we returned to America, we broke up briefly. Then, after two horrible weeks, we had the predicted bout of astounding make-up sex, fueled by drugs, alcohol and despair, and got back together, albeit this time with the inflexible condition of a sexually open relationship.

I actually found that once we'd changed the rules, I no longer worried as much about his needs or conduct. I knew that this change in our relationship wasn't dictated by any one woman -- and that was, after all, part of what I'd dreaded. I was able to relax a little, in part because I wasn't desperately trying to mold Ryan into a role that I knew, deep down, he didn't fit.

But my own emotional vacillations are still difficult for me to reconcile. I often feel that I can control my jealousy and insecurities by exhaustive rules and regulations. For instance:

"Promise me that you won't ever think one of your other lovers is prettier than me," I'll insist.

"I promise," he'll assure me.

And I'll feel better for a while, until I have a bad hair day or a particularly nasty episode of PMS.

Nevertheless, our relationship is going well again. We spend about every other night together, so I'm devoting more time to my friends -- and to flirting with other people -- and I appreciate Ryan more when I do see him. And our sex life has definitely improved since last summer's emotional train wreck, which also marked a low in our physical relationship.

I've even seen him get jealous, at least a little bit. Ryan's always claimed that he isn't "the jealous type" and has repeatedly sworn that he would never fret over any fling I might have, since he knows that I love him. He's told me that I can share with him any and all tales from any other bedrooms I visit, when I feel ready to explore my own freedom further.

But one morning not too long ago, after he'd given me an orgasm from oral sex for the first time ever (I've always been much more of a coitus-loving girl), Ryan asked me if I ever planned to have sex with someone else.

"Probably," I answered.

"Then make sure you can describe how you like oral sex." He offered me a demonstration of our newly patented technique, complete with verbal commands. "It took us a while to get this down, and I don't want you to have to start from scratch with anyone else."

"How considerate of you."

"Besides, I want to have that bit of meta-control over the encounter. That will make your sleeping with someone else at least somewhat OK." He laughed self-consciously and looked away quickly.

I've rarely felt more aroused by Ryan than I was by this now-you-see-it-now you-don't flicker of jealousy, which ultimately proved even more intoxicating than his lingual talents. We spent a long time in bed that day.

Irrational jealousy aside, I believe that nothing casual he has with someone else could threaten what we have together. Most of the time, that is. But for the time being, I don't want to know what he's doing on his nights away from me. But this saddens me greatly -- it destroys some of our precious intimacy and rapport. I don't know which I'll eventually choose to preserve: my peace of mind, or my ability to talk with him about anything and everything.

My hope is that I eventually won't have to choose, that I will be OK with his sexual dalliances so we can again have our inimitable honesty and closeness.

Sometimes I do suspect when he's been out carousing. One night, after being apart for 36 hours, we met at his apartment, where I immediately noticed the box of condoms spilling out of his backpack. With our body-fluid-monogamous arrangement, I knew those had nothing to do with me. Whether they'd been used on the previous night's adventures, or just brought along hopefully, I didn't know.

And at that moment it didn't matter, for he pulled me close to him and whispered into my hair, "I missed you," sounding like he was about to cry. I realized that like he once said, his being with someone else -- or even just the possibility of his being with someone else -- has the power to eroticize me, the one constant lover in his life.

Some of my friends think we've suffered a setback in our relationship since our trial run of monogamy. I know that they can't fully understand the situation without knowing him or me. But it's true that we don't know what to call each other anymore. "Girlfriend/boyfriend" seems inappropriate, too suggestive of the monogamy we've rejected. "Lovers" doesn't indicate the full breadth of our relationship or our commitment to each other. We were both drawn toward "principal consort" but feared it wouldn't be taken seriously. We finally settled on "partners" but worry about the implications, because we're not home free yet, and we don't know if we can be in this relationship for the true long haul.

But whatever we call it, I'll try it. Polyamorous, right. Maybe I'll take more lovers -- both male and female -- myself. And maybe I'll be really well adjusted about the whole thing. Whether Ryan and I succeed or fail, we'll have great stories to share someday -- maybe even with each other.

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