He and I had been friends in graduate school in New Orleans for seven months when we had sex for the first time. He was engaged at the time to someone else who lived in a different state. It was Mardi Gras, and the attraction he and I had for each other, combined with multiple beers, had exploded into consensual and sloppy intercourse.

Our mutual attraction had been evident for a while. Before Thanksgiving, we had walked along Lake Pontchartrain near my apartment and delicately talked around the issue. I took a submissive position; someone else had gotten to him first and there was nothing I could do about that. I would not try to break up his relationship.

But I told him as straightforwardly as I could that I had no moral objection to infidelity. That was the only way I could think to phrase it. Sex was just sex. I was basically communicating that if he wanted to have sex with me, I was going to enthusiastically approve.

I quickly mentioned that what did matter to me was his ability to take care of two women’s feelings at the same time. He looked down at his boots and said that he probably wouldn’t be able to do that.

Wrong answer, I thought.

But our attraction was so intense that we ignored the potential problems. We were already ignoring the fact that he was leaving the next day to go meet his fiancée. I reiterated my point about taking care of two women’s feelings, hoping he would understand it better and retroactively concur. Instead, he took it as me concluding that we should keep our pants on, and he closed the discussion.

“We shouldn’t,” he said.

Using the word “shouldn’t” instead of “can’t” or “won’t” only made our copulation seem more inevitable.

A few days after our Mardi Gras sex, he said he didn’t regret it but that we couldn’t do it again. Over the following two years we had sex sporadically, and unethically, in that his fiancée didn’t know about it. Each time, he would inform me a few days after that we shouldn’t do it again.

None of this made sense to me. We enjoyed doing it — why the constant back and forth? I never expected him to leave his fiancée, but I did expect a certain amount of corroboration about reality.

This scenario also had me constantly questioning myself. Why didn’t I have any objection to infidelity? Why did it feel so natural sharing a man with another woman? Why did monogamy feel like the wrong option?

He and his fiancée never got married. I moved away. But we stayed close. It’s been almost a decade since graduate school, and he and I have not lived in the same state since. He has a partner and a family. I have a budding career in television and a busy social life. The last time we had sex was five years ago. (Ethically, that time!)

A while back, I texted him to see if he wanted to chat on the phone. I love talking on the phone and ask for it often. It was Monday. He said he was visiting his ill father but could do Friday. I agreed, but come Friday, he forgot. The business of travel and baby-needs and parental role-reversal had pushed me to the back of his mind. A lapse in care happens in all types of relationships. Someone’s feelings get hurt because there was a plan and someone else forgot. It’s normal.

But in these moments, with us, the level of effort needed to fix it can become confusing for the monogamist. If this scenario had happened with a wife, maybe there would be a short fight, followed by Uber Eats and a “Below Deck” binge. If this scenario had happened with a girlfriend, then perhaps flowers would be best to soothe the hurt. If it was with a friend, maybe just a recommitment to plans and a promise not to forget again.

But when he and I have a conflict or a disagreement, we can sometimes get jammed up trying to resolve it. Because I don’t use labels, and because he doesn’t know how to label me, it becomes easy for him to regress to a familiar scenario: I’m the side piece and he’s the unavailable object of my desire.

This impulse normally only lasts a moment while we untangle what it is we’re stuck on. And I don’t hold it against him. It’s hard to have a relationship with someone like me who doesn’t dress up her partners as recognizable personas. The anarchy makes people uncomfortable.

To me, all relationships are like those paper dolls we had as children. The figures are in their underwear and then you put different clothes on them for different occasions. The base level is the figure laid bare. The base level is vulnerability and intimacy. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up — mistress, relative, friend, girlfriend, husband, lover — the base stays the same. And if the base is good, it’s easy to understand how someone can start off in one set of clothes and end up in another. Some time ago, I just stopped using the clothes to label my relationships.

On the day he forgot to call me, he immediately apologized. When I told him my feelings were hurt, he speculated that it’s probably because I’m not satisfied with what he’s giving me.

Which took me back to that day at Lake Pontchartrain, wondering again if he, or anyone, can take care of two people’s feelings simultaneously.

So, I really considered it.

Is it possible that, in this case, his assessment was right? Is satisfaction a security that I don’t allow myself by living my life this way?

For most people, monogamy means that to have an intimate relationship with a different person, you must end the current relationship before you can start another. One at a time, that’s the rule.

He has had three long-term partners since I have known him. If I had to wait until he had no other partner, we would have missed out on this relationship, which is 90 percent TV jokes and “Mad Men” quotes. We never would have the pride it brings each of us when we make the other laugh out loud. Or argue about a movie one of us hates and the other adores. Or the gossip we share about people we know in theater.

He has listened to me cry about my career, which I never do with anyone else. I have talked him through his body insecurities and am able to successfully assure him that he’s still attractive. We push each other in our creative ambitions. I send him details of celebrity encounters, and he keeps me full of baby pictures.

And we fight. I make biting comments that are sometimes too sharp. He doesn’t text enough. He’s avoidant. I’m prickly, and bratty. He’s envious. I say the wrong thing. I brag too much. He’s neurotic. Actually, we’re both neurotic.

In other words, a regular relationship.

After considering his comment, I arrived back to where I normally live. I am no more satisfied and no less satisfied than I would be if I followed a more traditional relationship model. Dressing the doll up might make things more comfortable at times, but it wouldn’t be true to our experience. And if the price we must pay is occasionally having to think hard about it to make sure it’s still working — well, I’m willing to pay that small price.

I haven’t believed in monogamy since the grad school experience with him. It sent me down a path that has informed my life ever since. It means that I never think about romantic relationships in an aspirational way. It means that I get to keep my relationships with men and women for a long time, after the sex has dwindled, or as the connection morphs in and out of romance. It means that I get more than “just being friends with an ex.” It means the intimacy that I have with others blooms in a natural way.

I enjoy having diverse relationships, because that is the reality for so many people, even when they have no words to explain them. Many of those who are unconventional don’t have anyone to look to for answers. As a relationship anarchist, I have a responsibility to reflect unconventional truths and challenge social norms. It’s difficult to question relationship models that have been in our society for centuries, but if we don’t start talking about it openly, it will never get easier.

I’m a non-monogamous woman in many different relationships. He and I are still partners in life. Just not the way that most people understand partners, or life.

Kate Bailey is a screenwriter and playwright in Los Angeles.

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