Early into my relationship with my boyfriend—whom I will refer to as “F” from here on in order to protect the full identity of our relationship as we enter into a new sexually adventurous stage—we attended a well-known queer party in East London that is regarded widely for its heavy techno and even heavier use of substances. It was here that we found ourselves in a toilet cubicle with another gay guy, sharing the remainder of powder stuck to the bottom of his crumpled plastic baggie. Despite entering the ply-constructed bathroom with no intention other than to send ourselves on a short-lived trip, we (also) found ourselves propositioned into a threesome.

“Sorry, we aren’t in an open relationship,” I responded, embarrassed by the situation at hand, and apologetic at the fact we couldn’t reciprocate his willingness to share something with us.

Hearing this, and without pause for consideration, he responded dryly, “Couples will go into open relationships when they get bored of having sex with each other.” Followed by a smile that cracked the seriousness of his expression, and diluted the tension he created in the small space the three of us shared at that moment.

While I’d like to say that this comment (or a possibly slyly placed retort to rejection) had no effect on me whatsoever, and that it didn’t leave me questioning the lasting vitality of sex within monogamous gay relationships, I cannot. It affected me. I became worried that if we ever do opt into an open relationship, it would be as a result of sex with each other being mundane and “boring.” And it wasn’t until the first time we had a threesome together—a year after that comment was made in a similarly sweat-filled party—that I realized opening the door of my relationship slightly ajar could, under specific conditions, foster connection within a long-term monogamous relationship.

At the beginning of my relationship with F—which started as casual sex about two years ago, and later led to dating before making it public and “official”—we were open for about two months. As neither of us had been in a relationship of that nature before—one where we could explore our sexual desires and urges with other people while still being committed to each other—the sentiment around it was exciting and new. We wanted to explore new territories for ourselves and new frontiers for our relationship; an attempt to see the perceived confines of love and sex from another angle. However, through various complications over the first couple of months, which pushed my insecurities into overdrive and triggered past trauma beyond my capacity, we decided that the best course of action was to become monogamous and give us time to build something that we knew was ours. In truth, I don’t think I would enter into a relationship in an open manner again. And if I am still being truthful, I am slightly envious of those who can make it work immediately. But, as someone who has realized that building trust is a complicated affair and can’t necessarily involve other lovers in the earlier stages, the move to monogamy was both a comfort and a helping hand in establishing a baseline to, perhaps, one day explore and work from.

Since that decision, our relationship has remained monogamous, and we have occasionally revisited the discussion of possibly opening it again in some way or form, i.e., having a threesome, hooking up with another couple, etc. Yet, every time it eventually ended with: “But now is not the right time.”

Until this July.

The summer of ’25 hit London during the city’s Pride festival, and by this point F and I had been together for a little less than two years. After the parade, and too many bottles of prosecco accompanied by what seemed like an endless amount of smoke-trailed cigarettes, we made a quick pit stop home before heading to a queer after-Pride party in the east of the city. Sixty DJs, 16 hours, three venues and one spare change of outfit (for the quite likely event that the first becomes too sweat-drenched), the party was just one of many underway across the city, gathering loose-jawed queers and allies alike.

For me, I prefer a queer party. No offence to circuit gays and the parties that cater them, but, in my opinion, the community is moving to a reorganized existence that is Queer and not solely the L the G the B, T or +. To truly continue paving the way forward for all, to truly exist as a member of the community, we mustn’t cement the present but rather fight for our uncertain future, together…. So, such spaces that reflect this inclusive nature also recognize the move forward in solidarity. I find that the parties dedicated to this aren’t as daunting because safety and consent are amplified throughout. Rarely have I felt an ill-placed hand find its way onto my lower back or recoiled at the grinding crotch of another greeting my backside—respect is key and the attendees (usually) enforce this. And so, a cheeky dance, a compliment on someone’s pre-planned outfit or a grin across the room, are all so fleeting and carry a level of unseriousness that, consequently, means connection is often welcomed above all.

Back to the story. Even before arriving at the party, you could hear the roar of crowds and bass. A pulsating current of bodies flowed in and out of rooms and spaces, forming a sea of sweat and skin as they traversed its offerings and possibilities. From toilet to darkroom to garden, the screams, the praise, the sound of heels and boots striking the concrete underneath travelled in vibrations that were felt by all soaking in the pride of their own, collective, existence. Like a scene from Andrew Holleran’s Dancer from the Dance brought to life, the energy was high, the attendees even more so and there really was only one way for it all to go: up.

F and I spent the first part of the day moving back and forth from stage to stage, then a large portion of the evening in various smoking areas—half the time to escape the humidity inside—and by early morning, we were committed to testing the mechanics of our bodies against the rising bpm count, bringing our lips to touch frequently while we pressed ourselves together.

“Something strange lingered. Perhaps it was the stink of testosterone seeping from our skin and the bodies of those around us? Or maybe the simple uncertainty of what our next move would be? But, rather than avoiding its existence, I felt myself leaning into it…”

There we were, at the end of the night, dancing amongst friends, moving and stomping for the last hour until the 6 a.m. close time, at which point those partying would crawl into a bed, either their own or another’s, or find a means to keep the night alive elsewhere. In front of us, a familiar face from throughout the night—let’s call him C—stood close; someone whose eyes had locked with ours occasionally within the waves of beings twisting and shaking. F then turned to me, inquiring about C’s mesh top, trying to understand whether the faces and figures printed onto it were in fact multiple tattoos sketched across his back and torso. Unsure, we asked.

C turned to face us and exclaimed that they were in fact printed, and introduced himself. We introduced ourselves. A short conversation surrounding where we live (he was visiting the city), Pride and the night itself erupted and then fell dormant in the space of two minutes, leaving us standing staring at one another. Yet, surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. It was inviting. Something strange lingered. Perhaps it was the stink of testosterone seeping from our skin and the bodies of those around us? Or maybe the simple uncertainty of what our next move would be? But, rather than avoiding its existence, I felt myself leaning into it, curious for the circumstances conceived but unsure what would be birthed. And this is where it gets interesting.

As mentioned above, F and I had spoken about once again opening the gates of our relationship, which led to expressed questions, fears and doubts surrounding our readiness to make such a decision. However, we noticed that none of these questions, fears or doubts made their way into our minds at that moment. What occurred at the time of meeting C was organic and understood, and the clear will and want from both of us was immediate.

Standing there, rocking on the balls of our feet to the industrial track, F and I looked at each other. We both frowned, tilted our heads to the right and a small, almost unnoticeable smile cracked the corners of our mouths. We realized, in that moment, that we both wanted the same thing. We wanted to have sex with another, together. His eyes, much like my own, glistened with excitement and potential as if we were children given permission to stay out past curfew on a warm July evening. With no words spoken, just that look that placed both of our desires and lusts in harmony, we navigated the next steps in silence. The three of us kissed, then C and I, then the two of them. One being my partner of two years, my love, my constant moment of apricity even in the coldest of times, and the other, a man whose presence and respect for others’ love helped change the course of my relationship and provided answers to all of the anxiety-ridden questions I had been asking myself until that moment.

What happens when a relationship is opened up? How does the move away from monogamy start? What happens if the couple isn’t on the same page, leading to heightened insecurity and a distance carved into the relationship? Does it mean we are bored with just having sex with each other?

You know, all of the normal questions.

After we kissed, we invited him to ours.

He said yes, also nodding, presumably in case the music drowned out his response.

“It’s our first time!”

“Do you really mean the first?”

F and I looked at each other again. We confirmed that it was, worried that he might change his mind after discovering our lack of sexual experience with a third person.

“What do you both like?” C questioned, easing our minds.

“I’m more of a bottom. I like to be submissive. F is a top. You?”

“Eye contact,” he returned with a gaze that bore deep into ours and swallowed the noise around us. We all pictured what was coming and rallied ourselves toward it.

We caught an Uber with C positioned in the middle back seat; F and I sat on either side, giddy with anticipation while also acknowledging our appreciation for the mutual, unvoiced understanding we had just witnessed from each other.

We arrived home and started slowly in the hallway before moving to the bedroom, where things became faster and (more) heated. We touched and kissed and took each other, a romantic intertwining of skin and flesh illuminated by the soft morning seeping in through the open window. The moment, as F later told me, was void of the “transactional” approach that sex so often has in gay group sex. Instead, we listened to one another and cradled our time close with kisses of passion and frequent glances to reassure comfort. We took our time to explore each other and the ways our bodies reacted in this unfamiliar scenario, licking and caressing the most sensitive areas before entering or swallowing whole. Our hands held another’s face while our eyes, trained by C’s kink for contact, met often and taught me the joy of watching my partner make love to another.

After we had sex, the three of us lay in a heap, limbs intertwined. The smell of sex and sweat hovered lightly in the air around us. C rose to leave, and we once again embraced in the entrance, thanking him for the experience and letting our lips meet one more time.

C then left, opening the door and taking with him our previous understanding of the confines of sex and the limits of our relationship. Even though the door closed behind him, I realized how easy and natural it can be to hold it ajar, figuratively, in the future.

I had always believed that the move away from monogamy would be a complicated affair to conjure—especially for the first time. I always believed that it would amount from a pre-planned scenario, a thought-out “right” time. Yet, I have now learned that the “right” time can be found in the most unexpected of moments and through the most fleeting of conversations. It crept up without warning, and we let it guide us. Without words, we were shown the power of our relationship and the connection that fostered it; a speechless ode to our capacity and capability.

Inviting someone into our relationship, albeit for a brief moment, opened a new landscape whereby heightened senses of trust, desirability and understanding sat waiting on the other side. The immediate yet unspoken knowledge that both my partner and I wanted to explore a scenario with another elevated our relationship. Since then, sex has become more exciting. Not because we had sex with another, but because our minds and bodies were so connected at that particular moment, and under those specific circumstances, that the mere recalling of the heat leaves me in a horny pile, craving the touch of my partner, the extra bond we now share and the belief that we are stronger when our decisions and lusts align.

Do I know everything about open relationships? Hell no! Should I be giving advice to anyone? Probably not.

But, I can say that I am so happy I waited for a moment to appear seamlessly rather than chase, worry and plan for it to happen. I’m a little more comfortable with myself, my trust in my partner has strengthened and my relationship is even more exciting.

And, isn’t that exactly what we want from it all, open or not?