The polycule route to self-knowledge

Was my auspicious birth into a Haight Street hippie commune an indication that I would end up in a polycule in my 40s? Rebellion wasn’t really an option. The only rebellion afforded a daughter of parents who macrodosed psychedelics and practiced non-ethical non-monogamy would have been moving to Texas and becoming a Christian lawyer. 

Or maybe my rebellion was more subtle, a response to the old-school sexist polygamy of the commune. My parents’ male Indian guru had nine wives. At one point they were even on a nightly rotation with him. They could have other lovers, but all nine needed to prioritize him as their No. 1. To the disappointment of my bisexual heart, they didn’t have sex with each other. 

I met my future lovers at a sex and intimacy training. The nature of the topic created a welcoming vibe, allowing us to practice all manner of dynamics such as consent, embodiment, and attunement in pairs and in larger groups. Every gender expression, sexual orientation, and relationship style was presented as healthy, valid, and beautiful, and I wondered how much better off we all would be if that were the case from childhood onward. We were taught to remove any shame around our desires and to handle them inside an ethical container of communication, consent, and respect. Within this container, the possibilities became endless.

The class continued in a group chat because only a few of us lived in the Bay Area; most had flown in from other cities. The group was roughly evenly split between men and women. Some members knew each other from previous trainings, while others were already dating or married to each other. The chat grew increasingly flirty and occasionally included nudity, but at this point we were just consenting adults experimenting. 

My primary boyfriend, Holden, and I had an open relationship at his request, though we hadn’t had much opportunity to explore that dynamic beyond a play party where we’d made out with another couple. It was new territory for me, and I liked it. I’d tried opening a relationship with an ex-girlfriend a decade earlier, but it had been a disaster because we lacked the tools and community to pull it off. Now I had both — and a partner who was interested — so I let myself get swept up in the increasingly flirtatious chat as we began planning our first in-person gathering.

Holden was busy, so he didn’t accompany me to the huge Victorian Airbnb the group had booked for the weekend in the East Bay. I had decided to go at the last minute, and I walked in frazzled and nervous. Moments later, though, I felt wrapped in a warm, welcoming cocoon. Looking around the room, I asked myself if I would have swiped right on any of these new lovers on a dating app. Probably not. The women were beautiful but more feminine than my usual type, and most of the men were just not my type. But no amount of swiping on a phone could have created the human connection I felt in their presence. Instead of flat images paired with marketing language and filtered through my own projections, here were 11 flesh-and-blood humans emitting their own emotional, intellectual, and sexual energy. 

“Group sex” or “orgy” doesn’t do justice to what transpired. In the kitchen, three people were sandwiched together simply hugging. Two women kissed on the sofa; two men kissed on the patio. A few people chatted as they ate from a platter of sushi, while, 10 feet away, a woman spanked another woman, checking for turn-on, pressure of impact, and boundaries.  

I took off my clothes and got into the hot tub with a few others where we massaged each other’s shoulders and flirted. Freed up by so many touch exercises in the training, our bodies easily responded to one another. The lack of automatic, initial attraction became the most beautiful thing about it. They became more desirable to me as I realized they were so pro-consent, so welcoming of boundaries, so open, so good at reading the room and asking, “How does that feel?” An incredible combination of freedom, safety, and erotic energy washed through me as we left behind the acceptable, heteronormative, monogamous script. Instead of coloring inside the lines, we were making gorgeous swoony watercolors.

I headed to rinse off from the hot tub when my new friend Maggie asked if I’d like to join her in the shower. As the steam rose, we washed each other. Phoebe and Sasha stood at the doorway and we beckoned them in. Then Iris and Claire joined. We all caressed each other under the stream of forbidden California water. I savored the relative innocence of our touch. There was no grabbing, prodding, or pushing; it felt like a warm flush of desire rising and falling and flowing and transforming. We hummed like a beehive. It seemed we had stepped through a portal to a time when the feminine was sacred. 

Tim and Blaze, as if led by scent, wandered in and watched through the glass but didn’t go any further. Their expressions were Cheshire smiles seeming to say: Oh, wow, of course this would happen, how wonderful that we get to witness it. The male gaze wasn’t central. We were central inside our pop-up Goddess Temple. 

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And with that, our long-distance polycule was formed. We ended up with 13 members in total, the number of a coven — perfect! I’d outdone the commune guru by a margin of three. That night, I drove home to Holden ecstatic. He was impressed and decided to accompany me next time. And that’s when things got really interesting. 

Like any couple, we had our issues, and there’s nothing like 11 new naked bodies in an Airbnb to bring them immediately to the surface. In our daily life, I tended to want sex more frequently than Holden, so when he became Mr. Touchy Feely Free Love in the polycule, I got jealous — not because I didn’t want him to experience other women, but because I wanted more of that at home. Holden, on the other hand, rarely got jealous, and his detachment could infuriate me. 

As we drove to one of the gatherings, I told Holden I wasn’t that excited about him being sexual with other women as he hadn’t initiated with me for weeks. When, an hour later, I watched him flirting with and caressing two women, I protested. I went to a bedroom alone to recover, but then all three of them came in and started cooing around me. They put gentle hands on my shoulders, hugged me, brought me back into my body and back into the fold. The impact of this kind of repair was indescribable: My inner child got to see that people were good and kind and not trying to hurt me. Working through layers of old insecurities and feelings of exclusion (I am, after all, the invisible middle child) could be painful, but what made it worthwhile were the moments where I looked around the room and saw a new world emerging just beyond fear, programming, and shame — a radiant world of freedom, deep care, genuine love, and attunement. Eventually, Holden and I were able to experience compersion, a sense of joy watching your lover experience pleasure with someone else. It felt transgressive and electric. 

There was a lot of sex — five people on the sofa, two on the massage table, makeouts around the firepit, eight-hand massages, bodies bent over the pool table. There were toys and handcuffs and leather things and all manner of accoutrements. But “sex” wasn’t by default “intercourse,” and that made it so much more dimensional and pleasureful, more like those glorious teenage makeouts that used to go on forever: no rush, no goal, just an abundance of willingness and time. 

Unwinding 40 years of female cultural programming could probably take a lifetime, but the polycule gave me an accelerated track. In one long afternoon I could be approached by three different men asking various things of me. Did I always say no when I wanted to say no? Unbelievably, even in this intentional, boundaried, and understanding experiment — no, I did not. I’d find myself acquiescing to a kiss when I didn’t want to. Like most women, I was taught to take care of men’s feelings, to avoid disappointing them at all costs. But the new language we were all learning helped a lot. The times when I did manage to say no, the man would ultimately respond with, “Thank you for taking care of yourself.” I almost couldn’t believe my ears. I’m now a huge fan of that phrase.

We were perfectly imperfect. We were learning on the spot. It was like a game of improv. Everyone had challenges around communication and boundaries; every couple had episodes of jealousy here and there. Holden and I ended up parting, not because of the polycule but because, like any couple, we found ourselves at different stages wanting different things. He grew up in a religious cult and longed for freedom. I grew up in a freedom-oriented cult and longed for a primary relationship to call home. 

It all lasted about a year. We lived far from each other and had busy lives; the group chat dwindled, and I eventually left it. No drama or big meltdown. I’m still fond of all my former lovers, including Holden. I don’t see myself entering another polycule, but I would say I learned more in that year than I did in any other year of my life. I am grateful that the script of the possible has been so greatly expanded in my lifetime. 

A few years later, I ended up getting married and finding the home I longed for. I would describe my husband and I as monogamish. I’m happy in the stability of a simpler form of relationship. But the work I did letting go of shame, trying (and failing and trying again) to enforce boundaries that respect my authentic self, and making decisions based on what feels right instead of what the culture, the government, or some church demands, is work I still do daily. I bring it into my coaching practice, my marriage, my friendships, and my bohemian family from the Haight street commune — all the people I love.