On Being Undefined

To conclude the catalogue...

I would say that my relationship with Mr. E began in the fall of 2000, although by then we'd already known each other for about five years. When I scan through the email folder that bears his name, though, it's easy enough to see when things shifted, because there are a few emails here and there, over a period of years...and then, suddenly, eighteen emails exchanged in the space of a single month.

At the time, I was trying to adjust to some big changes in my situation. My husband Parker had developed a huge crush on my friend Carmen. Meanwhile, Scott and Monique's marriage had stalled in Splitsville, and I wasn't sure what that might mean for me and Scott.

As for Mr. E, he and his wife were in the process of re-negotiating their thus-far monogamous agreement, which meant he was free (or was he?) to begin pursuing another woman, someone who had long fascinated him – and who happened also to be married.

In other words, Mr. E and I discovered each other at a certain intersection of interests.

As our correspondence developed, it became clear that we were also interested in each other. But I already had two partners, and so did he.

What's more, we lived on different continents.

In the last dozen years, we've managed to see each other a grand total of seven times. Record amount of time spent alone together: 24 hours. And some of our visits have been platonic – the flavor of the interaction has depended on what's happening with other people in our lives.

Textbook tertiary.

And yet...part of me revolts. I don't want to put us in a poly pigeonhole.

This is from a letter I wrote him in July 2001:

I prize the freedom of my connection to you -- I don't really feel the need to define it, at least not in the limiting sense of "define."  That's not to say there are no limits to our connection, just that I'm content to let them be whatever they're going to be, without manufacturing any. 

I'm not sure how to be true to my relationship with Mr. E in this context. My intuitive sense is that he doesn't belong in this blog -- and yet (paradoxically), there's a way in which Viny's Little Black Book is just an extension of my correspondence with Mr. E.