As far as marketing buzzwords go, “ethical” has become a popular one. We love the idea of an “ethical” business. We love to read books that will help us be, or at least appear, more “ethical.” Precisely because of the allure of “ethical” consumption, we have also decided that “ethical” should mean “easy.”
Take ethical non-monogamy. People usually say that it’s supposed to be fair to all of the parties involved. As long as you establish clear boundaries with the people you are dating and/or sleeping with, and as long as everyone consents to the same boundaries, it’s all good. That is to say, it’s ethical.
Good doesn’t always feel good, however.
I know what you’re thinking. “There’s a global pandemic on, why is she talking about non-monogamy?”
Why not? For one thing, the pendulum is going to swing very far back when more people are comfortable with having sex with new people again. For another thing, it’s not as if people are not doing it again. Some have never stopped. So sure, let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about refusing to commit, or committing in very specific ways.
When I say that non-monogamy is not necessarily meant to be easy, I’m not knocking the people who helped bring it to the American mainstream — people such as the authors of The Ethical Slut, for example. I think people like that definitely have their heads screwed on right (pun absolutely intended).
What I mean to say is that sexual freedom, no matter how you define it, and no matter how you practice it, comes with consequences. Romantic freedom even more so, at times. “Consequences” is a very un-sexy word, often used by religious lunatics to justify why some scared teenager should go through an unwanted pregnancy, but I think it’s ripe for a reclaiming. If only because being a fucking adult is actually sexy as hell.
Having your feelings hurt as the result of someone’s freedom impinging on your own can feel like a cleansing act. Here you are — the martyr. A crown of thorns can look lovely in the right light. Hurting someone’s feelings, by contrast, can make you feel dirty and wrong. I run to my friends at times like these and they, being good friends, will say all of the right things. “It’s not your fault,” they’ll say. “You’ve been very nice.”
The trouble with niceness, and courtesy, and good manners, and kindness — all important factors of both relationships and pseudo-relationships — is that they can be mistaken for something they’re not. A kind word can sound like a promise. Caring can translate to the illusion of commitment. When the world is on fire, kind people check in with each other often. When connections between people are frayed — during pandemics, protests, election cycles — those that remain can take on an even bigger importance. That’s nobody’s fault, but can it suck? Absolutely.
The wisest, most mature, and, consequently, happiest people I know are those who accept that jealousy and hurt are an organic part of life, to an extent. I have come to believe that jealousy and hurt are a bit like chocolate-covered coffee beans. If you have too many of the damn things, you’ll feel like you’re dying. But sometimes it feels good to pop one in the mouth. There is a certain electricity to jealousy. And a certain self-importance in causing jealousy in others.
People deny this, of course. We want our choices to be an easy sell. We want to be relatable. But I think the absolute baseline of humanity is that we’re permanently incomplete puzzles. None of the pieces truly ever fit, because perhaps they are not meant to. And nowhere is this more obvious than when it comes to sex, and when it comes to love.
I tried to explain this recently to someone I came to care about. I used all of the right words, I think. I was kind and affectionate. My affection only irritated him further. The puzzle fit differently for both of us. “What you missed about me you could just get with someone else,” he told me at one point, angry at the very idea of me saying that I’d missed him, because I wasn’t committed to him and never had been.
I could have sat there and used even more words. I could have told him it was his dry sense of humor, or his low voice, or the way he drove his car that I had missed. I could have told him that life is very short. I could have reminded him that I’d been very honest with him about my precious freedom, not because I think that refusal to commit is noble and lofty, but because this is simply where I am at this time — I don’t need to celebrate or justify myself, I can just be. I didn’t do any of these things, though. Life would help him figure it out, I decided. Or not. That’s the thing. I’ll never know what those consequences will be.
I certainly didn’t bother telling him about how I’ve fallen in love with someone else a while ago — and how I see that person in everyone and in everything, slivers of him, embedded in other people — and how that doesn’t even make sense, because love frequently doesn’t. That would have only hurt him further, which is bewildering, because how is it that a wonderful thing like that can hurt another person? And yet it does, no matter if we dress it up as radical honesty.
Finally, I didn’t get mad at him and tell him something like, “If you wanted me to commit to you, why didn’t you just ask?” I already knew the answer to that. He was protecting his ego. He knew that I would have said no. Casting me as someone who had manipulated him with her kindness became an easier way out.
I think that real wisdom, though, comes when we ask even when we already know the answer. I wish we didn’t require pain for growth, but it’s like water for a plant, really. “Ask the nice girl who is not your girlfriend next time — be brave,” is what I want to say to him. But it’s not my place. Being ethical is not easy, and neither is it particularly neat. There is no ending that you can tie up with a pretty bow. You can only wave at a retreating back from a distance.
Image credits: StockSnap and Виктория Бородинова