I somehow found myself in a polyamorous situation and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. In fact, after writing that sentence, I had to laugh, put my face in my hands—predictable. I am self-admittedly the least committed person, and I really do not like any sort of limitations placed on my sexual freedom, whatsoever, no questions. Since I know I am this way, I let my partners know straight up what they are in for: hot NSA one-off fucking. Heart not necessary. But then, some dude strolls along and it spins, I get weak in the knees, heart drops, legs quiver and I’m all systems go. So begins my first foray in polyamory.

Trey Songz “Cake” was making more and more sense as my secondary relationship bloomed and I began to have feelings for the antithesis of my slight and stoic primary partner: a blue-collar guy, busted up truck and all—tall and gentle, a real natural—who puts on D’Angelo without me requesting. The guy who has long gone hopeful exes call him up after years of being broken up, only to request he impregnate them. He’s just that kind of cool. He was great in bed, loved fucking me, worshipped my ass, and bonus: loved me fucking him. Jackpot. He had an uncanny ability to be both effortlessly dominant, and then turn into a slutty bottom in a matter of minutes.

Ah, yes, I was happy. Happily fucking away the month of November with a damn near stranger whom I had taken a very quick liking to, without a care in the world. Admittedly, this was indeed my first rodeo, having no experience with polyamory, but figured this was a the opportunity to give it a go. We kept an open line of communication while having our cake and I was convinced that this was bliss in its truest form, bent over and up against a wall, in the throes with a partner that does you right. But all good things must come to an end. I saw my rude awakening clearly, starkly, in the harsh daylight, in the absence of a good and regular shag.

"My sexual freedom had turned into burgeoning co-dependency and like a shark sniffing out blood in the water, my eyes went white and I could no longer see the world as I once had. I fiended for that good stuff and locked myself away gnawing at the fence of sexual satisfaction."

There’s a reason why most prolific writers and artists of the past are rumored to be celibate. Sex seems to get in the way of work (aside from those who fuck for a living), and for us recreational partakers in intercourse, an oftentimes rare and welcome distraction in large unconventional doses can sully the water and make for resentment and anguish. Where have I gone?

I found myself in a similar situation, fucking myself away it seemed, and suddenly realizing that I was blind. My sexual freedom had turned into burgeoning co-dependency and like a shark sniffing out blood in the water, my eyes went white and I could no longer see the world as I once had. I fiended for that good stuff and locked myself away gnawing at the fence of sexual satisfaction. I started getting attached, paranoid, neurotic. This was a real problem for me. I am interested in sex, I write about sex, I think about sex, I like sex very much. I don’t even have to question it—I’m just there, fucking. And therein lied the problem: reckless, automatic over-investment. By diving head first into something that was supposed to be on particular terms, did I lose the ability to create the framework in the first place?

In an interview, Foucault references The History of Sexuality saying he “very nearly died of boredom writing those books.” Is sex ultimately a bore, something we do to pass the time while we roam and graze upon the earth? I’m curious. Is it only interesting when some element of luck or chance is involved? What is the cost of spontaneity? Even more interesting, do I need to be having sex in order to write about sex?

When the eyes glaze over repeatedly, consistently, continuously, you lose yourself, your mind, your thoughts, the present moment and that person you’re with. I am a proponent of fucking and sexual fantasy to feel good, to reduce stress, to lighten the load, to celebrate bodies—but sex in a vacuum, phony saccharine, unconscious of its specialness breeds possessiveness and ill feelings. We sometimes cling to false ideas about people because it’s safe - it feels good to be together, but really is that togetherness rooted in anything besides fear and carelessness? Lust can negate autonomy. Maggie Nelson says it best when speaking to the highs and lows of Trocchi’s Cain’s Book in The Art of Cruelty: “snapping us back to that nasty animal need—to score, to fuck, to flee, to forget—which is always standing by to nullify mind and heart.” The beast bites back eventually.

Good dick imprisons me this way. I can only be held captive by my own accord for so long until I recoil, aghast at the time spent in a deep double-penetrative delirium. Whoosh! So quick to be enveloped by the fantasy that the pornographic provides me, my eyes rolling back in my head quivering into the next cum, and I forget the thinking part - the honesty part! - that is so dear. Only upon reflection now, out of the opium haze, do I see my own dimly lit descent into temporary loveliness. My advice? Read a book before you endeavor to add another dick into your life.

Audra Wist is an artist, writer, social commentator and provocateur - she is also an avid collector of erotica and erotic ephemera. She is also a professional dominatrix based in Los Angeles specializing in all sorts of punishment and humiliation. As Autre's sex editor at-large she will be covering all sorts of naughty content in the realm of sex and sexuality – from masturbatorial musings to photographic editorials. Follow Autre on instagram: @AUTREMAGAZINE