I’m a former lawyer. This sounded like drafting a settlement agreement. And if we couldn’t agree to the terms, would Howard mope around the house moaning that I never let him do anything fun?

I called polyamory “exposure to disease.” Even in your primary relationship you always would have to practice safe sex, because your partner was seeing other people. And it always would be emotionally dangerous because he may come to like one of those people more than he liked you. If we both loved other people, wouldn’t we want to spend our time with them? It sounded like a recipe for disaster. You could fall in love with your fling.

As early as 2009, Newsweek asked whether polyamory was the next sexual revolution. But back then it wasn’t on my radar because I had George. Polyamory has been classified as both a sexual orientation and a lifestyle choice. It seems some people are wired to be in simultaneous relationships and aren’t jealous when their partners are too. But many of the questions on sites providing advice about polyamory are from secondary partners who are jealous of their lover’s primary relationship.

“When I’m committed to someone,” I said to Howard, “I don’t want to see other people. And I don’t want to hear that you do.”

In my post-George dating years, I had developed a protective shell over my heart. Allowing myself to love again would mean letting that shell crack and fall away, not maintaining it because my partner invited strangers to trample through our relationship. The whole thing seemed so avoidable. At some point, we would have to agree to become exclusive. If either of us were attracted to someone else, we would suffer our lust in silence like decent people.

Then there was my own weakness. If I settled for a man who slept with other people, I would be tempted to do it, too, if for no other reason than to quell my insecurity that I wasn’t enough. We could both return home the next morning with smiles on our faces. But I wouldn’t be smiling; I’d be in pain.