This is the fifth and last installment in a series for this column, answering readers’ thorniest questions about sex and love as part of a special magazine issue on relationships.
My wife and I have been together for almost 10 years. We met in college, and our relationship is wonderful overall. Our sex life is generally good, but we have mismatched libidos — I have a much higher sex drive than she does. We’ve talked about this discrepancy but never articulated a formal compromise on it. Early in our relationship, I confessed that I struggled with watching pornography on a regular basis; she was upset, but I assured her that I was working on it. Unfortunately, I still watch pornography and masturbate to it almost daily.
I am aware that the mainstream pornography industry is widely seen as one that preys on people who are vulnerable, or that takes advantage of women, and that there are questions surrounding the ethics of porn more broadly. To that end, I restrict my viewing almost entirely to amateur and homemade pornography, so I don’t feel that I am being unethical in the act of viewing it.
My wife is unaware of my porn consumption, but I view it as a compromise between upsetting her or having a conflict over our sex drives. What do I owe to her and to myself? — Name Withheld
From the Ethicist:
You seem to have come up with a successful coping mechanism; if you thought it interfered with your enjoyment of sex with her, or her enjoyment of sex with you, I’m sure you would have said so. And many would consider this solo activity as within the realm of personal privacy, even in marriage.
But though you have assured yourself that the pornography you watch is basically fair-trade, ethically sourced and cruelty-free, she may consider your engagement with it to be a form of marital disloyalty. That’s not an idea one can prove or disprove. Still, you can speak to your own feelings with some authority, and it matters that you evidently don’t feel that watching porn dilutes your devotion to her. Indeed, you seem to think that it’s helpful in your relationship.
So the question is whether it really should be classified as a matter of privacy, rather than as a matter of secrecy — whether it’s in the realm of the justly unmentioned or the wrongly concealed. If the activity starts to weigh on you like a secret, you might try having an open discussion about your different sex drives and how to handle that difference in a way that works for both of you, which could include talking about boundaries around porn and masturbation. That she doesn’t like your viewing pornography, though, doesn’t mean she’s automatically entitled to police your consumption. With or without the visual stimulus, your mental fantasies are your own. Nor must every orgasm be shared.
Which suggests that the activity might properly belong in the zone of privacy. Private matters are ones you’re free simply not to discuss, which is different from active deception. (Saying you were ‘‘working on it,’’ far from a promise that you’d given it up, is an acknowledgment that you hadn’t.) If we agree that your off-duty eruptions are a matter of bodily privacy, what you owe your spouse is respectful discretion.
I’m a Bisexual Woman with a Male Partner. Should We Bring in a Woman?
I’m a young woman in an eight-year-long heterosexual relationship. I came out as bisexual almost four years ago, despite having only had sexual encounters with men. I constantly worry if I’m ‘‘bisexual enough’’ to use the label, given that I’ve never had sexual experiences with women — and part of me worries that I never will. My partner has been supportive of me through this entire process. He’s even brought up the prospect of polyamory, but him staying monogamous. I worry that I’m forcing him into a lifestyle he wouldn’t have chosen had he ended up with a straight woman. With him worrying I’ll meet someone else, and me worrying I’m going to harm him just to fulfill my own desires, how can we safely enter into polyamory? — Name Withheld
From the Ethicist:
First, the label ‘‘bisexual’’ doesn’t come with performance metrics; all that matters is that both women and men can be objects of desire for you. Don’t let an identity label take command of your life. With openness and honesty, you and your partner can certainly explore the scenario you describe in a loving and respectful way; what you can’t do is banish the emotional risks.
Before you proceed, then, take care that you aren’t being guided by a questionable assumption. There are countless people other than your partner you could enjoy being sexual with. Because you’re bisexual, some will be women. Even if you were completely straight, though, there would be plenty of new erotic experiences you could have. You have missed out on sex, let’s suppose, with men who are bigger, smaller, hairier or smoother than your long-term mate; also sex with free-solo rock climbers, soccer forwards trained in tantra and puka-necklace-wearing surfer dudes who smell of ganja and cocoa butter. Whatever your orientation, a relationship like the one you currently enjoy will always involve cutting out a world of sexual possibilities.
If you do find yourself captivated by a particular woman, you’ll have to decide whether the model of polyamory really works for you. It could put your same-sex couplings, in some sense, under your male partner’s supervision. Maybe this isn’t a journey you can take him on.
But these aren’t choices to be settled in the abstract. If you want to pursue polyamory, do it because it genuinely suits you better than monogamy, not because you think the life script of a bisexual requires it. Your sexuality is about who catches your eye, not who belongs in your bed.