I was totally unfamiliar with the concept of polyamory before you introduced me to it. But I was lonely, and you were gorgeous, so even though you professed to be happily married, I threw caution to the wind. As the months flew by and we became so much more than fuck buddies, I did my research and discovered two things: (1) I'm down with polyamory, and (2) you and your selfish, entitled prick of a husband have absolutely NO fucking clue what you're doing. You were a matched set of Eastside suburbanites who wanted to feel edgy and be anything other than the child-rearing automatons that you are. You thought that bringing in a female lover would satisfy your bisexual needs, but you and Hubby never figured the two of us would fall in love, did you? And since Hubby thought poly was only about fucking like bonobos in heat—VETO!

Now I've been sacrificed on the altar of your doomed marriage while you and Hubby dash ass-over-teakettle back into monogamy. It makes me feel ever so much better that you know what an utter asshole you've been to me—but please, don't feel a moment's guilt over my broken heart. While you're desperately trying to keep your Titanic of a relationship afloat, I'll be loving someone else (or maybe multiple someones) who actually knows that polyamory means "many loves" not "many fucks."