56 - When Latex Gets Crowded

These days, my husband’s mornings no longer began with my usual silent grumpiness but with seven-minute voice messages from Monique—the human embodiment of a morning encounter, just in audio form.

If I were on the receiving end, my day would be screwed before it even began. Luckily, she wasn’t talking to me but to him. Over the past few weeks, something had developed between the two of them—entirely free of hormonal pressure, more like an emotional and intellectual connection. I could see how much the mister enjoyed feeling seen by another woman.

I was genuinely fascinated by how they managed to build that kind of intimacy—without taking off their clothes. It was something I could hardly imagine, which made me all the more curious to watch it unfold. Honestly, Monique was such an intriguing woman that I found it lovely she’d become part of our lives.

One evening, she told the mister she was going to a so-called Liquid Love Party that weekend and was super excited about it—she even wished she could take him along. If you’re now wondering what on earth a Liquid Love Party is, don’t worry—I had no clue either.

I got the explanation from the mister. At these parties, naked participants wear blindfolds and slide all over each other on a well-oiled latex sheet—imagine a mash-up of tantra, Twister, and a techno party in the dark. Depending on what’s agreed in advance, touching genitals is either allowed or off-limits. To me, it sounded like rush hour on the Paris metro—just naked, slippery, and without phones. But for Monique, it was pure sexual adventure. 

My husband, for his part, was relieved that it was a private event—and that it wasn't the first time he had encountered Monique naked on a latex sheet with a dozen other people. Or maybe not—after all, who knows who you’re actually rubbing up against in there? Anyway, when she told him about it the next day, he instantly sensed that something had gone unbalanced. Turns out, Monique—naked, oiled, and apparently emotionally flammable—had fallen head over heels for someone she met at the party. 

By Monday morning, she realized she wasn’t quite as polyamorous as she thought. Maybe pol(y)-lite at best.

Her husband.

My husband.

The latex snuggler.

Three men, it seemed, were one too many.

They still met for their planned hammock date in the woods. But when my husband felt the sudden distance between them, he simply left her hanging—quite literally—and walked away.

His heart was so heavy that another hiker actually stopped him, asked if he was okay, and walked him back to his car, offering comforting words all the way so that he wouldn't get lost in the woods as well as his feelings. 

Now that’s male solidarity at its finest.

Later that day, he came home—ego bruised, heart heavy, and well past the age where you can just lock yourself in a dorm room with a few beers and wait for the pain to fade.

Instead, he had a daughter, a wife, and a job—and was expected to function. Since beer at lunchtime wasn’t exactly an option, he turned to something equally therapeutic but far more pleasurable: mattress gymnastics with Chloé and Nele. Side effects: elevated mood, mild soreness, and a temporary reduction in existential suffering.

It lifted more than just his spirits. It also brought a new realization: sometimes the heart and the body live in entirely different relationship models.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because relationships don’t have to be perfect to do you good.