Thank You, Smashblart

Smashblart is a dude who recently had sex with my wife.

To answer your first question, no, that is not his real name. Apparently, giving real names is bad form when talking about people’s sex lives. So I had to come up with a fake one. And, hey, if you’re gonna have sex with my wife, I’m sorry, but you’re getting a silly name. His real name is one of the following: Tom, Bob, John, Kenny, Ryan, Peter, James, Max, Ted, Dan, Ray, Nathan, Mike, Fred, or Wolfgang.

It’s not Wolfgang. His real name is boring.

(Aside: I’m using my wife’s real name: Natasha. I asked her if I should create a fake one to use in this post, and she said no. Kinda disappointing, I was really looking forward to coming up with one.)

As to your second question: Natasha and I are in a polyamorous marriage. We are each other’s primaries – meaning that we are committed to each other, and are each other’s “main” lover – but we’re okay with sleeping with other people. If you somehow didn’t get this memo, this is a thing. People do it.

For a long time, Natasha and I were polyamorous in name only. Really, we were polyamorous because I have a weird obsession with freedom and she was willing to play along to keep the peace. I didn’t seem to have any real interest in actually pursuing other people anyway, so why not?

Fast forward to about 3:00am the night of the 2016 presidential election. Like all people who didn’t care who won, I was reveling in the pure, non-partisan joy of something that seemed impossible actually happening. That’s when Natasha came home and told me that she met a guy and was interested in dating him.

This hurt. I had forgotten what emotional pain felt like. It’s not fun.

People asked me why it hurt. At first, I couldn’t really give any better than answer than “it just does.” I didn’t think anything was wrong. I was certainly not upset with Natasha, who was extremely sensitive and supportive, and let me know we could quit the polyamory thing any moment I wanted. At times, she even wanted to put an end to it, to avoid the guilt that came with how awful I was feeling.

But if there was one thing I felt sure of, it was that I didn’t want to end to it. I had no doubts about the virtue of polyamory. People live better lives when they have more options. Encouraging a partner to explore desires is a better expression of love than jealously guarding their choices. I could go on – I’ll do a philosophical defense of polyamory some other day. What matters here is that, even as I moped around groaning like a wounded animal, I felt as sure as ever that polyamory is right for me.

Someone gave me a great piece of advice: don’t treat your emotions like a separate thing, to be ignored when they don’t mesh with your ideals. Listen to them. If they’re there, they’re a symptom of something.

Immediately, I realized that I was scared of doing this. If I gave my emotions voice, and they continued to bitch and moan about polyamory, polyamory might not work out. I didn’t want that. But I gave it a shot anyway. I looked. I set time aside to get high and do nothing other than feel what I felt.

I cried. A lot. It was messy. I saw that all this awful feeling was coming from insecurities that I had no idea I had. Essentially, I’d felt that I had something of a hold on Natasha. She was relatively inexperienced sexually and romantically. Yes, of course she loved me. But if she tried out enough other people, she might realize I’m not as hot shit as I pretend to be. My spell over her would break. She might find something better and leave.

Then there were the insecurities Smashblart specifically brought out. Natasha said he was smart. I’m fucking smart. No one takes that away from me. That’s my thing, the one quality I can rely on to get me praise, affection, and back pats.

He also had qualities I didn’t have. He’s older. He has money. He’s got status, glamor. When it comes to those things, I have nothing. I was brought back to being 14 and being ashamed of how poor my family was. I felt so uncomfortable going to friends’ houses, because they were so big and elegant. I never invited friends to my place. I didn’t want them to know what my home looked like compared to theirs. Here I was, still that kid ashamed of my class and status.

Now, here’s the thing. There’s a reason I, now as an adult, still don’t have money and status. I haven’t prioritized those things. If I wanted to be rich by now, I could have done so. But I very consciously decided that that wasn’t as important to me as other things. I chose – against the advice of many people – to pursue a life where my main focuses were spiritual and intellectual growth, storytelling craft, and relationships. When it comes to those things, I’m a rock star. So if I don’t have what Smashblart has, it’s because I have specifically rejected those things in favor of others.

Even so, I lived my life like I was deficient, without even realizing it. Until Smashblart showed it to me.


These realizations weren’t as neat as that one day. It took a little bit. There was one hilarious night I’ll never forget. Natasha said she’d be going out with Smashblart after work. I went to sleep at about 8pm, so as to not have to feel awful imagining her out with him. Around 10pm, I woke up. Couldn’t get back to bed. I tried to take my mind off things by reading about ancient Greek skepticism. That worked for a few hours, but by the time 1am came around, I was livid. How could she do this? Why didn’t she text me to let me know she’d be coming home so late? If she was staying out this late, she was obviously having sex with the guy. We agreed that she would tell me before having sex. I couldn’t take it. I went out “for a quick walk” to calm my nerves.

Two and half hours later, I had walked from E 110th St. to E 7th St. (even if you don’t know New York, you know how to count). Of course, I could have texted her and asked what was up. But I wasn’t going to text first. We were playing a game, and I wasn’t going to lose it. I got drunk in a bar by myself while cool single people around me flirted with each other. You can imagine the scene.

She hadn’t had sex with Smashblart. She’d only gotten off work around midnight. Her sister (who lives with us) had told her that I had gone to sleep early. Since she’d figured I was asleep, she hadn’t bothered to text me.

That night wasn’t pleasant. The day I spent high by myself crying wasn’t pleasant. But they were incredibly effective. They brought submerged insecurities to the surface and shoved them in my face. I got to see them for what they are. And, through seeing them, I got to see my own power. I got to see that I am exactly whom I have designed myself to be.

Not long after, Natasha told me she was planning to finally have sex with Smashblart. Some friends of mine asked how I was going to handle it. I said that, well, it probably wouldn’t feel good, but I’d survive. One of them – god bless him – said that that was not good enough. If I was serious about overcoming these insecurities, I shouldn’t have a problem with it at all. I realized he was right. I promised a bunch of my friends and Natasha that I would “enjoy Natasha having sex with Smashblart more than Natasha or Smashblart enjoy it.”

I succeeded. I could tell you how I managed that, but I don’t write erotica.


Want to see insecurities you don’t even know you have? Want the opportunity to confront them, wrestle with them, and come out incredibly empowered? Get your significant other a Smashblart. I, for one, can’t wait for Natasha’s next.

Okay, fine. I’m slightly overselling it. I can wait. But still. Smashblarts are cool.

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