6 Skills Every Introvert Should Cultivate

Kate Sloan

Any fellow introverts in the house? I bet there are…

Jung defined an introvert as someone who is more energized by the internal world than the external one. That is to say, an introvert expends energy when they have to deal with external things, like other people and attending events, and recharges their energy when they can return to the internal, by spending time alone and on introspective activities.

This is the definition I lean on when people seem surprised I identify as an introvert. Sure, I can be gregarious and chipper at a party; sure, I talk about my sex life on the internet; sure, you may not think of me as “shy” (although I certainly am that, too) – but setting all that aside, I expend my energy when I go outside of myself, and I replenish it when I turn inward and shut out the rest of the world for a while. It’s that simple.

In recent years, I’ve come to accept my introverted identity more and more, by reading books like Quiet and The Introvert’s Way. I’ve developed a skillset – not perfectly, you understand, but I’m working on it – that I think every introvert needs to master if they’re going to live a happy, healthy life that respects their temperament. Here are some skills I think are crucial for us inward-turning types…

Boundary-setting. This is important for everyone, and I use it to manage my energy levels all the damn time. If you’re not feelin’ a party but could do a one-on-one hang, request a coffee-date raincheck the next time a pal invites you to a rager. If you did an extroverty thing last time you saw your best friend, maybe they’d be up for a quiet art-gallery crawl this time. If you know you tend to get exhausted after a few hours with a friend, tell them upfront what time you have to leave by. (It’s okay to use work or sleepiness as an excuse, although I hope your friends are understanding enough that you don’t have to do that.)

Nowadays I’ll usually set a time constraint before I go to anything – “I have to leave by 11 because I have work in the morning,” “I’m gonna take off by 10 because I’ve been working all day and I’m pretty tired,” or even something as simple as “I can stay a couple hours!” without providing any additional details. These boundaries will leave your friends less confused and will make you look and feel like less of an asshole if you have to peace out in the middle of a party.

The art of the self-date. Some introverts are ride-or-die for their beds or bedrooms, as am I, but often I want to take myself out, too. I used to be terrified to do this – I worried people would judge me for being alone at locations frequented by pairs or groups – but after a while, I realized no one really pays that much attention to strangers. Fun fact: Julia Cameron calls these solo outings “artist dates” and says they’re vital to the creative process!

Some examples of self-dates: Go see a movie you’re interested in. Take your journal to a cocktail bar. Read a book on the patio of your favorite restaurant. Peruse a museum or gallery. Visit a bookstore, art supply store, or crystals shop. Treat yourself to a massage, mani-pedi, or facial. Sit on a blanket and people-watch in a park. Take your camera someplace pretty and snap some shots. Drop by a farmer’s market for ingredients and then make yourself a lovely meal. Hole up in the library for a while. Explore a public building you’ve never been in before. Go on a walking tour of local public art. Search on Yelp or Foursquare for a well-reviewed café/bar/restaurant in your area and go check it out. Get a rush ticket to the theatre. Go see an improv/sketch/stand-up show at your local comedy venue. Find an open mic to attend. Drop by a live jazz venue for an evening. Paint some pottery. Take a long walk while listening to your favorite podcast or audiobook. Bike to the beach. Find a balcony or rooftop to sit on with a nice cold drink.

Connecting and compromising with extroverts. This is easiest when the extroverts in your life are well-versed in the concept of introversion (I’m lucky that most of my favorite ones are!). For me, the most important parts of relating to extroverts have been 1) figuring out how to communicate about my mental/emotional energy limitations without hurting their feelings and 2) each of us compromising sometimes. #1 is easy enough: I’ll explain the Jungian concept of introversion outlined above if the person I’m talking to is unaware of it, and I’ll try to figure out what I need at any given time and ask for it specifically (“Can we just be quiet for a while?” “I need some downtime tonight, but I’d love to see you tomorrow!” “I have the energy to watch a silly comedy with you but not to go out to a party”). If necessary, I’ll remind them that it’s nothing personal, and that my issue isn’t with them but with my own energy levels.

The compromise piece can be a little harder, because it requires creative solutions (e.g. “Sure, we can go to your friend’s party, but I’m pretty tired so I might disappear onto the balcony to scroll my Twitter timeline for a few minutes here and there,” or, “Yeah, let’s go to your super-loud favorite restaurant! As long as we can sit in a booth in the back and have a nice focused one-on-one chat”). As is the nature of compromise, there will be times when you agree to do things you don’t strictly want to do. But if your favorite extrovert can snuggle up with you on the couch and silently watch your favorite show with you one night, you can probably bring yourself to accompany them to their chatty happy-hour function another night. Maybe you’ll just let them do most of the talking while you hang back and gaze admiringly at them. And hey, it’s more than okay if you duck out early and they stay another hour to meet a few more people, so long as you’re both okay with that arrangement.

Setting realistic expectations for yourself. I have so often fallen into the trap of shaming myself for not being more social than I am. Feeling suddenly embarrassed about my barren social calendar, I’ll pack back-to-back plans into my week, hoping to feel like less of a hermit/recluse/loser. But I always end up miserable when I do this, wishing halfway through my second or third consecutive Big Night Out that I was in bed with a book instead.

If you haven’t already figured out your ideal ratio of social time to alone time, you should! It’s also okay if it shifts. I’m more social in the summer than in the winter, for example, but not by a lot.

Paying attention to your energy levels over time – and perhaps even tracking them, in a journal or an app (my partner recommends Gyroscope or Day One) or however you prefer – can help teach you what tends to drain you dry and what tends to feel okay for you. For example, I used to sometimes double-book myself – “I’ll go to this family function and then drop by my friend’s birthday party across town!” I’d posit, ambitiously – but now I know that one Social Thing per day is pretty much my maximum; maybe two if they’re spaced out and I can get some downtime in between. It’s nice to know that about myself and be able to make plans accordingly!

Tapping out. Sometimes you think you’re gonna be okay at a social event, but then you spend a little while there and realize you’re… not. It’s awkward to leave before it’s socially acceptable to do so, but there are ways to do it smoothly and politely. I usually fall back on “tired” as my adjective of choice when doing this – it’s true, though most people tend to assume I’m tired in the “didn’t get enough sleep” way, which we for some reason see as a more legitimate excuse than social/emotional fatigue.

As with any instance of delivering potentially upsetting news, it’s good to bookend your “I’m leaving, byeee!” with more positive declarations. For example: “This party has been really fun! I’m tired and gonna duck out early, but let’s get together again soon so we can catch up properly.” Or: “I love talking to you, but I’m just not in a good place to be social today. Can I take you out for drinks next week?” It’s important to be kind and polite whenever you can – and you usually can.

Recharging efficiently and well. Taking introverty time to yourself is pointless if you don’t actually use it to replenish yourself and make yourself feel good. That’s the whole reason you’re doing it, so might as well do it right!

While sometimes my idea of introverting is mindlessly scrolling my Twitter timeline in silence for half an hour, generally I find that social media drains me instead of filling me up. As resistant as I may be to putting my phone down, sometimes that’s what I have to do if I want to recharge properly. There are few sweeter gifts I can give myself than an hour with my phone on airplane mode and my nose in a book (or my journal, or pressed into my pillow as I lie in bed in thoughtful silence). The more fully I revitalize myself during my time alone, the more kindness and exuberance I have to offer my friends, family, and partners when I spend time with them again. So I owe it to myself and to them to take good care of myself!

Introverts: what are your best tips for setting boundaries, connecting meaningfully with extroverts, respecting your introverted nature, and replenishing your social energy?

Long-Time Listener, First-Time Collar

Kate Sloan

I didn’t want to buy my own collar. I was a single submissive, unowned, unneeded, and unmoored. As much as I might want a band of evocative leather around my throat, buying one seemed as gauche as buying one’s own engagement ring before even meeting a person one would like to marry. But I wanted one nonetheless. (A collar, that is; not an engagement ring. Although, for some kinksters, that’s a distinction without a difference.)

My best friend Bex bought me my first collar. They presented it to me on my 24th birthday, in the front seat of their car, while we zoomed from Pennsylvania to Wisconsin on the middle leg of a road trip. It was exactly perfect: the Aslan Leather Nicki collar, made of berry-pink leather banded with black.

I gasped. I cried. “I can be my own daddy,” I mused, clutching the leather to my chest.

“Exactly,” Bex said, and I knew they understood me more deeply than any best friend I’d ever had.

Later that day, somewhere in Cleveland, we pulled over on a side street and got out to go scavenge for lunch. “Do I have to take my collar off because we’re going to be around vanilla people?” I asked, tugging self-consciously on the metal ring at my throat.

“No,” Bex said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, little one.”

We strolled along that sunny side street and our glamorous friend C. added, “If anybody catcalls you or says anything about your collar, I’ll hit them with my parasol.” Thankfully, they didn’t have to.

Sometimes you don’t know how badly you want something until you almost-but-don’t-quite get it.

My first daddy dom told me five days after we met that he was available to be the primary partner I wanted, then told me weeks later, by which time he was juggling three partners, “I don’t remember saying that, and I don’t think I would have said that.” He promised to turn an old telephone table into a spanking bench painted my favorite colors, but only got as far as sanding before giving up on the project and on me. His idea of love and care was “I thought about bringing you chocolate, but I ran out of time.” “I almost texted you, but then I got distracted.” “Really? Did I say that? That doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he promised to make me a collar and that never happened either.

I was so excited when he made this offhand vow. I went home and started Googling collar pictures: collars with chainmail, collars with filigree, collars with hearts. I wanted one with a heart, I knew. There was never any question in my mind.

There was never any question, either, about whether he was the right person to put my first capital-C Collar on me, the first person to have that degree of power over me. “Fuuuck,” I wrote in my journal. “How have I known this person less than two weeks and already I want him to own me?” He wasn’t even “boyfriend” yet and already I wanted him to be Daddy, Sir, owner. How like me, to give my heart away with the force and velocity of a six-year-old playing a game of Hot Potato.

One hot July night, he cancelled our plans to go to Tell Me Something Good together at the last minute, playing the “tired” card – another broken promise – so I went with a gaggle of pals instead. I got up and told the crowd a story about a spanking gone awry, and garnered scores high enough to win a prize at the end of the night. My eyes swept across the prize table, trying to select my reward, when I saw it: a silver heart-shaped padlock, glittering with rhinestones. I seized it in my eager paws, daydreaming already of the chain he would thread it onto, the words he would say as he clasped it around my neck.

The next time I saw him, I intoned modestly, “I’ve got something to show you,” and produced the lock from a drawer. I thought he’d know immediately what it was for, but instead he just looked at me quizzically. “It’s pretty,” I think he said, unsure what I was getting at.

“I thought you could use it when you make my collar!” I finally explained – and even then, his eyes did not light up. I wonder now if he’d changed his mind about wanting to own me; if perhaps I had already lost my lustre, the way shiny new possessions inevitably, eventually do.

He ended our relationship two weeks later. For months, I couldn’t look at that heart-shaped lock without comparing it to my own heart: given unreservedly but unwanted; relegated to a sad, dusty drawer.

In December of that year, I met a boy in New York. Nine days later, I was calling him “Sir” and asking him which collar I should wear to the theatre. What can I say; when I fall, I fall fast. It’s a character flaw. Or maybe a superpower.

I texted him a selfie from my seat in the Young Centre, my hair tumbling over the turquoise suede he’d told me to wear. “Hiding your collar!” he replied immediately, to which I retorted – drunk on one beer and new-relationship adrenaline – “It’s there, I promise. Reminding me of whose I am.”

Alarm bells sounded in my head even as I typed the words. Too fast too soon too much. Remember last time? But I wanted the risk, the rush. I wanted to believe.

“Fuckkkk. That ownership language makes me feel very fucking special,” he thumbed back in a blur, and I felt the internal stirring and whirring of a hope blossoming into a wish.

He asked me to wear the turquoise choker again the following day. I did, to a nearby café, pulling nervously at it the whole block-long walk. “Maybe next time I see you in person, we should go buy a collar together,” I suggested. A test. A dare. I didn’t want us to keep using collars I already owned as symbols of our burgeoning power dynamic; they made me feel dirty with past associations, like going on a first date wearing an ex’s sweater that still smells of heartbreak.

“What makes you think I won’t have one in my hand?” he replied. I nearly dropped my phone on the icy sidewalk. Too fast too soon too much, I thought again. And also: I want more.

Sex nerds, kink nerds, and psychology nerds all like to talk about their intentions and motivations. Both of us are all three. We talked a lot.

“What does a collar mean to you?” one of us asked the other, and we each threw out phrase after phrase, “yes” after “yes,” ascending a tower of assent. It’s an intensifier. A motivator. Ownership. Affection. Pride. A solidification, a sign of safety, of commitment. (We weren’t even ready to call each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” – and yet. Love is absurd.)

I listened to him over the phone while he made the purchase: a royal blue suede collar we’d chosen together. We giggled resolutely, and then I heard nervousness creep into his voice. “I want to make explicit,” he began, wavering, “that I don’t want you to wear it with anyone else.”

It had never occurred to me to wear it with anyone else. It was his collar. His gift to me, and mine to him. His symbolic hand wrapped around my throat. I’m staunchly non-monogamous, so there are times when my lips and my cunt and my submission are for other people. But that collar was not for other people. Only for him.

We wrote the rules of the collar together, in our shared note of protocols entitled “Sir and little one.” There are only a few rules, but each is important.

  1. Whenever Sir and little one are together, he will collar her. She will not use their collar with anyone else, put it on without being ordered to by Sir, or allow anyone else to touch it.
  2. When ordered to wear her collar, little one must continue wearing it until she completes any assigned tasks or work and receives permission to remove it.
  3. Little one may temporarily remove her collar without permission if necessary to protect herself or the collar.

I swooned as he drafted the phrasing for each decree. The care and love he poured into this exercise – even before we were calling this thing between us “love” – was so evident, so huge. No romantic symbol can really mean anything unless you’re certain it means the same thing to both of you – and I knew that this one did. It was as clear as the words in our respective Notes apps, black text on a backlit screen.

He put it around my neck on a February night – the same night he kissed me in the lineup outside Brooklyn Steel, and danced with me to my favorite band, and told me he loved me for the first time. Every time he looked at me, all night, his eyes dipped to the collar around my neck, then narrowed as his expression hardened into what I can only call “the dom face.” Every dom has one. His makes me shiver and bite my lip.

He would get distracted and trail off mid-sentence when his eyes caught on the collar. “Sorry, it just… looks really good on you,” he attempted to explain each time. He meant, I knew, not so much that the collar looked good on me but that submission did. Being small and compliant looked good on me. Being his looked good on me.

We’ve talked a lot about our collar since before we even picked it out, and we still talk about it. What it means. When I should and shouldn’t wear it. What we would do if I dropped it down a subway grate by accident. What we would do if we broke up.

There’s a lot in this world of which I’m uncertain, and a lot that frightens me in its uncertainty. But this collar – for all the time I spent hoping for it and wishing for it – feels certain to me, fixed, decided. I know what it means; my love and I swing this shared meaning between us like a tether.

If I can’t know anything else for sure in this world, at least I can know that I’m owned by someone who loves me; that he loves me enough to have put a piece of sacred suede around my neck; that he loves me enough to go all dark-eyed and dom-faced whenever he looks at the collar that means I’m his.

Behind the Seams: Red Flowers & Pink Bows

Kate Sloan

May 29th, 2018. I wore this out to a café to do a bunch of dayjob work, and then to a ServiceOntario office to get my health card renewed. Sometimes I like to dress cute on days that are utterly unglamorous, just to infuse a little je ne sais quoi into the banality of the day-to-day. I also feel like I usually get better service wherever I go when I’m dressed nicely and have lipstick on… which is problematic from a classism perspective, but good to know…

I’d been inexplicably anxious about getting my health card renewed, because bureaucracy is nerves-inducing even for folks who don’t have an anxiety disorder – so when I got it all done, my Sir texted me, “You did it!!!!! Proud of you” (so many exclamation points!!) and sent me a video of him winking as a reward. I am so #blessed.

On an unrelated note: I love this dress, partly because I once wore it on a second date with a cute lawyer that ended in alleyway makeouts so mesmerizing, I walked home with wet thighs. I wonder what ever happened to that guy…

What I’m wearing:
• Sunglasses – the hotel gift shop at last year’s Woodhull
• Red floral-print dress – H&M ($15!!)
• Maybelline Matte Ink liquid lipstick in “Pioneer”
• Bright turquoise Coach turnlock tote (stuffed, as per usual, with my laptop, journal, Kindle, wallet, chargers, makeup bag, keys, gum, and various other necessities)
• Red and black striped socks – the Gap
• Black leather Frye harness boots

May 31st, 2018. When I went to see my tattoo artist, Laura, to get my floral upper-arm piece done, she mentioned that she’d be willing to give me a free touch-up on the pink bows she’d put on my thighs almost two years earlier. What an absolute sweetheart! I was grateful, because, while my thigh tattoos are probably my favorite tattoos I have (shh, don’t tell the others!), there were a few patchy or faded spots, and I was thrilled to have the chance to get them fixed.

Earlier in the day, I went to a café to get some work done, wearing my collar and my medium Pure Plug as per my Sir’s instructions. He texted me, by way of explanation, “I really want to be inside you and around you and in control of you today. I want you to be as mine as you can be from a distance.” Not that he really needed to explain himself… In any case, it put me in a submissive headspace that fit well with getting my “good girl” tattoos touched up with a painful needle later on! (Before you ask: no, I did not wear the plug to the tattoo parlor!)

The touch-up itself was pretty painful, and took longer than I was expecting: about an hour, because Laura is a perfectionist (an excellent quality in a tattoo artist!). But I got through it just fine, and now my li’l pink bows look much better!

What I’m wearing:
• Hair in little pigtail-buns
• Blue suede collar – L’Amour-Propre
• Green tank top – American Apparel (I wore this a ton last summer, including, most memorably, during a breakup)
• Black multi-tiered skirt – thrifted in ~2008 (and I’m still wearing it all these years later because a good, basic, versatile black skirt is essential!)
• Green and black striped socks – the Gap
• Black leather Frye harness boots

June 10th, 2018. I’m bad at taking weekends off. That’s just #FreelancerProblems, I guess: when you’re (mostly) your own boss, get to set your own hours, and know that working harder = making more money, sometimes it’s hard to stop. So what was supposed to be my “nice relaxing Sunday afternoon” turned into prepping for a radio interview and then actually doing said interview, all caffeine-hyped and nervous. I think it turned out well, though!

This shirt bears the name and logo of the Wythe Hotel, the beautiful boutique hotel where my boyfriend told me he loved me on our third date. (No-chill nerds 5ever!) I ordered it on a whim, craving a memento of that night (I mean, aside from the postcard and coaster I’d already pilfered from our hotel room), and I’ve been wearing it a lot. It’s super soft and comfy and reminds me of how happy I was that night in February, and how happy I’ve been since.

What I’m wearing:
• Sunglasses – hotel gift shop in Alexandria
• Wythe Hotel T-shirt (they also make one in white but I think navy was the right call for me)
• Tiny black denim shorts – H&M
• Black leather Frye harness boots
• Hot pink Kate Spade New Bond Street Florence satchel (Kate had passed away earlier that week so it seemed right to pull out this old fave again, in tribute to the whimsy and color she brought into this world)

What are you wearing and loving lately?

Why Sex Writing Matters Right Now

Kate Sloan
Moleskine notebooks, a Seven-Year Pen, and a Feminist Killjoy sticker

Every morning that I wake up and read the news (or Twitter), I ask myself: why am I still doing what I’m doing?

In the face of all that’s going on, sometimes it seems pointless to write about sex toys, kink, lipstick, and dating. Why would anyone want to write, or read, about a comparatively frivolous and small-scale issue like sex, in a world that feels like it’s crumbling around us?

Answer: sex isn’t frivolous or small-scale.

Here’s why sex writing matters, even now, even still.

 

Because people are still having sex. There will always be people having sex. Those people need to know how to have sex safely, ethically, and pleasurably.

Because sex education is being stripped left and right. Kids, teens, and even adults need and deserve accurate, sensitive, non-stigmatizing information about sex.

Because if you understand how sex functions in our culture, you understand a lot about gender dynamics and gender politics. We need a better understanding of those things in order to reduce violence and encourage social harmony.

Because sex work is still devalued in our culture and sex workers are still treated terribly. They deserve better and the world deserves to know that and understand that.

Because rape and sexual harassment are still rampant issues, have been forever, and will continue to be. We can partly combat this epidemic by talking about what consent means, shaming abusers, and showing the world we will not stand for sexually exploitative behavior.

Because sexual entitlement and bitter misogyny still fuel horrible crimes. Good sex writing can help humanize us to each other and demonstrate that sex is not an owed commodity but, instead, an earned collaboration.

Because they’re trying to take our reproductive rights away from us. Again. It hasn’t been okay any of the previous times they did it, and it’s not okay now.

Because abusers still throw kinky people under the bus, making us feel stigmatized, freakish, and alone. We have felt that way for a long time. Enough is enough.

Because when you’re mired in sexual shame – shame about deep, unchangeable parts of you – you have less emotional energy for other things that matter, including political activism, charitable work, and sustaining the relationships that keep you afloat.

Because queer people and trans people are still vulnerable, still scared, and their stories still matter. Telling those stories is one way to convince the world, slowly but surely, that they do indeed matter.

Because pleasure – especially the pleasure of marginalized people – is transgressive. It has been denied from us for far too long, and we deserve far more of it.

Because asexuality is still erased, misunderstood, and sometimes used as “justification” for assault. This cannot be allowed to continue, and better education (including writing on asexuality) can help reduce these effects.

Because one of our most powerful world leaders right now is an admitted sexual abuser and not nearly enough people seem to know or care about this.

Because making art, and consuming art, can be a welcome respite from this cruel world, and can feel motivating when motivation is in short supply.

Because content creators still need and deserve to make money. Capitalism, unfortunately, doesn’t break down just because lots of other things are.

Because the better we understand ourselves – including our sexuality – the better we can harness our skills and talents to fight the powers that be.

Because distraction can be self-care, used sparingly, and maybe your diversion of choice is reading about other people’s sex lives and romances. That is fine. Welcome. I’m glad you’re here.

Because sex is a unifying experience for much of humankind, and we need to feel united and connected now more than ever.

Because pleasure is still a worthwhile pursuit – even if the world is burning, even if systems are breaking down and people are suffering. Sometimes you need a dose of pleasure to replenish your strength so you can get back out there and keep doing the work.

Because sex can be romantic, and kink can be connective, and the world needs less fear, less anger, and more love.

Because good sex writing, like all good literature, encourages empathy – something our current world is sorely lacking. We’ll need empathy, every one of us, for whatever happens next.

 

Why does sex writing matter to you? Even now, even still? And what else are you doing to cope in these trying times?

P.S. Looking for some great sex writing? Try these sites (listed alphabetically): Ace in the Hole, Bex Talks Sex, Coffee & Kink, Dangerous Lilly, Dildo or Dildon’t, the Dirty Normal, Feisty Fox Films, Formidable Femme, Girl on the Net, Hey Epiphora, Mx Nillin, Poly Role Models, Red Hot Suz, the Redhead Bedhead, Sexational, Squeaky Bedsprings, Sugarcunt Writes.

10 Thoughts On a Long-Term Relationship Out of Left Field

Kate Sloan

1. I thought no one would ever love me this much again. I don’t know quite when or how I picked up this belief; 4 years ago I was deeply entangled with my last long-term love and I recall feeling rock-solid in that union, unshaken and unshakeable. Where did that strong girl go?

She was beaten down by all the rejections and breakups and disappointments, I suppose. Hammered into a smaller shape to account for the smaller and smaller spaces her partners made for her in their lives. I learned to believe, at some core level, slow to shift and hard to change, that big love wasn’t for me. That maybe all my big loves had happened to me already.

But then a new big love crashes into me like a wave and I think, Well, shit. I guess this is happening.

2. The beginning of our relationship contains many themes, patterns, traditions. One is this: I express fear he will leave. He assures me he has no intention to. I don’t believe him. He keeps right on assuring me.

The trouble with these sorts of assurances is that they guarantee nothing. My last boyfriend thought we’d be together for a few years, and then – 3 months in – may as well have said, “Oops, never mind. Joke’s on you.” This is what I meant when I wrote in my journal that I’d never trust anyone again after him: the sturdiest of words can crumble in an instant when their foundation does. There are no sure things.

But there are safe bets. And there are precautions. Instead of telling me he won’t break up with me – which even he knows he cannot entirely guarantee – my new love tells me, “If I did, here’s what I would say.” “Here’s what I would do.” “Here’s what I would try before I resorted to that.” Somehow, it makes me feel better – like when someone soothes my anxiety-ridden heart not by saying, “We won’t be late to the movie,” but by saying, “If we are late to the movie, here’s another theatre we can try, here’s a different movie we can see, and here’s a bar nearby where we can go instead if all else fails.” I like backup plans. I like knowing what those backup plans are.

3. Useful skills in short-term relationships (an abridged list): Flirting. Fucking. Negotiating sex. Making plans on a whim. Putting words to your new feelings, but having the self-control to keep those words to yourself when it’s not time for them yet. Taking cute coupley selfies. Pitching fun date ideas you think will make you seem interesting and cool. Maintaining the illusion of chillness, even to your own detriment. Keeping your body well-groomed, like a sexy cyborg. Telling friends about the latest dramatic development in your romance. Fantasizing too far forward into the future and feeling like an idiot about it. Mitigating disappointment. Saying, “Don’t worry about it, that’s totally fine!” when it totally isn’t.

Useful skills in long-term relationships (a list in progress): Talking about your feelings. Saying you’re sorry. Getting knee-deep in the daily dramas of someone else’s life, and keeping them up to speed on your own. Shouldering their burdens, and letting them shoulder yours. Asking for what you actually want, not just what you think it’s “okay” or “cool” to want. Talking about your feelings some more. Letting another human see what you’re really like when you’re sick, sad, unshowered, or all of the above. Believing they still want you after all that. Finding that you still want them, too.

4. My early-relationship anxieties are predictable as hell: He’s going to break up with me. He doesn’t like me as much as I like him. I’m too clingy. I’m too much. I’m making a fool of myself.

The timbre of my anxieties shifts as time goes on and I trust him more. They’re less pressing, but they also get darker: I don’t have what it takes to love someone well for a long time. We’re barrelling toward disaster, whether we know it or not. My past relationships failed because of some fundamental flaw in me, that he simply has yet to discover.

One night, I tell him, as I have many times before, “I’m worried I’m not good enough for you” – and he says: “‘Good enough’ doesn’t really compute to me. That’s not how or why I get into relationships with people or stay in them. I love you and I want to be with you. That means even if we are bad at something for a while, I want to figure it out and get better at it if we can. It’s not about you being good enough; it’s about whether we make each other happy and better.”

Floored, I splutter, “Most of the people I’ve dated have not looked at it that way,” and he writes back with utmost calm, “Yeah, that’s sad for them. But we’re not them.” I shiver like a leaf on the breeze but I feel stronger, all the same.

5. It occurs to me one afternoon, as I’m staring into space on the subway, that I think of myself as someone who can’t sustain relationships, but that perception just isn’t true.

It’s true that for years, my “official” relationships – the ones with people who called me their girlfriend – have all lasted a few months or less. It’s true that several of these ended in uncomfortable breakups I wish I could have found a way to spare us.

But it’s also true that a former friend-with-benefits is now one of my dearest pals, years after meeting him. And that my current FWB has been a consistent source of carnal comfort for over a year. And that I’ve had casual beaux and “comet partners” drift in and out of my life with uncomplicated ease. And that my friend group is full of people I’ve known and loved for ages. My social life is laced with longevity that too often goes unacknowledged because I’m hung up on “official” relationships, as though romantic feelings and labels are the only markers of social validity.

This isn’t my first long-term relationship in years; it’s just the first one of this specific type. My past relationships didn’t “fail”; they just ended, often for totally legit reasons. Those endings weren’t my fault; they were just part of the dating game. You can’t win ’em all. It’d be boring if you did.

6. He sends me a link to a page which keeps track of how long we’ve been dating. I keep an eye on it steadily, getting a little teary each time one of the numbers rolls over in a significant way.

One day in March, I text him excitedly that we’ve been together for 15 weeks, and immediately regret it. What if he thinks that’s stupid? What if he doesn’t care about these mini-anniversaries like I do? What if he says, “So what?”

But instead, he writes back, “Do you feel happy and fulfilled and excited about having been in this for 15 weeks? Do you wanna do another 15?” I do. I really do. He does too.

7. When I fell in love for the first time, friends used to ask me if I thought I’d be with my boyfriend forever. I always just laughed. At age 19, I thought forever-love seemed absurd. It wasn’t what I wanted, anyway. I wanted someone who’d walk through life with me until it no longer made sense for us to be together, at which point we’d go our separate ways. That is exactly what happened.

Friends don’t ask me that anymore. I think we’ve all grown up and learned how much and how quickly we change. Instead of asking, “How long do you think you’ll be with him?” they mostly just ask me, “Does he make you happy?” The answer is “absolutely,” and that is enough. For now and for however long our future turns out to be.

8. Having dabbled in promiscuity, I’ve ultimately learned it doesn’t thrill me. Some people fuck strangers aplenty because that’s what they want; I fucked strangers aplenty because I wanted something else and thought somehow I could find it that way. (I’m not ruling out sluttiness entirely. My inner slut may well surge back to life someday – but hopefully with clearer intentions and a healthier heart.)

Sex with someone who knows you inside and out is sweet and deep and qualitatively different from more distanced dalliances. Exploring a new body is fun, but for me, it does not compare with traversing a body you know by heart. Familiar topography, beloved landmarks, and an assured sense of ease: I’ll take these over uncomfortable first-time fumblings almost any day. Good sex with a stranger is a fluke; good sex with a stable partner is a process, a journey, an art.

9. Helena Fitzgerald once wrote, “Romance is mainly a repetitive act of remembering, a shared language of reference inflated and made important because someone else remembers it along with you.” I like weaving these sturdy neural nets of inside jokes and vivid events together. I like knowing that the information I’m filing away will actually go somewhere, will actually matter and be useful, instead of being relegated to the part of my brain deadset on remembering the lyrics to “Sk8er Boi” and that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.

A couple months into our relationship, we open the Notes app on our respective devices and create a shared note containing a list of the “characters” we’ve developed in our many, many hours of phone chats. There are lots, because we’re goofs: there’s the growly-voiced guy he does when he wants to caricature his own dominance; there’s the spot-on Ira Glass impression he breaks out randomly to crack me up; there’s our imitation of a gleeful waiter who tried to sell us on fingerling potatoes during one of our fancy dinner dates. At last count, there were over a dozen characters on this list. I howl with laughter whenever I read it.

Inside jokes and other niche references are a relational currency; they can measure a connection’s duration and depth. Every time we add to our dramatis personae, or share an experience I know we’ll reference later, I feel we’ve stitched another thread between our hearts. There’s a thick rope there now – and when I tug on it, I can feel him tugging back.

10. “I am in love with who you are,” he tells me one night, “and I want to be in love with who you become.”

Ever-articulate, all I can manage in response is, “Jesus fuck. SIR!” before my eyes spill over with happy tears – salty little signals of how safe I feel.