Catch up on a full year in the life of Zara HERE.
Saturday, 10 p.m.
“Yes.”
Did I really just say that? I did.
Because it’s true. I’m ready to try an extremely new-to-me type of relationship: a committed but non-monogamous one.
Last week, my former ex James (for me, he’s that ex, the one you never quite forget) asked if I’d be down for an open partnership, meaning we’d be together when we’re together but have complete freedom to sleep with other people when we’re not. Now I’m standing in the doorway of his loft with my answer and, so far, it’s going...well. He unzips my dress and starts kissing my breasts and biting my nipples before lifting me onto his countertop and licking down my body from breast to clit. He feels how wet I am and slides into me as I arch my back.
I have a split-second “What have I done?” moment, but as James maintains his steady rhythm, I realize I have no regrets. This just feels right.
Six Weeks Later
James and I have been seeing each other consistently—and it’s been amazing. When I’m not with him, I’m surprisingly unbothered by what (or rather, who) he’s doing. On my end, I haven’t had time to go out with anyone else yet. My recent promotion has me working 12-hour days. But the more stressed I am, the hornier I am. So being able to sometimes work from James’s apartment has its advantages. We sit side by side, take a sex break, then get back to it.
Now, though, I’m about to bounce between a wedding in Mexico, visiting family in Miami, and my 30th birthday party back in NYC. It’s probably the perfect time to test out being “open.”
Friday, 2 a.m.
Six of us wedding guests are playing Never Have I Ever in a tiny Jacuzzi at the resort. This guy Andrew has his arm around my waist and invites me to his private villa for a drink. It seems more appealing than heading back to the casita I’m squeezing into with three other girls. Andrew and I hooked up last summer in New York, and it was fine but not memorable enough to make it into this column. Second time’s the charm?
Honestly, though, I don’t need revelatory sex right now; I’ve been awake for 17 hours. Five hot minutes would be just fine. Yet here I am, folded into a goddamn pretzel while this man inserts his dick, removes it, inserts it, removes it. This is his favorite position. “Are you close?” I ask. “Are you asking me to cum faster?” Andrew replies, positively shocked. “No girl has ever asked me that.” He continues at the same tempo.
I rarely side against women, but in this case, y’all lied to this man. And my quickly drying vagina is paying the price. Fortunately for me, he finally takes it out for the last time. Unfortunately for me, he aims a little too high and squirts...right into my eye.
Friday, 6 p.m.
I meet Amber, a gorgeous brunette, at the rehearsal dinner, and we vibe immediately. She even invites me to go on a spiritual retreat with her in Costa Rica. But halfway through a discussion of New Moon manifestations, she changes topics. “Hey, I slept with Andrew a while ago. I know you hooked up with him last night, but I felt you needed to know.” Ugh, readers, we were so close to passing the Bechdel test. But now I’m confused: Is she re-staking her claim to his dick? Or is she respecting the fact that said dick was literally inside me this morning? The more she talks about Andrew, the clearer it is I stole her wedding sex.
Friday, 11 p.m.
“You look beautiful,” Andrew whispers in my ear at the bar before inviting me back to his again. He and Amber have hardly interacted, so I’m getting the impression that whatever she’d hoped would happen isn’t going to. I decide it’s worth giving him another chance, and this time, we hit a great rhythm.
“Oh my god. Don’t stop,” I instruct. “I’m seconds away. Right there. Don’t move....” He moves. He’s too drunk to finish. I don’t feel bad for him, especially as he starts to doze off. “Do you have face wash?” I ask. I’m not expecting a full 10-step regimen, but I do feel a cleanser and moisturizer are called for by a man’s late 20s. “Nah, I just use water,” he mumbles. Of course.
Andrew wakes me up the next morning with gentle kisses. Looking at the spectacular ocean view, I find myself wishing I were sharing it with James.
Saturday, 7 p.m.
After the ceremony, I’m on the dance floor having the time of my life, when I notice Amber wearing—I kid you not—a snake-embellished gown. She slithers up to Andrew. They’re inseparable until the after-party, when Andrew drunkenly stumbles over to me. “Are you staying with me tonight?” he asks, slurring his words. “Ha, no thanks!” I laugh. Amber, this mess is all yours.
Sunday, 4 p.m.
I’m on the plane home. “Dinner Tuesday? I made a reservation at that Italian spot near you,” James texts. I’ve missed him a lot.
“Yes! Can’t wait!”
I pick up my phone a few hours later and see another text, but...holy shit. It’s from Sean? “If I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently. I made the biggest mistake of my life letting you go. Can we get a drink and talk?” At least he and I agree on one thing: Breaking up with me because I had the audacity to joke about a sex toy on TikTok and didn’t align with his “traditional values” was a very dumb move. But...is this for real?
Thursday, 6 p.m.
This is the first time Sean and I have seen each other in six months. “We’ll keep things platonic,” I tell myself. But I forgot how mesmerizing his eyes are. I’m blabbering away, when he suddenly leans in and kisses me, literally kissing the words right out of my mouth.
“Your timing is terrible,” I say. “I’m back with my ex. It’s open...but we’re together.” Surprisingly, Mr. Traditional isn’t fazed. “I know I messed up, and I’ll do whatever it takes to win you back,” he says. Fuck. I finally understand how people on The Bachelor are like, “I love two people.”
Tuesday, 8 p.m.
Miami. My mind is racing. Sean? Or James? I can’t see both. Sean prioritizes monogamy above all else, and a deeply emotional relationship would violate my agreement with James...at least I think it would? I’m realizing that perhaps we should have set more specific rules.
A text: “Hey! Would love to see you.” Guillermo is a sexy, successful angel investor based down here. We dated on and off years ago but have remained friends and chat every few months. He often brings me along to work dinners when I’m in town, and I actually have a business idea I want to pick his brain about.
We meet up at a bar and barely get through a superficial catch-up before he interrupts me.
“Zara, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” He grabs my hand. “You’re brilliant. You’re gorgeous. You have a fiery personality. There’s no one like you.” Where is this speech going? “You’re the woman I’ve always wanted to be with. I’m in love with you.” He lowers one knee to the ground. “Marry me?” Fuuuck. “Say yes. We can pick out the largest ring you can find.” I know he’s completely serious, and part of me finds this spontaneous proposal weirdly endearing. I manage to leave his place the next day without saying yes or no.
Friday, 7 p.m.
It’s my 30th birthday party and the theme is Disco Barbie. I’m in a low-cut pink velvet suit. There are big, bright-pink balloons and Barbie dream cars I found on Amazon filled with candy. The night is full with electric energy—I’m surrounded by 30 of my closest people and feeling deeply loved as we dance the night away.
Growing up, I always pictured I’d hit 30 having achieved stability, monogamy, and probably kids. Instead, I’m kicking off the next decade with Mamma Mia–level chaos: an open relationship with one ex, another trying to get me back, and a third who just proposed. How do I navigate this? What will I do? Friends, your guess is as good as mine. This must be what they meant by “30, flirty, and thriving.”
*As always, all names have been changed.
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Zara Field is a 29-year-old single New Yorker and is Cosmo’s resident dating diarist, chronicling her adventures in finding love…or something like it. (*And no, Zara Field is not her *real* name.)
