A Middle-Aged Woman’s Diary Entry Written on the Flight Home From the 2013 Nashville Polyamory Convention, by Benji Orlansky

ImageSunday, May 12, 2013: A Farewell

Another Nashville Poly is officially “in the books” as they say. Wow–writing that really hurts, emotionally and physically due to extreme joint over-stimulation over these past few glorious days. This is Jake’s and my fourth NashPoly, and while other cities like Philadelphia, Branson, Santa Fe, and Fresno have fine, enjoyable Polyamory events, no other place includes that secret ingredient on the buffet right next to the massage oils, feather ticklers, commemorative keychains, and prophylactics: Southern hospitality. Everyone’s perfectly polite at the orgies and key parties in Fresno, but only in Nashville will the bald, tanned, Tommy Bahama-wearing Adonises pull out your chair for you the next morning at the Bottomless Mimosas and Topless Diners Brunch.

Jake and I always have such a hard time saying goodbye to our friends at these events. We just parted ways at gate B27 with the DeFlorios, a lovely couple who own a sporting goods store in Peoria and sell lockets full of semen on Etsy. We met them back in Daytona in 2005, right after their son Jeremy (who won’t let them show us pictures of him for some reason) graduated high school–truly wonderful folks. Yesterday, in between lovemaking sessions, Lawrence and Beverly showed us pictures of their trip to Australia, and between the snapshots of the Sydney Opera House, the Great Barrier Reef, and the DeFlorios having a naked rumpus with another Poly couple in front of a village of Aboriginals, I’m pretty sure Jake and I will be spending our silver anniversary “Down Under!”

I really hope that the pilot turns off the “Seatbelt” light soon. Jake got up in the middle of takeoff to go to the bathroom and last time I saw him, he was whispering “mama” over and over again into the ear of the girl in seat 17A. She may have punched him in the crotch, but it’s hard to see for sure while buckled into my seat–I do always follow the rules (except for those forced upon us by an oppressively closed-minded society). I’m sure he’s fine, but I just like to check in on my Boo.

It’s funny, because they always call Nashville the “Music City,” but during the “No Rings Allowed Freakfest Sockhop,” the only “music” they seemed to be playing was a bunch of whistles, bleeps, bloops, and something that a man in a Tommy Bahama leather mask told me was called, “The Drop.” Not exactly the Grand Ole’ Opry!

I guess it’s just back to the old grind, huh? The girls at the office are always so nice and ask how my weekend was and about all the friends Jake and I have made, but they always lose interest once I start telling them about the actual events of the weekend. Everyone wants to hear about the food and the hotel accommodations, but as soon as you bring up the fact that you didn’t shower for the two weeks leading up to NashPoly to preserve your natural essence out of respect for your new lovers, it’s, “Oh, I think I hear the fax machine. It must be jammed.”

Some people.

Some people say that traveling across the country 14 times a year for these Poly events is too expensive, too dangerous to your health, or just downright confusing for a couple of people from Delaware in their mid-50s. However, Jake reaffirmed exactly why we do this right before we boarded the plane and right after Beverly licked his septum like a lizard exploring a new section of the forest. He told me that, of all the women, men, and furnishings he made love to over the past three days, he gets to go home with the prettiest. And I’ll tell you–even after being carried on a Tommy Bahama pallet by four potbellied white gods and then teaching a nude bikram yoga class to over seven eager students, those words from my husband were the sweetest, most romantic words I heard all weekend.

And that’s why we come to Nashville every year: not just for the paddling classes, the Puppetry of the Penis shows, or the All-You-Can-Eat BBQ and Bocce night; we come here because it brings us closer together.

And to be treated like a Tommy Bahama Chinese finger trap.

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