This post is addressed to people who (a) currently live in the world of sex-positive dating, which often includes kink and polyamory, and who (b) have begun to feel that all this sex and sociality is fun, but that Romantic Love is missing, and its absence matters more and more. Hence the title: “Moving from Sex-Positive Dating to Seeking a Relationship.” 

Yes of course, those two things can be the same. It is indeed possible to keep on “playing in the scene” and eventually manage to meet somebody within it who also wants to find an enduring, central love. Sex-positive social politics: check. 

Having said that, let’s notice the equally obvious truth that living a lifestyle of erotic adventurism and searching for a Primary Partner can be two very different things. And if you think you might want to attempt a permanent monogamous commitment with somebody awesome who feels uniquely suited to your nature, then they’re very different things.

Let’s draw on Greek mythology for a moment, to explain this in a more vivid way. What you’ve been doing is sampling the erotic individuality of a large number of people, and in pagan terms (which will likely suit you better than the relatively sex-negative monotheist worldview), that’s like living in a valley presided over by Aphrodite, the Goddess of sexuality and thrilling infatuation (also known, in the poly world, as NRE, “new relationship energy”). Since you’re also prioritizing consent, Aphrodite shares the place with Artemis, protector of women and girls. Wonderful.  

But where is Hera? She’s the Goddess of marriage, of long-term reliable continuity, of compatibility and all the wisdom we only really learn by voyaging deep into that other region that includes commitment, time, aging, and death. It’s where you get to really know someone else, and be really known. So it is also the place where someone’s feelings about you mean the most, because they’re based on the fullest knowledge of what and who you actually are: they really know you, and instead of running away, or friend-zoning, or attacking… they bring you acceptance, loyalty, and desire. And they let you know them just as deeply, and if it goes well enough, the whole thing becomes gloriously mutual. Well, that’s where Hera presides; that’s her realm, located somewhere over there, beyond Field and The League and Fetlife, beyond all those apps and “play parties.”  

There are two different metaphorical voyages involved: the second voyage is the LTR (Long Term Relationship) itself. But to reach its starting point, you must make the voyage that comes first, out and away from what you’re now doing and being (the nasty term for it, if you’re a man, is “fuckboy”—but such slut-shaming is quite unnecessary, especially if your Ethical Non-Monogamy has indeed been ethical, not deceptive), and into Hera’s country, where meeting Ms-or-Mr Right becomes much more likely, for inner and outer reasons.  

This first voyage is what I’m talking about, and what makes it difficult are the uncertainty and the rejections. You don’t know how long it will take, or exactly how best to go about each particular piece of it. And each encounter has four basic possibilities: you like them and they don’t like you, which is rejection, your least favorite. Or they like you and you don’t like them, which is disappointment; better than rejection, but awkward and boring. Or neither of you is interested, which is usually a bit better still, since nobody is hurt. Or the jackpot is hit, the gimmel on the dreidl: you like each other. 

Now I’m going to say something you already know. Why? Because the point is not to convey information, but to calm the anxious part of you that dreads rejection and uncertainty. Your head might find the repetition tiresome, but your heart needs it because that’s how emotional reassurance works. Here it is: the person you’re trying to get a date with is living their own life, populated by thousands of factors and people and exes and ailments and plans that you know nothing about. They might not reject you at all, but if they do, these unknowns would probably amount to a robust explanation for why you got turned down, one that has nothing to do with your value, your game, your charisma, or your prospects for finding love and happiness. As I once said to a lonely gentleman who’d just been turned down by a lady he liked: She’s on Planet Her. 

But what if the rejection actually is about you? Well, if it’s got any hostility in it, and you didn’t do much to warrant that, then it ain’t really about you. People’s hostility discredits itself. If they’re the sort of person who would say something hurtful or aggressive just because there were no fireworks between you two, then that’s obviously somebody you don’t want to be around anyway. You “dodged a bullet.”

Between that kind of egregious static, and a better result, there is only a thin band of genuinely relevant personal criticism that is not untrue and not unkind—and therefore worth taking seriously, and difficult to hear. But that’s also the stuff you can actually learn from. For example, people need to feel heard, and listened to—especially women, whose conversational style and expectations make many of them quite sensitive to being interrupted by a man, or spoken to at length without enough turn-taking. When a man is given constructive criticism about this issue it can be quite unpleasant for him, but if he can incorporate the advice into his manner, a great deal is to be gained. “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off…”

In relationship-oriented dating, an interaction that turns out to be a rejection is a bit like a pretty tree that turns out to be one of those stinky gingkos: it’s appealing from a distance, and then, up close, you realize what it is. But remember: they are part of the native foliage of the very terrain you are trying to cross. Be glad those experiences are there, because they tell you you’re in the right region, headed in the right direction. “Where grows the danger,” wrote the poet Hölderlin, “there also grows the power of salvation.”

As the years go by, each of us builds up an ever-growing stock of memories, associations, references, songs, jokes, and anecdotes. When we tell other people any one of these for the very first time, it might indeed have quite a good effect—they laugh at your joke, or they’re gratified by your complement, or your question lands just as you intended it. The story you tell feels apt, relevant, and beneficial. Nicely done! Now, this post is about the way these bits of conversation can sometimes turn out to have a shorter shelf-life than you might assume. And while this pitfall may seem obvious, I’ve never seen anyone mention it, so here goes.  

Precisely because it was so well received the first time around, that same piece of discourse gets added into long-term storage, as part of your growing social repertoire. But it turns out that making new use of tried-and-true material years later can be a bit risky. Suppose a new situation—a meeting, a date, a party, an interview, etc.—presents itself that has some feature in common with that old one where your stored stuff worked so well. Let’s say, the joke you told two years ago amused some people from the very same overseas country to whose other citizens you’re talking now. Or you once deeply moved an elder person with a story about your childhood, and now here’s another octogenarian, so you figure the same story ought to prove just as successful today. Some feature of your audience, or of the situation, is familiar enough to trigger a specific piece of material that proved to be scintillating in the past.  

It might be just as charming or poignant now as it was back then. But think twice before you wheel it out and redeploy it. Why? Because the slightest congruity between past and present can be powerfully tempting: surely this is a chance to validate old good stuff, to prove to yourself the value of what you’ve accumulated, and to be good-with-people without having to make a renewed effort. This temptation can cause you to overlook the important new factors that distinguish this moment from its distant precursor, and these new people from the ones you knew before, and this social context from the one that’s long gone. It can make you forget what you’ve learned, even if you’ve learned it well: all the political shifts, changes in social mores, gender dynamics, and codes of interpersonal presentation that the culture has seen in the meanwhile.  Even apart from that issue of long-term cultural change, individuals are always distinct; these particular Australians are not the same ones you dealt with last week.

The old story, or joke, or comparison, might indeed be a delightful contribution once again, despite the passage of time. But very often indeed, it’s worth slowing down for a moment beforehand, to silently check-in with yourself about just how appropriate such a repetition is likely to be. The world changes every day, and each person you meet is different from the rest. You, too, have changed, and you can indeed thrive without those extra scraps of continuity you might be tempted to snatch from Time’s hand. “Be yourself” is still very good advice—but this self need not be exactly the same as yesterday’s.

Perhaps you were raised in a household with a chronically and deeply inculcated ethic of self-effacement. Perhaps people quoted to you that vexing line of scripture, Proverbs 16:18: “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” Maybe that was a gendered experience, in which girls and women were raised to people-please, as if their maternal function were the only legitimate contribution they could make to the world. Or maybe it was a message for men and boys, that male people must be regarded as toxic opportunistic jerks, until and unless they establish their own goodness through people-pleasing.   

It’s true that people-pleasing and self-effacement are much better than the opposite extreme—where narcissists act as if the world owed them everything they could ever want, going through life exploiting others by deception, cheating, and entitlement. But there is a vast, wholesome, fertile middle-ground between these extremes.  

The culture of masochistic self-effacement—particularly common in the American Midwest, but not rare elsewhere—involves an extremely important error about human nature. When you withdraw into yourself like a turtle in its shell, giving up your claim to social space, resources, and dignity, other people in general do not actually benefit. Unprincipled characters may avail themselves of your services without reciprocating; such opportunists do not generally deserve what you’re giving them. Warmer folks might welcome your generosity and actually repay you in kind, but this is actual mutual goodness—not people-pleasing. Those who have the self-confidence to meet their own needs are going to do so with or without your self-sacrifice. And those who lack that confidence may be cowed by your example and feel shamed into emulating it (especially if you are their parent).  

Here are a few analogies, since the same principle applies in many other domains. Watching an anxious, apologetic musician perform is exhausting, whereas watching a confident and relaxed performer is energizing. When a singer is tense, tentative, inhibited, and nervous, the audience is drained by the performance and waits for it to end. When the singer is calm, expansive, centered, and open, the voice fills the whole space; the improvisation is playful and fluid; and the audience is captivated in delight.

Sociality tends to work the same way. The other people around you will benefit more from your loving self-acceptance than from your self-loathing. They are more likely to flourish if you flourish, than if you sulk, stagnate, or persecute yourself.  It is not anti-social to love yourself. It is pro-social to love yourself.  

As a brilliant Chinese political philosopher, Jiwei Ci,  once observed: “In a world of perfect altruists [who only promote their neighbors’ interests, not their own], no one has any interests for his neighbor to promote.”  

This same principle also applies to dating, where there are two major ways of being beautiful. One way is to absorb the standards of beauty that are tendered to you by the media and by your peers, and shape yourself to match those ideals as closely as possible. Some people will stop at nothing in pursuit of such external notions of aesthetic self-presentation, even at great personal expense, not all of it financial. Some will even inject their own faces with botulism toxin (“Botox”)—often at such youthful ages that there are not yet any wrinkles for the procedure to erase. The price is bigger than it seems, since the deactivation of facial muscles can make the human countenance less expressive, with serious possible consequences for emotional intimacy. Other forms of body modification have their risks, too. Fasting can have health benefits, or spiritual aspects, but starving oneself in pursuit of weight loss can constitute dangerous (even fatal) disordered eating. Working out in the gym can be a great enhancer of physical and emotional health, a rewarding and challenging part of self-care, and a venue for camaraderie. But it can also be the site of an “adonis complex,” where people toil for a missing self-respect that they associate with a highly muscular physique (this is a struggle often met with in some forms of Gay men’s culture).  

Most people benefit from some moderate degree of participation in shared ideals of attractiveness, maintaining their appearance as part of the pleasure of self-care—without overdoing it, or falling prey to excessive anxiety about how they look. At that point, the other approach to beauty takes over: sheer genuine confidence. So long as I have met this basic standard of self-care, my confidence that I am beautiful—even if my beauty is unconventional—has a benign influence on the way other people perceive me. Whatever my age, gender, sexual orientation, or social position might be, my comfort within my own skin, my genuine belief that, odd or not, I am cute as hell—is itself part of the way observers see me. The visual dimension of my self-image is part of my charisma; it is self-fulfilling.  

I’ve discussed musical performance and physical attractiveness as examples of the broader issue I raised at the beginning: my belief in myself is better for me—and for others—than my self-doubt. Put another way, other people will benefit more from my achievement of loving self-acceptance than they will from my continued self-denial and people-pleasing.

This applies to many more arenas than the few I’ve discussed here. For example, one of the best books I’ve read on sex is Male Sexuality: Why Women Don’t Understand It and Men Don’t Either, by psychoanalyst Michael Bader. He spells out the way that sex between men and women can go poorly if both people are entirely focused on the other person’s pleasure. Of course, it can also go poorly if they’re exclusively concerned with their own pleasure, but that problem is much more obvious, and much easier to discuss. Some generous attention to the other person is, of course, important, since sexual giving is both gratifying in its own right, and ethically salient—but so is some degree of embodied raw desire for stimulating experience of one’s own, without distraction, judgment, guilt, or ambivalence. When you share what’s yours, you’re sharing what’s yours.

As is said on every airline flight, and metaphorically repeated in myriad therapy sessions: put on your own oxygen mask first, because that’s the necessary preparation that makes it possible to help anyone else. If you do not start off by loving yourself (and it’s never too late for that), but instead regard yourself as a despicable sinner who must find ways to prove his or her own decency, then how do I know whether your kindness to me is a genuine gift, or just another impersonal effort to demonstrate that you’re a worthy human being? We generally prefer to receive kindness from people whose motive is not to escape hell (in this world or the next), nor to win entry into post-mortem paradise. We prefer to receive kindness as an authentic expression of somebody’s good nature, or, if we know each other well, as a communication about their feelings for us—not as a mere byproduct of their own secret wrestling match with a tyrannical conscience. Love yourself, and your love for others will mean more to them, not less.

Two thousand years ago, the great Rabbi Hillel said this unforgotten thing: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

If this post resonates with you, consider booking an appointment with me at 917-873-0292, or email Jamey@drjameyhecht.com. Sessions available in-office in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and remotely in NY, NJ, TX, and CA.

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great American novel The Great Gatsby, a self-made millionaire aspires to win the heart of a woman he once loved. Daisy is married and unavailable, but Gatsby has idealized her for years. He knows that she appreciates the outward signs of wealth, fame, and power—things that confer status—so he reinvents himself as a wealthy tycoon, hoping this will impress her enough to make her value him. He benefits from this quest because it focuses his energies, motivates him, and brings him the clothes and cars and cash that sometimes make life fun and exciting. Gatsby makes his money by bootlegging liquor during Prohibition, when it was illegal and therefore risky and lucrative. Alcohol has destroyed myriad lives, but in moderation it has been part of the good life in many cultures for millennia; one could argue that Gatsby’s path to success was not so antisocial as to be self-discrediting—he is no Al Capone, and no Macbeth. But such success itself poses a problem: if it all works out, and Daisy is won over by glitz and bling, how will he know she really loves him? Gatsby is a man, not a Rolls Royce or a bank account.

The book ends in tragedy, when Gatsby is killed by another character. But had he lived, one possible outcome would’ve been a temporary affair between him and Daisy, followed by some kind of disillusion. Either she would reject him and stay with her boorish husband (Tom), or Gatsby would tire of her upon realizing that she loves his status, his money, his power, more than she is capable of loving him. Such disillusion would be agonizing, but it would do him a world of good. Disillusion is the way out of illusion, and some illusions can be extremely hard to escape because their logic has a seamless continuity that conceals the exits. Of course I want to live in a giant mansion; of course more money is always better, ad infinitum; of course a higher status will enhance my success at anything I could possibly undertake in life, including finding a mate. It is because these assumptions seem so obvious that their fundamental error is so hard to detect.

Freud taught that the purpose of psychoanalysis (it applies to mental health treatment in general) was to help people to love and to work. The idea that more-is-always-better has serious drawbacks on both sides. In work, it threatens what we call “work/life balance” and risks work addiction, in pursuit of ever-more earnings, far beyond our ability to enjoy them. In love, more-is-better can mean either of two troublesome things. It can mean I am stuck in a compulsive accumulation of temporary partners, building my “body count” without checking its effect on my wellbeing. Or it can mean I am doing what Gatsby did, pursuing just one partner, but using means that are accumulation-based: if I have more status than these competitors, then I’ll win the competition for her. What gets neglected here is the way my toys and my success can upstage the merely human, unique individual I actually am. I also may fail to notice how much my attention is diverted from my “Daisy” onto the men with whom I’m busy competing, jockeying for position, comparing the size of our houses (paging Dr. Freud), etc.

If such a disillusioned Gatsby can survive the disillusioning experience, he may win the real prize, one more valuable than the solid gold toilet, or the victory over his male rivals, or even Daisy herself. The real prize is a mature freedom: freedom from the endless compulsion to accumulate ever more status and wealth, and with it, freedom from the need to woo the kind of person who remains focused on that kind of stuff. Whoever escapes from the prison-house of status-seeking gets to love and be loved by people who are also free of it.

There are plenty of good reasons for a couple to want lots of money, or for a single person to want wealth in an eventual marriage. Raising kids, running a small business, keeping a theater afloat, endowing a community’s nonprofit, all these require plenty of cash and become impossible if there isn’t enough, and the list goes on and on. What’s not so good, is chasing wealth as a substitute for self-love, and hoping that the display of this wealth will attract somebody else who has the same confusion between wealth and love.

People who are unconsciously afraid of love might not be able to tolerate getting the love they really need, but do not want. So they collude with similar people to form relatively loveless couples, held together not by deep affection, acceptance, and desire, but by the glue of status, purchasing power, and the conspicuous display of resources. Real love is associated with eventual death, because if I fall in love with one unique, mortal, individual person, I will one day lose them and it will matter to me. If I marry someone I really love who really loves me, I move forward on what Kierkegaard called “the stages on life’s way,” and this means leaving youth behind and getting closer to the end. Focusing on status and trophies can instead create the illusion that I am outside of the arc of the life cycle, that my world is one of endless youthful playdates and context-free experience, often of a dissociative, thrill-seeking kind. Diverse pleasures have their place, and there’s nothing inherently bad about thrills. But it’s worth checking: am I doing this as a defense against something else? Might I be partying quite this much because I am avoiding something?

If this post resonates with you, consider booking an appointment with me at 917-873-0292, or email Jamey@drjameyhecht.com. Sessions are available in-office in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and remotely in NY, NJ, TX, and CA.