Free My Three Husbands by Swan Adamson

marry one.
    â€œI guess you could say I’m sort of bisexual,” Tremaynne said. “Like you.”
    â€œSo, do two bisexuals make one straight couple?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll never be totally straight,” he said. “Not, like, totally.”
    We looked at each other. It was Truth Time.
    â€œYou do want to marry me, don’t you?” I tried to keep neediness out of my voice.
    For a moment he didn’t say anything, just frowned and looked deep into my eyes. It was one of those moments when everything’s on the line. You either move on together, or back off forever.
    â€œIt’s been, like, really intense with you,” he said. “But I’ve told you, and I’ll say it one last time: Marriage for me isn’t about sitting around in a little house with a picket fence and a baby on my knee and a nine-to-five job. You’ve got to understand that.”
    â€œDid you ever hear me say that’s what I wanted?”
    â€œNo, but it’s what a lot of women want. Stability. Nothing wrong with it, but it’s not, like, on my agenda.”
    â€œIt’s boring,” I agreed.
    He pulled in his lips and chewed on the bottom one, like he was thinking something through. “Even when we’re married, Venus, I have to be free to go off and do my thing. My conscience demands it.”
    â€œCan’t I go with you?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s not an easy life. I never know how long I’m going to be away, or what I’m going to be doing. There’s never any money.” He took me by the hands and gently pulled me over to sit beside him. He was being really tender. “Venus, maybe we should call it off.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œCan you really accept me as I am?” he asked. “Not like you want me to be, but like I really am?”
    â€œWill you—” I had to stop and frame the question as delicately as possible. “Will you, like, fuck other people when you’re away?”
    â€œThere’s no one to fuck when you’re hanging eighty feet up in a tree,” Tremaynne said with a laugh.
    â€œTell me the truth.”
    He nodded. “I’ll always come back to you, Venus. As long as it works out for both of us.”
    â€œJeez.” I laughed and flicked away some excess moisture from my eyes. “You sound like a terrorist in a Tom Clancy novel.”
    He looked at me, his face stern. “I’m part of a movement,” he said.
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    There I was with my wedding two days away and a free three-day honeymoon planned and I hadn’t even asked for time off work. I was afraid Bruce would fire me if I did. I always worked weekends.
    In the past, if I got sick of a job, I just stopped going. As a result, I had no references to show employers. On job applications I couldn’t put down stints in the army and modeling school because I’d dropped out of both within a month. I couldn’t type and working at a computer bored me, except for the chat rooms. In my fantasies I saw myself as a model or the star of my own TV series, but in real life it was like I had no aptitude for anything. When you’re in that position, all that’s left are the jobs in fast food, fast coffee, telemarketing, taking care of young kids, taking care of old people, or some version of scanning barcodes and stocking shelves.
    Or you can work in the sex industry.
    My job at Phantastic Phantasy was a last-ditch effort to remain independent after my bankruptcy. Otherwise there were only two alternatives: move back in with my mother or become a baglady. Living with the dads was not an option because I couldn’t deal with all their rules and regulations. We tried it once, when I was sixteen and they’d just moved back from New York. I got the distinct impression that I was not welcome unless I made my bed every morning, hung up all my clothes, studied for hours every day, and stopped bringing my boyfriends