Op-ed: How to Date a Married Man

What bothers me is how sanguine everyone is about it. I'm dating a married man and expect my family, friends, therapist -- someone -- to give me a tongue-lashing. Instead, they think it's good that I feel so happy. Maybe it's encouragement a la a 12-step sponsor: "Sure, go ahead and binge drink and call me when it goes splat." Meanwhile, he claims to have told his husband all about me.

Who am I? I'm no head turner. I've been on many, many dates and in a handful of relationships. I read, go to museums, digest cinema, hold a steady job, wear cologne in the right measure, speak in a low, raspy voice when required, and contribute to the backdrop of any cosmopolitan city.

Put me before a gay male couple, and without fail, one member is immediately drawn to me as the other impatiently tugs at his sleeve. I am serious, gritty, steely -- the antithesis of his partner or husband. Husband. There was a time when I could always rationalize that they weren't married. No longer. The Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional and gay marriage is legal in any state worth living in. There's no going back: When I sleep with him, I am the other man.

I read about this online -- how do I keep him and what are my chances? My search terms are "the other woman," "dating a married man," etc. I get the thrashing I was almost hoping for -- I'm wrecking a home, I'm undermining a beatific wife who deals with all the daily crap, he'll never leave me for her and even if he does, he'll do the same to me. A more sympathetic site for women who "already" find themselves in this situation warns that all I will ever get is the margins of his schedule, our relationship can only be a secret, and his wife and children will always win. If I want him to stay, I cannot be clingy, I cannot demand that he allot a specific portion of his time for me, otherwise I'll be re-creating the marriage from which he seeks an escape.

He grows his beard for me, lets me fix his hair, I eat his cooking, we shower together. I make him laugh, buy him flowers, take him to movies, build up his ego, listen to his problems, and very soon, I cannot live without him. I need him.

His husband wants to meet me.

Then I devise the search term "open gay marriage," which unlocks the gates of information. At least half of all gay marriages are open. Various articles chirp that open marriage is so much more evolved and the way to save a sagging institution in which people are losing interest.

Absurdly, I feel outraged. What about my parents' 50-year marriage -- the one fixed in my mind as paradigmatic despite the 50 percent divorce rate? What is the point of the struggle for gay marriage if it's for two people who are going to have sex with everyone else in sight? What kind of marriage is that?

I have to meet his husband because they share everything and he can't hide me from him. Otherwise I'll lose him. We joke about how I'll introduce myself. I practice saying "Hi -- I'm in love with your husband," in a low tone with pouty lips. The meeting is set for Sunday brunch, where there will be a majestic decanter of orange juice, sequential baskets of muffins, and coffee with milk and cream.

On the appointed day, I drench myself with his favorite fragrance, blow-dry my hair, pull on skinny jeans, lower a chunky grey sweater over my torso, and adjust my boots. I ride the subway downtown and try to concentrate on a crossword puzzle. I walk a few blocks to the designated cafe.

As I angle my way through the remains of February snow, I realize that whether a marriage is open or not, it is still just that -- a marriage. People marry out of many motivations -- to satisfy familial demands, express undyling love, commingle finances, or have a buddy with complementary skills -- but whether the reasons are traditional or utilitarian, idealistic or pragmatic, whether both spouses are faithful or not, people who marry are people who marry. They want to spend their lives above all with each other, even if they still want to share intimacy with others. And they have the right to do so.

I walk in and there they are. He waves me over with a smile. I come to the table and coffee is already in progress. The waiter, who wears a long black apron, looks at me quizzically.

In the best undertone I can muster, I say, "I'm sorry -- I can't do this ... "

Then I go.

BOLI (a pseudonym) is a native New Yorker and resident of New York City. He tries to keep his distance from married men of all orientations.