EXPERIENCE
When Molly Roden Winter and her husband of nearly a decade made the decision to see other people, too, they had no idea what that choice would mean. On the pages ahead, she gives us a glimpse inside the thrills and realities of non-monogamy
ne night, when writer Molly Roden Winter’s husband, Stewart, arrived home late after missing the kids’ bedtime – again – she stormed out of the house to get some space. That was the night Winter, now 51, met Matt, and began a series of decisions that would result in her opening up her marriage – and putting her needs first for a change.
The journey that followed – from hotel flings to deep romantic partnerships – is one she chronicles in her New York Times bestselling memoir, More. With unflinching honesty, she takes us inside the realities of an open relationship: the rules you make (and break), the self-discovery, the buzz and the complications of juggling it all with childcare and work, guilt and jealousy. Here, in an extract from More, she reveals where it all began…
***
The rain pounds down as Matt unlocks his door, pushes it open and tumbles in behind me. I’m holding his jacket over my head and, as I lower it, a sheet of water slides on to the tiled floor. We’re already in the kitchen.
Matt is the one who’s dripping wet, but he grabs a dish towel and offers it to me.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. I can see little beads of water clinging to his curly hair, a single droplet at the tip of his nose. Instead of wiping them away, he tosses the towel on to the counter.
We face each other, in the small space between the oven and the sink. Over his shoulder, I can see his bed. At any moment, he could pick me up and carry me to it.
The hum of the refrigerator stops, and the sound of the rain is magnified. Matt is looking at me now with a concentrated intensity.
One of us – maybe both of us – says, ‘We shouldn’t do this.’
What will this mean for you, Molly?
I lunge toward him, my hands buried in his thick hair, his long fingers grabbing my waist and pulling me in. I feel the kiss of another man, someone other than [my husband] Stewart. He tastes like beer and his lips are warm, softer than I expected, more pliable, so different from Stewart’s kisses, which come in two flavours. There are the hello and goodbye kisses, which last only an instant and land on my lips like a rubber stamp of approval. And there are the kisses that come before sex, and during. Kisses that let me know that Stew is in control, that all I have to do is give myself over to him, follow him into whatever comes next, and all will be well.
In Matt’s kiss, I feel something new. An invitation to take charge. To not wait for him to carry me but, instead, to ta
