Alternative forms of relationships make the world less patriarchal and less traumatic
This article was almost never meant to happen. I had travelled back in time. I was staring at Jyoti Bhatt’s coloured version of a monochrome photograph at an exhibition. It was of the late queer artist Bhupen Khakhar resting on grass while still in the closet. It was while I was staring that a friend asked me if I had sent in my piece. That was when I rushed to book a cab to go home and begin writing, only to realise I won’t get one in the madness of Bangalore rains.
Many a cancellation later, a bike taxi finally arrived. Bike taxis can be awkward—from helmets that aren’t safe enough, to confusion about where to keep one’s legs. Stories, laughter, scares and adrenaline can make up for it, though. And so can the occasional queer experience.
As we waited endlessly in the rainy traffic at the LIC stone building signal which was lit up with colourful lights of all hues, the monochrome rainy dusk had turned rainbow-ey. When my rider rested his elbows drenched in rain on my thighs I felt safe that he felt safe to do it. Was I sexualising him by finding this cute? Or his eyes cute? Or was it going to be one of those queer experiences during such rides my friends had told me about?
After an hour of what seemed to be a one-way date full of slow tension of trying to interpret what every touch meant and to be careful to not make him feel awkward, the bike stopped. It had run out of petrol. He had driven a long distance initially to pick me up. So I returned the favour by walking alongside him towards the petrol bunk, wading my way through the puddles. As he finally dropped me home, he smiled at me one last time before we parted ways forever. I felt a little tickle in my heart. And I lived on to be happy ever after, at least for a while. I knew there would be nothing more, and there needn’t be anything more—this was wholesome in itself.
A lot of my queer life has been symbolised by such quasi-dates. But what lingered on in this case was whether I had sexualised a gig worker the way sexualisation of domestic workers happens in Lust Stories. But so many queer experiences are shared with auto drivers, and other working-class folks with their consent too, where such tension is the starting point. I was confused. After all, the prompt that the folks at Outlook had given me was to think more about the alternative forms of relationships explored in the series Lust Stories. I wanted to write about these alternative experiences while sitting with the questions of privilege, caste, class, mental health, queerness, disability, and other intersections that inform our gaze.
I guess reciprocity, enthusiastic consent, introspection and boundaries can make a world of difference. I remember how my bullies who would femme-shame me in my formative years were also the ones to grope me during lab sessions. And because that was the only sensual encounter permissible, I eventually took a liking to it. Was it enthusiastic consent? No. Almost all formative sexual experiences come from not-so-comfortable places when the sexualisation of someone takes priority over actual sex in a society where such sex is taboo and where cat-calling and ogling are preferred over the tough task of asking someone out or taking a no for a no.
For a lot of people who have experienced such trauma, kink can sometimes be a safe space. Like roller coasters or horror films, you explore trauma in a controlled setting where you know you are safe despite the fear. Because each time one indulges in, say, spanking, with safe words and consent in place, there is a rush of endorphin, and thus the trauma of a spank is healed with the rush of feel-good hormones and the knowledge of safety. As an elderly dom woman (the one who spanks) once said: “I’m a gentle dom, I do this for pleasure, not pain, and thus I cuddle and make out while we role play this kink”. Such kink can be a safe way to explore the trauma of bullying/grief/touch provided one is with a caring and experienced kink partner. Coaches working with intimacy can help with touch when one has a history of being abused as well.
A few years ago, the very first person I hooked up with through a dating app bumped into me in a different city. When I booked an Oyo, and the car arrived, I did not expect to see another super cute person in the car. Both of them looked happy and couple-y and my heart sank knowing my crush was with someone else. As we toured the city, ate chaat, and looked at the mighty roaring river under the moon and stars, I wondered if I was gate-crashing on their date. When I reminded them about a gift they’d said they’d give me, my date motioned at their partner and said both of them had a crush on me.
For folks who are polyamorous (in a romantic and/or sexual relationship with multiple partners at the same time), different needs are met by different folks, rather than having all eggs in one basket and expecting one romantic partner to meet all of one’s needs. One could have different kink partners, platonic partners (where sex/romance is not the key), nesting partners (partners with whom one shares a house/finances) etc. Ethical non-monogamy could also mean consensual sexual open relationships, without any romantic or emotional needs met. And all of this is completely different from emotional or sexual “cheating”, or where only men are allowed to practise it, or when there is a power structure that enables subjugation. In contrast to cheating, polyamory requires an immense amount of trust and communication, and the ability to find compersion (opposite of jealousy) in one’s partner finding freedom and connections with other people. Contrary to popular perception, poly folks can be single (as most people are conditioned to be monogamous or poly-phobic) or not have the emotional space to do justice to multiple relationships. Thus, many poly folks could be in a monogamous relationship.
For someone who travels a lot, it is very hard to find long-term relationships, and dating apps have taken away the charm of multiple butterfly-ridden dates, hand brushes, avoiding eye contact in shyness, a second date itself is sometimes a miracle. These “situationships”, where there isn’t a lasting formal relationship, can be liberating—one can live in the moment and need not miss having a lifetime of commitment, which, for queer folks, is not easy to come by anyway. I, for one, have left a piece of my heart in every city I’ve been to. A walk at the Kankaria lake in Ahmedabad holding hands and whispering songs with an NRI I would never meet again, walking across the Thames from one bridge to another with a guy from a conservative Kannadiga family, planning a kink session, sitting at the Marine drive with a guy who dreams of working at a five-star hotel hailing from a community that once lost its lands to build this megapolis, crying while cuddling, grieving the death of loved ones with a person flying away the next day, walking into a thatched roof house community in Guwahati and being treated to a room full of pride art and photos—all these experiences put together are as euphoric as a lifelong stable relationship. These memories act as talismans that last a lifetime, while one’s daily life itself can be an act of resistance. As the black feminist Audre Lorde and others have pointed out, rest and pleasure can be acts of resistance for folks with marginalised genders and sexualities.
It is also said that there is no sex-positivity without asexual-positivity. As an allosexual (someone who regularly feels sexual attraction) it is easy to overlook the asexuality spectrum. While a considerable number of asexual folks are sex-repulsed, a significant number of them experience sexual attraction very differently.
A friend of mine recently confessed to me an intense feeling of attachment to her gym trainer. Every occasional touch or conversation would make her feel attached to the point of thinking of him all day, and even feeling possessive. This had happened years ago with a musician friend of hers as well. While she felt I was among the only ones who would validate this relationship, we went on a quest to figure out which part of her asexuality was expressed here, as we knew she was probably on the asexuality spectrum. Considering how little interest she had in regular sex or romance, this newfound all-consuming sexual attraction was surprising. Eventually, she resonated with being orchid sexual (someone who experiences sexual attraction but does not desire actual sex) and fraysexual (someone who gets attracted to people they don’t know well, and the attraction can fade as they get to know them better). Sometimes it can morph into being demisexual too, where you feel sexual attraction only to those you know well.
Often, these terms may feel overwhelming. Sure, in an ideal world, everything can be free flowing and everyone can be themselves without labels, but a very patriarchal world comes with accepted definitions of “normal”. Hence, finding words for one’s identity can be a very liberating experience. When my friend found himself confused when he found both me and a girl attractive, and was sure he was not gay, being told he could be bisexual meant a world of sexual liberation to him. So much so that he felt comfortable sitting on me and singing “lakde ki hathi…haathi ka ghoda” and burst out laughing. Because bi people can be in what’s called a double closet, where they can neither come out to girls nor guys, it can be liberating to meet other bi people. Once at a bi-dating event, both the girls I was interested in started dating each other and it was a moment of euphoria and not sadness to see that play out—that was my moment of bi-euphoria.
For gender-queer folks, alternative relationships can be very different. More often than not, transwomen are traditionally forced to take up sex work and sex positivity is a struggle. There are historical structures of hammams, chosen mothers and queer-orthodox families that govern their relationships. Transwomen are at the forefront of the queer rights movements and sexual health rights but often not at the receiving end of the fruits of that labour. I know of a married couple where the “husband” later came out as a transwoman, underwent a company-sponsored surgery, and changed her name, while the “wife” came out as non-binary (not believing in the binary of two genders) and polyamorous. To be able to hold space for such an evolving journey while society considers it a typical love marriage was quite a beautiful journey to witness while acknowledging their privilege. With the proliferation of knowledge and affirming laws, there is hope that we would get to hear more such stories from all classes. A good example of this is the recent self-respect marriage/suyamariyathai thirumanam between a transman and a woman in Tamil Nadu.
For folks who are disabled or neurodivergent, being queer can be complex as well. Neuro-queer folks can experience love in very different ways. Someone with ADHD may be impulsive in their attraction, or be forgetful of needs while also having beautiful alternative love languages that make up for it. Neurodivergence is also considered to be neurodiversity by some as part of a spectrum just as sexual diversity is a spectrum.
Recently, it became quite some news when a girl married herself. However, one’s relationship with oneself is also a very interesting form of relationship to explore. Often, people do not have a healthy secure relationship with themselves, which leads to jealousy/ narcissism/ abuse/insecurities. For a lot of poly people, the relationship one has with oneself is as valid as what they have with others. Thanks to being bullied, it took me years to come out of my body dysphoria. On those rare occasions when I feel I’m comfortable in my skin, seeing myself in the mirror can be very affirming and vulnerable. There is an entire genre of boudoir photography dedicated to shooting a person with body positivity in mind. A lot of them are plus-size models inspiring confidence in others. Unlike being narcissistic, this can be a very affirming form of self-expression. For some, they could be attracted to themselves (autosexual). For others, when they are dressed in a certain way or undressed in some form, checking themselves out in the mirror can be deeply affirming to their gender or sexual identity. It is a form of self-love like no other.
For a lot of queer folks, biological family cuts them off. For others who practise unconventional relationship styles, it may be difficult to fit into conventional family structures. Thus, there is a need for a chosen family. In a chosen family, one could replicate conventional relationships with a chosen (muh-bola) brotherly/sisterly/fatherly/motherly relationship or define an altogether new relationship with the person they are with. A member of a chosen family needn’t fit in with transitional family roles like sibling, friend, parent, etc. Instead, an individual could be a mix of many or uniquely different in their family role. This person could be more or equally important than a conventional blood family or partners. In fact, in relationship anarchy, these conventional rules of a relationship are challenged. It’s not like there are no rules, but rules are made a la carte based on needs, rather than conventions. Here, romantic relationships are not put on a pedestal but are on par with all other relationships one can have. In a society where we have concepts like “saali aadhi ghar wali” (sister of the wife is half one’s wife), yajamanru (the term owner used for husband), patriarchal terms like “taken”, “better half”, “my girl”, “dumped”, “getting laid” even in modern relationships, these unconventional relationships try to reform it. Where a “break-up” could morph to be “de-escalate to friendship/reframe it to a past tender relationship/taking a break for a while as both are busy” or where more gender-neutral terms like “partner/spouse” are used. For me, knowing I have chosen siblings, a chosen grandparent whose 100th birthday I’m attending next week, the same year that my biological grandmother passed, knowing I have a home in Egypt, a room in a neuro-queer house in Pune, a place to pitch a tent at an alternative school in Bristol, a communal creative living space in Berlin, a patch of greenery in Kenya and a welcoming vihara on Ambedkar Road in Bombay makes up for more than what I’ve lost as my biological family.
Lastly, none of these concepts are totally new. From gandharva vivaha, sensual art and literature, to queer stories in history and mythology, chosen families of Sramanic and Sufi traditions, to tribes that practise polygamy to date, we have examples of alternative forms of relationships in our society. It’s just that the nuances and names of these have changed as we evolve as a society.
Marginalised folks not only make great art to heal or deeply understand the world, but have contributed great solutions and frameworks throughout history. For a set of folks belonging to highly marginalised genders and sexualities, these alternative forms of relationships—kink, polyamory, relationship anarchy, situationships, chosen family, asexual relationships, neuro-queer relationships, auto sexuality, etc—are not just coping mechanisms but fantastic ways to transform the world, even for cis-heterosexual folks. These concepts are contributions to the world that could be practised by anyone, irrespective of gender/sexuality, and make the world less patriarchal and less traumatic.
(Views expressed are personal)
(This appeared in the print as 'Unbounded Intimacy')
Srinidhi Prahlad is a museum curator, archivist and co-founder of a tech start-up