Monogamy Explained… and Sort of Encouraged

by Sharon Kayne

I recently watched a very interesting episode of Netflix’s Explained series. This one was on monogamy. Every single expert that they had on the episode was quite certain that monogamy was not the natural state for human beings. Why? In part because our two closest cousins in the animal kingdom—chimpanzees and bonobos—are not monogamous. In fact, most animals are not monogamous, even those that live in pairs rather than social groups. Some of the experts theorized that monogamy didn’t come to be expected among humans until inequality became the norm within societies. It was a way, at that point, for men to ensure that the offspring they supported—and then passed their titles, lands, and wealth along to—were carrying their genes. In other words, monogamy and patriarchy seem to be linked. Well, monogamy for women, at least. Patriarchy has always had a double standard about sex. Go figure.

In all, I got the distinct impression that the episode was pro ‘playing the field.’ Even among the couples that they had on the episode, most were either happily polyamorous or had open relationships. While I hate virtually anything even vaguely related to patriarchy, I confess that I am pro-monogamous. For myself at least. I really don’t care what other people do (as long as everyone is a consenting adult). Lest you think I am a prude when it comes to sex, let me assure you that I’m not. In fact, I enjoy it immensely. It’s just a very personal thing to me. I don’t, for the life of me, for example, understand why people have one-night stands. Basically, that’s sex with a stranger. But, then, so is prostitution, and I’ve never understood the appeal of that either. I suppose I might, if, like a man, I had tons of testosterone coursing through my body. Or if I was fertile all the time, like men are—but, honestly, that actually strikes me as rather annoying. How, in fact, do men ever get anything else accomplished? But I digress.

Sex is not the only thing I’m monogamous about. I’m that way about the books I read. I know several people—my husband among them—who are reading as many as five books at any given time. My husband even cheats on the books he’s reading with magazines. I can’t do it. I’m a one-book woman. I can’t imagine how anyone can keep that many characters, conflicts, and plot points separate when they’re stringing so many books along. The tragedy for me, I suppose, is that sometimes I’m not reading at all. That happens when I’m in the middle of a particularly dense book—like Middlemarch, for example—that requires more concentration than usual. If, after a day of working on my own books, I simply don’t have the brain power to surrender myself to a book that requires so much commitment, I’ll just let it sit on the side table next to the couch and I’ll turn on the TV instead. It’s a sort of self-imposed literary celibacy, but I prefer it to getting involved with another book—even if it’s a quick, casual one.

Perhaps I am just too single-minded, but I don’t want more than one sex partner at a time—even if that practice is the brainchild of patriarchy. And I also don’t want to be involved with more than one book at a time. But at least I can read as much feminist literature as I want. (Just monogamously.)

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