I Was the Third: Open Relationships, Fantasy, and a Slight Identity Crisis at The Eagle

There I was, high above Manhattan, soaking in the breeze and the scent of Bleu de Chanel on The Eagle rooftop. It was Beer Blast Sunday—a.k.a. daddy o’clock—a time-honored ritual where beers are cheap, shirts are optional, and the energy is a mix of sports bar, bathhouse, and gay renaissance fair. I don’t even like beer, mama, but I do love older men. I love their stories, their salt-and-pepper stubble, and let’s be honest I love the way they admire me like a shiny new toy.

Through the sea of leathery shoulders and glistening pecs, I saw him. An actor. Not just any actor, one from my show. Like, the show I grew up on. My family would be so proud to know that I was seconds away from flirting with a man who we all gathered around to watch in the living room every night.

I took a breath. Walked towards him and faked a bump in (some real movie shit). “Oh, sorry,” I said. Then paused. “Wow. You’re beautiful.”

He smiled. “Thank you. So are you.”

And like that, I was in. I kept it cool. No mention of his IMDb, no slipping into fan mode. I asked if he lived in the city (I knew he did). If he came here often (I’d seen him before). We chatted. We flirted. Before long, our tongues were having their own little Pride parade and I was internally thanking the gods of good lighting and Aquaphor.

Eventually, I asked for his Instagram and thankfully, I wasn’t already following him so I didn't blow my fangirl cover. And then *record scratch* he introduced me to his partner.

Hold up.

Was I mad? Not really. But did my hopeless romantic heart let out a tiny “wah wah” like a cartoon trombone? A little. I was already picturing our wedding – very tasteful, very autumnal. Instead, I politely said hello to his partner, we made some small talk, and I floated back into the crowd, slightly dazed but still riding high.

And as the night went on, I realized something: I was meeting a lot of daddies in open relationships. Open marriages. Open everything. Like, was this a circuit party or an ethical non-monogamy convention?

And it got me thinking, has the gay community cracked the code on relationships? Or is this a beautiful fantasy built on vibes and mutual trust… until someone goes rogue and it all burns down?

I’ve seen it go both ways. Two of my closest friends are in an open relationship and, frankly, it’s the best gay relationship I’ve ever seen. They have rules: clear, specific, and mutually agreed upon. That’s the thing, every open setup is different. Some couples only “play” together. Some keep the house off-limits. Some allow oral, no penetration. Some, only on vacations. It’s like a Build-A-Bear for boundaries.

But what about the third person—in this case, me? Do we become objects in that moment? Are we accessories to someone else’s intimacy? What if the third likes one person more than the other? What if someone says they’re not jealous, but they’re lying to themselves and you can feel it through their body language?

So many questions. No easy answers.

But here’s the thing: I grew up in a very conservative town where people freaked out if you moved in together before marriage. Monogamy wasn’t just the norm, it was the moral gold standard. And for most of my life, I deeply desired it. I wanted the movie. The vow exchange. The exclusivity.

But then I moved to New York. I met people. I grew up a little. And suddenly the idea of an open relationship didn’t feel like cheating or chaos. It felt like… a choice. One that, if done right, could be just as meaningful, maybe even more so.

Even RuPaul talked about this in his Call Her Daddy interview, where he said he doesn’t believe in the concept of cheating, and that after decades of an open partnership, his view is: “To the person you love the most, why would you put restrictions on them?” A controversial take? Absolutely. But maybe it’s controversial because it’s actually… too honest? Too evolved for some of us to wrap our heads around?

Or maybe we’re all just lying to ourselves, keeping the jealousy buried deep under an aura of sex-positivity?

Back to Sunday night, because this story’s not over.

I ran into the actor and his partner again. This time, we were on the dancefloor. He pulled me in and started kissing me. And then, mid-makeout, I turned and kissed his partner too. And suddenly, I was in a three-way kiss, on the dancefloor, like I was starring in the season finale of some queer HBO drama.

I was the third. And in that moment? I felt on top of the world. Like I had been picked first in gym class. Like I was invited to four different parties in one night. I was the prize.

So now I’m asking myself, was that the best position of all? Not the boyfriend. Not the husband. The third. The guest star. The novelty. Is the third person the best role in an open relationship?

I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.

But I do know this: the rules of love, lust, and commitment are constantly evolving. And we’re all just trying to find what works for us. Whether that’s one person, two people, or a rotating cast with great lighting and good communication.

And if nothing else, I kissed a TV crush under the glow of a disco ball. That has to count for something.