Boy meets girl.
They fall in love.
They commit.
They build a life.
And live happily ever after …

It is the most familiar story we have. It is embedded in childhood fairytales, romantic comedies, pop music, and wedding speeches. It is presented as both aspiration and instruction. Find ‘the one’, settle down, and live happily ever after.

This narrative is so pervasive that it rarely gets questioned. It is treated not as a cultural construct, but as a natural progression. Deviating from it is often framed as confusion, immaturity, or failure. Yet, for many people, this story fits poorly.

The standard narrative assumption

The standard narrative assumes attraction is simple and enduring. That love, once found, remains stable. That desire, values, and life goals will align not just at the beginning, but for decades. It suggests that choosing one person early on is both realistic and sufficient to meet our emotional, sexual, and relational needs for life. What it fails to acknowledges is that people change over their lives, sometimes considerably.

We change through experience, loss, growth, illness, parenthood, success, disappointment, and time. The person you are at twenty-five is not the person you are at forty-five. Expecting relationships to remain static while people evolve is a quiet contradiction at the heart of the story.

The narrative also places enormous weight on romantic love as the primary source of meaning and fulfilment. Friendship, community, personal autonomy, and self-development are often treated as secondary. Everything is meant to funnel toward the couple unit then by default the nuclear family.

This narrowing of focus can be comforting, but it can also be constraining. When the relationship struggles, there is often nowhere else for unmet needs to go. Pressure builds quietly, discontent is internalised and people begin to believe something is wrong with them rather than questioning the structure itself.

Commitment: the end or the beginning point?

The boy-meets-girl story also promotes the idea that commitment is the end point rather than the beginning. Marriage or long-term partnership is framed as the moment everything clicks into place. Once the decision is made, the work is assumed to be largely complete. In reality, commitment does not create compatibility; it simply exposes it over time.

Many couples enter long-term relationships without truly knowing how they function under stress, disagreement, or change. Early-stage relationships reward flexibility and compromise. People adapt, accommodate, and overlook differences in the name of love. This works in the short term, but it can delay important conversations often not had in the early days.

Sex, money, ambition, autonomy and intimacy are often assumed rather than discussed in depth. When these assumptions unravel later, the cost of addressing them is far higher.

The standard narrative also assumes exclusivity without explicitly naming it. Sexual and emotional monogamy are treated as givens rather than agreements. They are rarely articulated, revisited, or renegotiated – this can create fertile ground for misunderstanding and resentment. A break in trust in often inevitable when assumption was the foundation for that trust.

Is desire forever?

Another quiet assumption is that desire should be consistent, that attraction, once established, remains unchanged. Yet desire is sensitive to stress, familiarity, health, emotional safety, and self-image. There is also plenty of research to suggest variety is deeply important too. We wouldn’t accept a lack of variety in every other aspect of our live – diet, work, where we live, holiday, art etc, but in this essential human need variety is strictly forbidden. When desire shifts people often interpret this as a sign that love has faded, rather than a normal fluctuation.

The boy-meets-girl story offers few tools for navigating this reality. Instead, it suggests often unhappy endurance or outright failure, with little space in between.

Importantly, questioning the standard narrative does not mean rejecting love, commitment, or partnership. It means recognising that the script was never designed to accommodate the full complexity and capacity of human lives.

Many people thrive within traditional structures. Others do not. The problem arises when one model is treated as universal, and alternatives are dismissed or pathologised.

We are all different

There are countless ways to build a meaningful life. Romantic partnerships can be one of them, but it does not need to be the sole organising principle. Nor does it need to look the same for everyone.

What if we saw relationships as fluid, evolving agreements rather than fixed contracts? What if commitment included curiosity, flexibility, and honest renegotiation? What if staying together were not the only marker of success? What if you could grow, explore, have variety and still be in a deeply satisfying relationship based around other dynamics.

The boy-meets-girl narrative offers certainty and simplicity. Life offers neither. As people live longer, change careers more often, have choices previous generations did not, our relationship structures are under strain. The story has not changed, but the context has.

Perhaps the question is not why so many relationships struggle, but whether the narrative we are using was ever sufficient to begin with. Love is not a straight line. Nor is it a single story. It is a series of choices, conversations, and recalibrations made over time. The more room we allow for that reality, the less pressure we place on a script that was never likely to suit us all.

Boy meets girl may be where some stories begin. But the happy ever-after is rarely where they end.

Much of what we believe about love, sex, and intimacy feels natural and obvious. As if the way we pair off, bond, and desire one another forever is simply “how humans are”. However, some anthropologists have suggested this was not the norm for our species for most of its existence.

One of the most influential modern challenges to our sexual narratives comes from the 2010 book Sex at Dawn, by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá. Drawing on a broad range of published research in anthropology, primatology and evolutionary biology, the book asks a deceptively simple question: are humans naturally monogamous?

The authors suggest that many of our modern assumptions about exclusivity and pair-bonding are relatively recent concepts, shaped more by the shift away from small hunter-gatherer groups (typically of 150 people) to agriculture about 10-12,000 years ago.

Egalitarian hunter-gatherer groups

For most of human history, our ancestors lived in small, egalitarian hunter-gatherer groups. These societies were highly social, cooperative, and interdependent. Child-rearing was shared (you’ve heard the expression ‘it takes a village to raise a child’), food was shared and, a number of anthropologists argue that there was no pair-bonding as we know it today.

In these groups, sex was not primarily about ownership or exclusivity. It functioned as a social glue, reinforced bonds within the group, reduced conflict, and created a sense of belonging and mutual responsibility. Partible paternity was the norm whereby the assumption was not one but many men were the fathers, which meant children were cared for by the group rather than in a single nuclear unit.

Ryan and Jethá argue that many features of human anatomy support this idea. Humans lack the biological markers typically associated with strictly monogamous species. Instead, our physiology more closely resembles that of species where multi-partner mating is common. This does not mean humans are incapable of pair bonding, but it does suggest that lifelong sexual exclusivity is not hardwired into our biology.

So what changed?

The shift began with the advent of agriculture. When humans started farming and land ownership became central. Property needed to be defended and inherited. Paternity suddenly mattered in a way it had not before. Sexual exclusivity became a mechanism for ensuring only food grown by a man would be used to feed his children. Transfer of wealth also now mattered.

Marriage, as an institution, emerged less as a romantic bond and more as an economic and political arrangement. Sexual fidelity, particularly for women, was enforced to guarantee certainty of paternity. Over time, these structures were moralised and sanctified, becoming embedded in religion, law, and cultural norms. Romantic love as we know it today didn’t really emerge until the 18th century.

This history matters because a significant number of modern struggles around intimacy stem from a mismatch between our evolved social instincts and the structures we now live within. We expect one person to meet needs that were once distributed across a community. Emotional support, sexual fulfilment, companionship, co-parenting, economic partnership, and identity affirmation are all expected to reside within a single relationship. It can be exhausting and almost impossible for some people to achieve.

Monogamy as a strategy, not a destiny

Anthropologists do not suggest that monogamy is wrong or unnatural. Humans are flexible, we adapt to many social arrangements. What they do suggest is that monogamy is a strategy, not a destiny. It works well for some people, some of the time, under certain conditions.

Adopting this view this can soften the shame that often accompanies intimacy challenges. Loss of desire, curiosity about others, the feeling that something is missing, even in a loving relationship. These experiences are often framed as personal failures or moral weaknesses. Anthropology reframes them as innately human traits.

Hunting, gathering, bonding, play, storytelling, cooperation, tight-knit community and mutual care all reinforced intimacy. In modern life, we have become isolated from one another and defined by the nuclear family. When one relationship, or small family unit carries everything, any disruption feels catastrophic.

Sex at Dawn does not prescribe ethical non-monogamy as a universal solution. Rather, it invites curiosity. It asks us to question whether our relationship structures reflect biological truth, cultural habit, or economic history. It encourages us to step back and see if we can separate morality from mechanism.

Perhaps the most useful insight anthropology offers is not about how we should live (because its practically impossible to replicate hunter-gatherer societies in the modern world), but about what we can stop blaming ourselves for.

It simply reminds us that we have always been more complex than the stories we tell ourselves about love.

The standard narrative around relationships is “don’t change.” Popular music is full of lyrics reminding us that we fall in love with someone and, from that point on, they must stay just the same. Forever.

It’s utterly unrealistic to commit to someone in your twenties and expect them to be the same person, with the same views, values, curiosities, and tolerances, thirty years later. At best, you can hope that you are both drawn to something so deeply intrinsic in each other that it remains recognisable, even as everything else evolves and changes. The simple reality is life is all about change. It’s learning, experiencing, stretching, failing, recalibrating until one day we look back and say ‘I’ve changed’.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Some changes are subtle. Others arrive like a tectonic shift. We grow in ways we never imagined, for better or worse. Our desires, tastes, preferences, and interests shift just as dramatically as our bodies do. One season we’re playing hard sport and chasing adrenaline; another we’re quietly studying philosophy or longing for stillness. One moment loving wine, the next never touching it, instead preferring whiskey. Or tea. Or nothing at all.

When long-term relationships and marriages fail and couples say they’ve “drifted apart,” it’s often framed as a tragedy or a failure. But drifting apart is almost inevitable, because each person has changed over time. That isn’t a flaw. It’s a feature of living and growing. What kind of life is it if you haven’t grown through it? And if you’ve grown, you’ve almost certainly changed.

The honeymoon phase

Many relationships begin with common interests. It makes sense, shared activities create a connection and the basis for starting a relationship. But interests alone are rarely enough to sustain a relationship over decades. Hobbies fade, bodies age, passions and circumstances change. The things that once bonded us can lose relevance, or even become points of friction.

We’ve all heard the story arc: the “honeymoon phase” of intimacy, passion, and excitement, eventually replaced by resentment, routine, or the dreaded “ball and chain” feeling. Somewhere along the way, intimacy becomes transactional, or conditional, or something that lives on a to-do list rather than naturally fueled by desire.

The intimate side of relationships is often the first casualty of unacknowledged change. Sometimes desire is lost in one-half of a relationship first, leading to a feeling of rejection on the recipient’s side. This is so common its almost become the standard narrative for intimacy. The story is all around you played out by friends, colleagues, clients even strangers you pass in the supermarket.

Real intimacy requires more than attraction or shared history. It requires ongoing engagement, choosing to stay present with someone who is not the same person you first fell in love with, and allowing yourself the same freedom.

This is where many relationships quietly break down. One person grows while the other stays anchored to an old version of the partnership. Or both grow, but in different directions, without permission or courage to talk about it. Change becomes threatening, then destructive instead of collaborative.

There’s an unspoken expectation in many relationships that growth should happen together and at the same pace. But that’s not how humans work. We evolve in fits and starts. We are shaped by experiences the other person may never fully understand even if they witness them.

Regular meetings

Loving someone long-term isn’t about freezing them in time. It’s about meeting them again and again, as they are now then as they will be. That requires letting go of the fantasy that love means permanence of personality. It means replacing it with something more grounded: adaptability, respect, and, above all, honest communication; both giving and receiving.

Healthy relationships make room for reinvention. They allow space for periods when one person leads and the other recalibrates while observing. They tolerate discomfort without immediately interpreting it as danger. They create safety for change rather than punishing it.

The end is not always a failure

And sometimes, despite effort and care, two people grow into versions of themselves that no longer fit together. That doesn’t mean the relationship was a failure. It means it served its purpose for a time. At that point it is vital to learn the lessons of why it ended in preparation for the next relationship to avoid ‘rinse & repeat’.

We don’t question outgrowing jobs, homes, or belief systems. Yet we treat outgrowing relationships as moral shortcomings. Perhaps the problem isn’t the drifting, it’s our refusal to accept that change is inevitable. Love that lasts isn’t love that resists change. It’s love that learns how to embrace it.

And maybe the most radical relationship skill in all is this: allowing the people we love, and ourselves, to become who we’re meant to be, even when it’s uncomfortable, unfamiliar or different from what we once knew or expected. If we can’t do this we have to let them go, after all no one owns anyone.

In the 17th century, the English philosopher Thomas Hobbes offered a bleak assessment of human life before civilisation. In Leviathan, he famously described life in a “state of nature” as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short”. According to Hobbes, without strong authority, law and social hierarchy, humans would descend into violence and chaos. Civilisation, he argued, was not merely beneficial, but necessary for survival and order.

This view shaped Western thinking for centuries and in many quarters still does.

It justified colonial expansion, state power, and the belief that so-called “primitive” societies lived lives of constant fear and deprivation. Indigenous peoples were framed as living examples of what humans were without progress. Civilisation, in this narrative, was a gift. Order was salvation. Authority was benevolence.

The problem is that Hobbes was wrong

Not maliciously wrong, but empirically wrong. He was speculating from a distance, relying on second-hand reports, colonial mythmaking, and philosophical inference rather than evidence. Hobbes never lived among hunter-gatherer societies. He never observed how they raised children, resolved conflict, shared resources, or structured intimacy. He also had a very tough life himself and once stated his mother gave birth to twins – himself and fear. By today’s standards we’d describe him as a life-long cynical depressive.

What anthropologists have found over the last century stands in stark contrast to Hobbes’ assumptions. Far from living short, violent, miserable lives, many hunter-gatherer societies enjoyed lives that were socially rich, relatively healthy, and surprisingly stable. While their lives were physically demanding and subject to environmental risk, they were not the constant war zones Hobbes imagined They also on average lived to aged 70 (we won’t get involved with the mathematical complexities of ‘life expectancy’ when factoring in infant mortality). In particular, females shared the same autonomy as males; effectively between 95% and 99% of our entire existence as a species has witnessed female emancipation.

Our ancestors, the foragers

Hunter-gatherer groups typically lived in small, egalitarian communities. Cooperation, not hierarchical authority, was the organising principle. Food was shared, child-rearing was undertaken collectively and hierarchies were shallow or actively resisted. Conflict certainly existed, but it was often diffused through social mechanisms such as humour, mediation, mobility, or temporary separation.

Violence, where it occurred, was not the default state. In fact, many anthropologists now argue that large-scale, organised violence became more common after the rise of agriculture and civilisation, not before it. Permanent settlements, resource accumulation, and rigid hierarchies introduced new incentives for warfare, control, and inequality. Not just of assets and resources but females too who effectively became items on a ledger.

Life may not have been easy in pre-agricultural societies, but it was not universally grim. Work hours were far fewer than those of early agricultural peasants. Diets were diverse, plentiful and healthy. Social bonds were strong and people were rarely isolated.

Hobbes projected his world view back in time

The Hobbesian view also underestimated the importance of community in regulating behaviour. Hobbes assumed that without an external authority, humans would act purely in self-interest. Anthropology suggests otherwise. In small groups where reputation matters and survival depends on cooperation, antisocial behaviour carries real social consequences. Shame, reciprocity and mutual dependence can be powerful regulators.

Civilisation for many created lives more like Hobbes’ imagined descriptions of pre-civilised peoples. For example. there is a lot of evidence that as we moved into the agriculture era between 10,000 and 12,000 years ago our average height dropped, oral health declined and we introduced a raft of diseases from close proximity to newly farmed animals. Our overall diet certainly changed from hugely varied to more concentrated which you hear echoes of in today’s health advice.

What did the Romans ever do for us?

Of course modern civilisation has arguably brought undeniable benefits. Advances in medicine, technology, literacy, and longevity are real and meaningful and we all enjoy them. We may even still be alive because of them. But the idea that civilisation replaced a universally miserable existence with a superior one is far too simple. Equally powerful arguments can show that many modern diseases and physical and mental health problems were created by civilisation – our diets, stresses, water and air quality. A story for another blog.

What civilisation did was trade universal freedoms for all for security for some at the expense of others. Loneliness, alienation, chronic stress and inequality are not innate features of the human condition. They are features of social organisation in all civilisations, now and ever since we first created them.

The Hobbesian illusion persists today whenever we assume that modern life is inherently better, more advanced, or more humane than what came before and has lingered long past its usefulness. Letting it go does not mean rejecting civilisation. It means recognising that the human story has always been more complicated, and more hopeful, than Hobbes ever imagined.

In effect, Hobbes’s views, which persist today in influential people, were and remain the diametric opposite to what we believe an Intimate Ape really is. We try to get to the heart of who we are leaving Hobbes at the door, after all he has been dead for over three centuries.

In a word, no.

Ethical Non-Monogamy may not be mainstream. It may challenge what you know, think, or even believe about relationships. But it is not the latest trend in modern love. It is not a social experiment pulled from nowhere, nor a fleeting cultural moment and certainly not a TikTok trend. Ethical Non-Monogamy has been part of human relationships for centuries. It has existed for as long as humans have married, and prior to that for far longer as a relationship dynamic.

So what’s new?

What is new is the label and the fact that people are now talking about it more openly. Today’s ENM is not a radical reinvention of intimacy. It is an old, intrinsic human behaviour, now layered with modern values such as consent, communication, honesty and the freedom to explore more openly.

What is monogamy?

That said, even the terminology itself is worth examining. Ethical Non-Monogamy, sometimes called Consensual Non-Monogamy, can be seen as a misnomer depending on how we define “monogamy” in the first place. Monogamy is generally taken to mean “the practice or state of having a sexual relationship with only one partner at a time”, according to the Oxford Dictionary. This is a modern, implied definition that most of us accept without question. Marriage in any form that we can recognise is no older than about 4,400 years – not even a blink in the eye of human history.

The word itself comes from the Greek “monos”, meaning one, and “gamos”, meaning marriage. When viewed through that lens, monogamy is about marriage structure rather than sexual exclusivity. This becomes clearer when we consider the term “polygamy”, which literally means one person married to multiple spouses. Yet we do not automatically assume those marriages include intimacy any more than a monogamous one does. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

In New Zealand law, a person can only be married to one partner at a time. From a strictly legal standpoint, that makes ethical non-monogamy within a legal marriage a misnomer. Outside the legal framework, however, society routinely uses the word “monogamous” to describe unmarried couples who are sexually exclusive. In reality, what they often mean is “sexually singular” or “exclusive”, not monogamous in the literal sense, but that is splitting hairs!

If we want to tie ourselves in further knots, we could even argue that someone who moves from one exclusive relationship to another, or who frequently changes partners, is a “serial monogamist” under the modern definition. It is technically accurate, yet rarely said aloud.

How does ‘ethical’ come into it?

The word that truly matters in Ethical Non-Monogamy is “ethical”. Honesty, consideration for others, fairness and respect. It is this element that separates ENM from deception and betrayal. Without ethics, openness is meaningless.

For us, monogamy is our legal status. It is a conscious choice, entered into willingly and with serious consideration. It provides structure, legal protection, and responsibility within the society and system we live in, and we respect it in these regards. It works for us. In truth, we do not have to work excessively hard at our relationship beyond being honest, putting the other person first, and remembering that we are individuals before we are a couple.

We describe our marriage as a balance of three elements: you, me, and us.

So are we monogamous? Legally, yes. In the way most people use the word, no. We prefer the word “primary”. We are first and foremost to each other, in every meaningful regard, just as in other successful marriages. The difference is that we are free from one implied constraint that quietly breaks countless relationships.

It all goes back a long way

History is filled with examples of open marriages and non-exclusive arrangements. Literature, film, and recorded accounts across cultures and centuries reflect this. The reasons are as varied as human nature itself. From political alliances to power dynamics, from pragmatic solutions to expressions of personal freedom, ethical non-monogamy has always existed even in cultures and times where breaking marriage vows could have serious consequences.

It has often appeared more visibly among social elites, possibly because their lives were more likely to be documented, but it is not confined to any one culture, class, or country. Many societies have, and still do, practise forms of marriage and partnership that are not sexually exclusive. It is notably a trait of many living foraging or hunter-gatherer communities and often cited as evidence of how we used to live by anthropologists in pre-agricultural times.

There is evidence suggesting ENM is becoming more visible in liberal societies, with some estimates placing it at around 4 to 5 percent of relationships, with far more people having experimented with it at some point. Whether this represents growth or simply greater openness to admit it, it is difficult to say. What is clear is that ENM has entered public conversation.

The past sometimes points to the future

In the mid-1980s, one of us sat around a bar table with friends in the UK when someone claimed that as many as 10 percent of men were gay. At the time, this felt shocking. Coming out required courage, particularly in suburban environments where hostility was usual. Few people admitted anything openly. Years later, several of those same individuals went on to live openly as gay or lesbian, while others chose lives without marriage, children, or sexual relationships at all.

Being ethically non-monogamous today, in some ways, mirrors that moment. It may not carry the same risks to personal safety, but it is still laden with stigma. And yet, it is not new. Some would argue it is deeply human, perhaps even our natural relational state before we shifted away from small, communal ways of living.

At its core, ENM is rooted in pragmatism. It recognises that expecting one person to meet every emotional, romantic, and intimate need for fifty years or more is unrealistic. Humans are capable of vast love and have innate need for variety and change. When intimacy is separated from love and viewed as a personal need rather than a moral obligation, it can be approached with honesty instead of shame.

Ethical Non-Monogamy is not a trend. It is not a rebellion. It is not a sign of psychological trauma by those who adopt it. It is just one of many ways humans have always navigated love, commitment, desire and the reality of being human.

One of the most unsettling ideas explored in Civilized to Death by Christopher Ryan Phd is also one of the simplest. Locusts are not a different species from grasshoppers. They are the same insect with identical DNA.

Under ordinary conditions, grasshoppers are solitary. They move independently, consume modestly and coexist with their environment without overwhelming it. But when conditions change, when population density rises, food becomes scarce and stress hormones spike, grasshoppers undergo a transformation. Their physiology changes and their behaviour changes. They become locusts.

This is not metaphorical – it is biological. Crowding triggers a cascade of neurological and hormonal shifts that turn a relatively benign insect into a hyper-consuming force capable of devastating entire ecosystems. Once transformed, locusts swarm, strip landscapes bare and move on, leaving devastation behind them.

Maybe humans are not so different

Ryan uses this phenomenon not as a curiosity, but as a warning. Under the right conditions, organisms that evolved to live sustainably can become destructive, not because they are evil or flawed, but because their environment has pushed them beyond the parameters they evolved to handle. Humans, Ryan argues, may not be so different.

For most of our evolutionary history, humans lived as hunter-gatherers in small, mobile groups. Our lives were socially rich. We spent significant time resting, socialising, and playing. We shared food and we raised children communally. Status differences were minimal and usually actively resisted. Survival depended on cooperation, not accumulation of power, influence or wealth. Intimacy was not controlled, it was shared.

Then came civilisation. Agriculture allowed population density to increase dramatically. Permanent settlements emerged, hierarchies formed and surpluses accumulated in the hands of a few. Competition intensified, inequality widened and humans became crowded in ways our nervous systems were never designed to tolerate. Much like grasshoppers in dense conditions, humans began to change. Same DNA, different creatures.

Ryan’s argument is not that civilisation made humans bad. It is that civilisation placed us in conditions that activate traits we evolved to use only in emergencies.

The locust does not swarm because it wants to destroy. It swarms because its environment forces adaptation. Likewise, humans did not become anxious, aggressive, acquisitive, possessive or disconnected because these traits define us. We became this way because our environment rewarded them.

Modern life has a lot to answer for

Modern life is crowded, competitive, and relentless. We live surrounded by people yet often feel profoundly alone. We are exposed to constant stimulation, comparison, and threat perception through media and technology. Our nervous systems rarely return to baseline. In this state, consumption becomes a form of regulation or an anesthetic.

We consume information, entertainment and endless material goods and equally seek our more and more status and validation not because we need them, but because they momentarily soothe our overstimulated systems. Like locusts, we keep moving, keep taking, rarely pausing long enough to ask whether the behaviour itself is essential or pathological. The tragedy is that we then moralise the process. We call people greedy, lazy, entitled, narcissistic, or broken. We blame individuals for responding exactly as organisms do under sustained pressure. The grasshopper does not choose to become a locust. It is crowded into it, just as we are.

And in the midst of all this we lose access to intimacy and sight of its value. Intimacy with the simple pleasures in life, nature around us, the elements, our senses, each other.

Ryan’s argument is that many of the things we treat as human failings may actually be symptoms of civilisation itself. Civilisation, Ryan says, promised safety, comfort, and progress. In many ways, it delivered however, it also dismantled social structures with natural intimacy and replaced them with isolation and disconnection from each other. We became more productive, but less openly intimate. More efficient, but less alive.

The locust metaphor is relevant because it reframes the problem. If destructive behaviour emerges from environmental pressure, then the solution is not punishment, control or moral condemnation. It is environmental change. Grasshoppers do not need discipline, they need space. Humans may need something similar. Not just physical space though, space to be human even for just a short while to recharge.

Being pragmatic …

This does not mean abandoning civilisation or romanticising the past. It means recognising that endless growth, density, competition and consumption may not be compatible with human happiness. We know we can’t escape it. We can’t change the world but we can change our own world firstly for a few hours of stepping outside of it, then little by little over time changing our perspectives when we are back in it.

Yes it’s a strange leap to connect locusts with being Intimate Apes but if we want to look into ourselves for deeper personal values we need to be aware of the pack mentality of those around us and how caught up in it we can get.

As any builder will tell you, it is supposed to be the other way around. Measure twice, cut once. The point is simple: slow down at the beginning to avoid costly mistakes later. It minimises waste, reduces rework and respects the reality that once something is cut, it cannot be uncut!

Yet when it comes to relationships, and particularly long-term commitment or marriage, many of us do precisely the opposite. We measure once, if at all, and cut twice, or many times always hoping things will fit perfectly. We leap into commitment with enthusiasm, optimism and hope, while quietly ignoring how little we truly know about the person standing in front of us.

Buyer beware

With very few exceptions, you would not sign an agreement to buy a house without conditions of sale. At auction it’s ‘buyer beware’ so you are always advised to do as much homework as possible. You would not waive due diligence, inspections, or finance clauses unless you had an exceptional reason to do so. Even then, you would understand the risk you were taking. Those conditions exist for a reason. They are not signs of doubt. They are acknowledgements of reality to minimise pain later on.

Relationships, however, are rarely afforded the same level of care.

We commit emotionally, financially, legally, and socially to another person long before we have seen how they respond under pressure, disappointment, grief, boredom, or change. We often commit before we have seen how they argue, how they repair, how they apologise, or how they behave when things are not going their way.

Love is blind

Early relationships are deceptive by nature. Not because people are deliberately dishonest, but because the conditions are artificial. There is novelty, chemistry, optimism, and a strong incentive to present our best selves. The early stage rewards adaptability and suppression rather than authenticity. We accommodate, overlook, accommodate and we smooth edges. Best foot forward, hide our faults as best we can. We tell ourselves that love will sort the rest out later.

Marriage, or at least open-ended commitment, is often entered into during this phase. We formalise a future based largely on potential rather than a solid pattern derived from experience. We commit to a version of the person we hope will remain stable, while ignoring the fact that people change, circumstances change and unseen or ignored differences will probably emerge at some point.

Compatibility mode

This is particularly true when it comes to sexual compatibility. Desire, libido and intimacy are often assumed to align simply because there is mutual attraction. Yet chemistry at the beginning tells us very little about how two people experience desire over time. Many couples discover only after commitment that they have fundamentally different needs around physical intimacy, frequency, closeness, or autonomy and by then the cost of pointing out that mismatch becomes dangerously high.

The litmus test

Long-term relationships are not tested by romance and ideals. They are tested by monotony, stress, misalignment and growth in different directions. They are tested by illness, financial pressure, parenting, career changes, aging bodies, shifting identities and unmet expectations. Rarely do these show up in the honeymoon phase. Most of all, relationships are tested by how we change over time. Add to this an intrinsic human need for variety and its no wonder divorce and separation rates are so high – for those willing or able to move on. There are countless people trapped in relationships that have frozen over.

Yet we treat commitment as if it locks in certainty and banishes risk. A dead cert. A share that can only rise in value.

Put it all on red 13

We sign up to lifelong exclusivity, shared finances, shared responsibility, and shared identity without ever explicitly discussing many of the things most likely to strain the relationship later. Sex, money, autonomy, ambition, family obligations, personal growth and values are often assumed rather than explored. Silence is mistaken for agreement. The first on this list is the one least likely to be properly discussed. Many people would rather walk over hot coals that discuss sex. If hard to bring up at the start of the relationship then it becomes almost impossible a few years later.

There is a quiet belief that committing early creates security, that showing committment itself will make the relationship stronger. In reality, premature commitment often suppresses necessary conversations. Once the stakes are raised as time passes, honesty becomes harder. There is more investment to lose face starting over from square one. It is easier to compromise than to risk destabilising the bond we have already formalised. Just hold in there and hope for the best.

This is why measuring once becomes costly. Commitment does not make incompatibility disappear. It simply raises the price of discovering it later.

The modern marriage paradox

Modern marriage is often framed as a declaration of love rather than a legal and social contract. Romance is emphasised and celebrated through media and marketing narratives. The binding nature is downplayed. We talk about forever while avoiding the question of whether the agreement we are entering into will still fit the people we are yet to become. And, of course, who can know how the years ahead will change them? It is entirely possible to love someone deeply and still not be well suited to build a life together. Love does not guarantee compatibility.

Time to get the ruler out

Measuring twice before committing to the ‘cut’ of starting a new relationship does not mean withholding love or refusing commitment. It means allowing time and space to see the full person. It means observing patterns, not promises. It means having very uncomfortable conversations before they become unavoidable. The absolute deepest conversations around intimacy and desires and perhaps the most important. It means understanding that conditions are not a lack of faith, but an act of caring for the other and self-preservation. A sort of intimacy insurance policy.

Ironically, the same ‘measure twice cut once’ approach ought be taken before leaving a relationship. In some cases it may prevent an unnecessary ‘end of everything’ just because one aspect needs checking. When there is nothing to lose you may as well be honest about intimacy needs – you might find you were not alone.

We have normalised the idea that uncertainty in relationships is something to avoid; it looks like weakness, a fear of commitment. In reality, thoughtful hesitation at the outset can reflect maturity. It shows that measuring twice is wise, as any good builder will remind you.

Do relationship structures allow room for pragmatism and fairness to each partner when physical autonomy is exercised?

“Sexual autonomy as a fundamental right means that every person has the inherent right to control their own body, sexuality, and intimate choices, free from coercion, violence, or unjust interference. At its core, it is about self-determination over one’s body and desires. Without sexual autonomy, other rights such as freedom, safety, and equality are compromised.”

A person retains sexual autonomy as a fundamental right even within a legal marriage. One partner cannot demand sex from the other, and that is exactly how it should be. Consent is required to be sought on an on-going basis, not granted once and assumed forever. The law states this clearly, and rightly so.

I do, you do, we do, (maybe)?

It is in relationship agreements that autonomy becomes far more interesting. When was the last time you attended a civil wedding in New Zealand and heard vows that explicitly stated, “I promise that under no circumstances, no matter what, for the rest of my life, I will never have any form of intimacy with another person”? Probably never. Civil marriage vows rarely, if ever, include an explicit promise of sexual exclusivity. The word ‘faithful’ may be used – but that is open to interpretation. Note: here we are NOT discussing religious marriages, they are outside the scope of this blog.

Yet exclusivity is assumed. It is not legally required. It is not contractually spelled out. It is simply inferred, implied through cultural expectation and taken as read. This is a surprising omission from such an important binding contract when the rate of affairs & divorces in NZ are so high because of breaking the exclusive assumption.

I think we agreed?

In the early stages of dating many couples will have had a conversation along the lines of “let’s agree to be exclusive”. That agreement may feel mutual, but it is worth pausing on what is actually happening in that moment. In agreeing to exclusivity, both parties are voluntarily limiting an aspect of their sexual autonomy. They do so freely in order to secure the ongoing relationship, often without daring to question the commitment for fear of being dumped.

This is where language matters. The word “monogamous” is often dropped into the conversation as if it settles everything, even legalises it, like being married. But monogamy itself is not a single, clear concept. In legal terms, monogamy simply means being married to one person at a time. That is it. The rest is personal interpretation, expectation and cultural norms.

We explore this in more depth in another post, “Is ENM Just a New Fashion?”, but the key point stands. Sexual exclusivity is not a legal requirement of marriage in New Zealand. It is simply a personal expectation backed-up by a social norm, both of which admittedly have a powerful influence.

No fault divorces

All divorces in New Zealand are no-fault. Adultery was removed as grounds for divorce in 1980. The state does not punish sexual non-exclusivity. It does not adjudicate on who slept with whom. The law recognises that relationships fail for complex reasons and that assigning sexual blame is neither useful nor just. In the progressive separation of State from Church in NZ over many decades we have thankfully reached a more enlightened place.

And yet, at a personal level, sexual exclusivity is treated as sacred and non-negotiable. Violating it is often seen as betrayal rather than a breach of an unspoken agreement that may no longer reflect the reality of the relationship. The betrayal is of trust, a trust that an implied line will not be crossed.

On the one hand, sexual autonomy is a fundamental human right and no means no by one partner. On the other is a partner who still wants to enjoy intimacy but now is trapped in a situation that does not meet these needs, though in all other regards the relationship may be satisfactory.

Is there another way forward?

What is rarely discussed, let alone agreed, is whether autonomy, once exercised, can lead to the other partner exploring the needs of their own autonomy elsewhere with permission. Can agreements made at one life stage can be renegotiated at another? Does love, commitment, and partnership always have to be tied to sexual exclusivity in order to be valid?

Ethical non-monogamy does not argue that anyone is entitled to sex. It does not override consent or disregard agreements. In fact, it places greater emphasis on consent, communication, and honesty than most default relationship models do. What it does challenge is the idea that physical autonomy must be permanently surrendered in order to love deeply, commit fully, or build a stable life with another person.

The real question is whether we are willing to acknowledge the real, full importance of autonomy, and whether our relationship structures allow room to be pragmatic and fair to each partner. Shutting down the conversation where one person has withdrawn sexual contact through their right to autonomy should not mean the other person loses the right to seek intimacy elsewhere.

Relationship counsellors will work hard to return a couple to where intimacy is shared again – it is the standard narrative response. However, doesn’t that require getting one partner to rescind the very autonomy which they may have genuine, non-negotiable reasons to have exercised? ENM offers a much easier path – the person who has exercised their right to autonomy simply has to give the other partner an ‘out’ to seek intimacy elsewhere. There can be any number of rules around it unique to the couple but, if done maturely, it enables each person to retain autonomy and possibly a more honest ongoing relationship.

Time and again over many decades we have seen this solution played out in relationships that result in lasting marriages that can thrive even without physical intimacy. It just takes a brave, honest conversation. A leap of faith into something new – which is much like what happened on the day a couple exchanged vows.

There is a familiar figure in New Zealand culture. He is practical, capable, quietly competent. He turns up, gets on with it, does not complain. He does not talk much about how he feels because feelings are private, or unnecessary, or something you just ignore. Inside every man there is a boy who learned this early.

The Great Kiwi Bloke is not a villain. He is a survival strategy. He was shaped by a generational history of isolation, hard work, physical risk and a culture that prized resilience over reflection. In rural communities especially, stoicism was not an ideology – it was a necessity. When fences broke, stock escaped, weather turned, or money ran out, there was no room for emotional collapse. You just sorted it and kept going. That ethic became a national identity for Kiwi blokes.

The understated understatement

New Zealand masculinity has long been defined by understatement. Don’t make a fuss, think you’re special or talk yourself up. Tall poppy syndrome sits quietly alongside stoicism, reinforcing the idea that standing out, emotionally or otherwise, has no advantage. Better to stay level. Better to keep your head down. Ironically knocking down tall poppies is a trait hunter-gathers have in small egalitarian groups where power leveling is essential for harmony. Perhaps the Kiwi bloke has something right … but in a modern society is does not work: it has consequences.

Men are far more likely to die by suicide than women, and far less likely to seek help early. Divorce rates, especially in midlife, reflect another pattern. When relationships break down, men often lose not only partners, homes and access to their children but their primary source of emotional connection and a sense of purpose.

Perhaps some men discover, too late, that they either didn’t provide enough intimacy in the relationship, or simply didn’t know how to be intimate.

It was learned young

The boy inside the man was never taught how to talk about fear, shame, loneliness, or grief. He only learned how to work, provide and endure. Emotional literacy was not part of the curriculum. When life goes off the rails through illness, redundancy, relationship breakdown or simple aging, that boy is still there unequipped for the change.

In rural New Zealand, this is amplified. Physical distance mirrors emotional distance. Isolation is real, not metaphorical. Support groups exist, but many men will only attend when crisis has already arrived. By then, the stakes are high.

A shift in the sands?

Yet something has shifted. Younger generations of men are getting better at sharing emotions. They have more language, more permission and more examples of masculinity that include gentleness, uncertainty and care. But they are still swimming upstream. The old scripts are persistent, passed down quietly from fathers, coaches, teachers and most of all mates.

“How ya goin’?”
“Yeah, all good.”

Often the start and end of a conversation …

This is not because men are fundamentally broken. It is because there is still much work to do.

Stoicism has its strengths, endurance matters, reliability has value. The problem is not any of these qualities in themselves but the lack of balance with intimate needs. Strength without softness becomes brittle.

We understand men – we have raised them and chosen their company as a preference all our lives.

The Intimate Ape Retreat is here to help men be a Greater Kiwi Bloke, in our small way. With new tools you don’t need to throw out all your old tools. Just appreciate you’ll get the job done a little better.

When people talk about “human nature”, it is often framed as fixed and inevitable. We are competitive, violent, hierarchical and selfish. These claims are frequently justified by a loose appeal to biology, as if our DNA has already settled the argument. This description is the root of the Hobbesian view.

However, biology tells a far more interesting story. Humans share a remarkable amount of genetic material with other great apes. Chimpanzees and bonobos are our closest living relatives, sharing roughly 98 to 99 percent of our DNA. That makes us closer than a dog is to a fox. Gorillas are not far behind. Yet despite these similarities, their social worlds look dramatically different.

Our cousins

Gorillas are often imagined as aggressive and dominant, but their societies are relatively stable and predictable. They typically live in small groups led by a dominant silverback male, with several females and offspring. Power is clear, hierarchy is visible and conflict within the group is limited because roles are rigidly defined. The silverback’s authority reduces internal competition by concentrating and, when needed, exerting authority through physical size and strength.

Chimpanzees, by contrast, live in far more volatile social systems. Male chimpanzees form aggressive coalitions. Status is constantly contested, violence, including lethal violence, is not uncommon. Territory is defended fiercely, power is unstable and social life is shaped by alliances, intimidation, and competition.

Bonobos offer a strikingly different model. Despite being just as closely related to humans as chimpanzees, bonobos are far less violent. Their societies are female-centred rather than male-dominated. Non-partner sexual behaviour plays a major role in social bonding and conflict resolution so tension is diffused rather than escalated. Cooperation is prioritised over conquest and violence in the wild is very rare.

Then we found the bonobos

Bonobos were not officially recognised as a distinct species until 1929 and even then it wasn’t until the 1950s that studies of their unique social structures began. These guys live in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) in Central Africa and now, as a result, are notoriously difficult to study due the danger posed by the instability of the country.

Bonobos use intimacy as social glue. They are not peaceful because they are weak; they are peaceful because their social structures reward connection rather than domination. This matters because chimpanzees, bonobos and humans diverged from a common ancestor relatively recently in evolutionary terms. Their (our) genetic difference is tiny. What changed for us was environment, specifically moving from being hunter-gatherers to agriculture then eventually ‘civilisation’. Of course our brains have developed significantly over our ape cousins but that does not automatically define the modern way we live as inherently natural.

Our behaviour is not destiny

If great apes with nearly identical DNA can organise themselves in radically different ways, then behaviour is not destiny. It is adaptive and it responds to conditions. Humans sit somewhere between these models, but we are not locked into any single one. Like chimpanzees, humans are capable of aggression, coalition-building, and hierarchy. Like bonobos, we are capable of cooperation, empathy, play, and intimacy-driven bonding. Like gorillas, we can form stable family groups with clear roles and we see plenty of large males in our society who exert authority through size and physical strength. We even encourage and celebrate it on our rugby fields. All of these tendencies exist within us. Which ones dominate depends largely on environment.

Human pre-history

For most of human history, which is to say pre-history, people lived in small, mobile groups where cooperation was essential. Resources were shared, child-rearing was communal and status was limited and often resisted for harmony in the group – no ‘tall poppies’ were allowed to assume control. In these conditions bonobo-like traits were adaptive for survival. Excessive aggression was punished socially, hoarding was unacceptable and belonging mattered more than dominance. They were by definition genuinely egalitarian groups.

With the advent of agriculture, permanent settlements, and resource accumulation, conditions changed. Hierarchies hardened, competition intensified, warfare emerged then became more organised. Chimpanzee-like behaviours were increasingly rewarded. Control, aggression and dominance gained strategic value as we moved from foraging societies and our population numbers grew.

DNA – Did Not Alter

None of this required a change in DNA. It required a change in context. Modern humans often argue about whether we are “naturally” violent or cooperative, as if one answer must cancel out the other. The primate comparison shows that this is the wrong question; we are capable of both. Our behaviour is shaped by what our environments incentivise and reward.

Crowding, scarcity, inequality, and chronic stress tend to amplify aggression and competition. Safety, abundance, connection, and shared responsibility tend to amplify cooperation and care.

If humans behave destructively under certain conditions, it does not mean we are broken and inherently destructive. It means we are responding to pressure in our environment in predictable ways. Like grasshoppers turning into locusts, behaviour emerges from context.

With us being so similar to our cousins, except it appears our cognitive capabilities far exceed them, then we have more choices how we live than we assume. We can choose to be Gorillas or Bonobos – at The Intimate Ape Retreat we look to the bonobo as a role model.

“Variety is the spice of life” is one of those phrases that feels obvious enough to dismiss without a second thought. A throwaway line, justification for novelty or just a slogan used to sell everything from breakfast cereal to streaming subscriptions. But beneath the cliché sits something fundamental to being human.

Humans crave variety not because we are fickle, greedy, or easily bored, but because variety is wired into how we survive, learn, and stay alive. Long before it became a marketing strategy, variety was an evolutionary advantage.

In the early days

In early human environments, variety meant safety. Eating a wide range of foods reduced the risk of nutritional deficiency and was essential as nature is seasonal. Exploring different landscapes increased access to resources – as hunter gatherers we were always on the move covering great distances following food sources. Engaging with different people in other small groups enabled the DNA pool to be widened.

Our brains evolved to notice change.

New stimuli sharpens attention. Novel experiences trigger curiosity and variety keeps us alert, adaptive, and always learning. When environments become too predictable, engagement drops, motivation is reduced and we can stagnate. Even our eyes only focus on about 1-2 degrees of our visual field at any one time – the receptors quickly tire and by changing our focus we enable them to refresh. We rely on peripheral vision to trigger alerts or change. These biological realities have not changed, even though our environments have.

Modern life often presents itself as endlessly varied. New shows, fashions, gadgets, upgrades, versions, trends, diets and identities. Social feeds are designed to be addictive by continually serving up new content just by scrolling. Marketing has become exceptionally adept at tapping into our appetite for novelty. This is not accidental. Marketing understands something real about human psychology. Variety activates desire fore more and more consumption.

Every season brings a reinvention.
Every product promises a new version of you.
Every trend suggests that sameness is to be left out or behind.

Variety or novelty?

But there is a difference between meaningful variety and manufactured novelty. Meaningful variety nourishes, expands perspective, deepens experience and leads to more knowledge and eventually wisdom. Manufactured novelty often does the opposite by creating stimulation without satisfaction. Consumption replaces engagement and genuine satisfaction and the cycle accelerates.

We chase “new” not because we are fulfilled by it, but because we are hungry for something we cannot quite identify. Variety is not just about material items or experiences – it is also wired into our need for relationship and intimacy needs.

A life of variety but just one partner

We ask our partners to be everything we need, forever. A lover, friend, confidant, co-parent, emotional regulator, adventure companion and a source of intellectual stimulus. Can one person really satisfy these needs for an entire lifetime? How does this expectation fit with our hard-wired need for variety? For most people it doesn’t.

Variety keeps desire alive because desire thrives on difference. While familiarity brings safety (like companionship), difference brings stimulation. Both have value at different times in our lives but when life becomes overly repetitive, when roles harden and identities shrink, the nervous system goes looking for something new. It’s quite normal.

The evidence of needing variety is everywhere

In careers, people burn out not just from workload, but from monotony. Often having risen to the top of their field they suddenly decide to retrain in a completely different area. Some people have had multiple successful unrelated careers. In relationships, people disengage not because love has vanished, but because novelty has been eliminated. In parenting, people feel trapped not because they dislike family, but because their world has narrowed.

The grass is greener, sometimes

Sometimes the grass is greener elsewhere and even if it isn’t curiosity drives us to take a look. Humans have always done this – its how we expand our horizons and discover new things. Its how we grow, even when we are wrong. This does not mean constant change for change’s sake. To survive the way we live in the modern world people do need stability and routine, we have to be pragmatic about that.

The trick is to identify when the advantages of the familiar are outweighed by the need for variety, or greener grass. It is very challenging because we live in societies that demand fixed routines whilst constantly and pervasively selling us other choices. We are all caught between a rock and hard place.

The tragedy is that we often attach shame and guilt to the desire for variety instead of understanding it. Wanting novelty is framed as immaturity – we even have names for it – when young its ‘fear of commitment’, when middle-aged its a ‘mid-life crisis’. But humans did not evolve to live out each day in a sanitised predictable bubble, we simply need degrees of variety, sometime small, sometimes drastic.

We falsely train ourselves, or allow ourselves to be trained to: Be consistent. Be reliable. Pick one path. Stick to it. These values are essential for civilisation to hold together (though not foraging societies) but for some of us the personal price we pay is far too high.

Variety is not the enemy of commitment, it is what keeps commitment from suffocating. When we understand variety as a biological and psychological need rather than a consumer impulse, we can stop condemning it and start using it freely and even wisely.

Human Apes do not crave novelty because they are broken. They crave it because they are living as they should.

Intimacy is one of those words we think we understand until we try to define it. These are our thoughts, no doubt not everyone will agree!

Most people default to sex, romance, or physical closeness. But intimacy is not synonymous with any of those things, even though it can include them. Intimacy is not something you do. It is something you experience with another person, and even with yourself. At its core, intimacy is about being known or knowing yourself.

It is the feeling that someone sees you clearly. It is emotional safety. It is the freedom to show up without performing, explaining, or defending who you are. It is the quiet confidence that you do not need to edit yourself to be accepted. In terms of yourself, it is about knowing your choices and decisions are grounded in understanding yourself well.

The many faces of intimacy

Closeness that creates intimacy does not automatically come with time, commitment, or marriage. You can share a bed with someone for decades and still feel deeply alone. Equally, you can feel profound intimacy with someone you barely know or have just met. The barriers just feel transparent or non-existent and you connect.

Intimacy for many people feels too risky to contemplate. To be intimate is to allow yourself to be seen without certainty of outcome. It requires openness without guarantees. However, we need intimacy because humans are have evolved for connection; it regulates our nervous systems, reduces stress and reinforces a sense of belonging. It reminds us that we are not alone.

Without intimacy, relationships become functional but arguably hollow. We can co-parent, cohabit, and co-manage finances while slowly disconnecting from one another. Life keeps moving on, but something vital is missing.

Many people live in long-term relationships where love exists but intimacy has faded. This is often described as a lack of sex, but that is only part of the story. What is usually missing is emotional intimacy, curiosity, attunement and feeling chosen rather than taken for granted.

Intimacy maintenance

Intimacy requires ongoing effort because people change. The version of your partner you knew five, ten, or twenty years ago is not the same person standing in front of you today. Neither are you. Intimacy is not something you establish once and then rely on indefinitely. It needs constant on-going maintenance.

One of the most common myths about intimacy is that it should come naturally if a relationship is “right”. When it does not, people assume something is wrong. In reality, intimacy needs practise and sometimes variety. It is shaped by communication skills, emotional literacy, and the willingness to tolerate discomfort. Avoidance of these is intimacy’s biggest enemy.

We stop asking questions because we are afraid of the answers. We stop sharing because it feels safer to stay quiet. We prioritise a quite life over ruffling feathers. These choices may reduce conflict in the short term, but they erode intimacy over time.

Self before others

Another misconception is that intimacy is purely interpersonal. In truth, it is deeply connected to self-intimacy. If you are disconnected from your own needs, desires, boundaries, and emotions, it becomes impossible to share them with someone else, or appreciate theirs. Intimacy with others often mirrors the relationship you have with yourself.

In committed relationships, intimacy is often taken for granted. The assumption is that commitment guarantees closeness. It does not. Commitment creates structure. An irregular connection with another person can be more intimate than a lifetime spent with the wrong person.

We also need to acknowledge that intimacy looks different for different people. Some feel closest through conversation, others through shared experiences and some through physical touch. Problems can arise when partners assume their version of intimacy is universal. Understanding how you experience intimacy is essential before understanding others. Hopefully some time with us will help you answer this question, if you are not sure. We create an intimate space for guests, so also hopefully you can begin to experience the feeling again.

Intimacy matters because it is an essential part of being human, it is not a luxury, it is a psychological and emotional necessity. A life without it can be unfulfilling. Above all, intimacy does not survive or grow on passive assumption – it needs proactive attention and skill to achieve it.

Love and physical intimacy are often spoken about as if they are interchangeable. As if wanting one automatically means wanting the other, in the same way, for the same reasons. Much of the tension around intimacy, desire and long-term relationships comes from the assumption that love and physical intimacy should mean the same thing to both partners, all the time. They do not.

Everything and nothing …

Men and women are often described as having fundamentally different relationships with the two. While these differences are not universal and are shaped by culture, personality, and lived experience, patterns do emerge. Ignoring them does not make them disappear, it simply makes them harder to talk about.

For many women, love is closely tied to emotional safety. Physical intimacy is often most fulfilling when it flows from emotional connection rather than precedes it. This does not mean women do not desire physical intimacy for its own sake; it means that context can matter.

For a lot of men, physical intimacy is more often experienced as a primary gateway to connection. It can be a way of feeling close, reassured, and bonded. Physical intimacy can function as affirmation, stress relief and a sense of being wanted. Love may grow as a result rather than being a prerequisite for it.

These are tendencies, not rules, a significant number of men and women can experience the opposite. But cultural messaging around gender has long shaped expectations that still influence how people approach the dynamics of physical intimacy and love. Problems arise when these differences are moralised and we are all expected to align with the prevailing norms.

Women are often told they are “withholding”, while men are told they are “only interested in one thing”. Both narratives are reductive and unhelpful. Each interprets the other’s behaviour through their own lens, and resentment often builds as a result.

Love complicates things

Love is often framed as unconditional, enduring, and selfless. Physical intimacy, on the other hand, is often framed as optional, opportunistic or even transactional – it does not always require commitment. When these narratives collide, physical intimacy can become loaded with expectation and pressure. “If you love me, you will want me.” “If you want me, you will love me.” Both statements are fundamentally flawed. Love can exist a lifetime without physical desire. Physical desire can exist momentarily without love. Expecting one to permanently guarantee the other is one of the most common sources of long-term relationship strain.

The standard narrative reminds us that security also plays a role. For women, security means exclusive emotional consistency, reliability, trust and access. For men, security can be experienced through exclusive access to physical intimacy primarily over emotional. When one partner feels insecure, their instinct may be to seek reassurance through physical intimacy, while the other’s instinct may be to pull away until safety is restored.

Long-term relationships expose the illusion that love and intimacy will always align effortlessly. Once this happens, many couples panic. They assume something is broken. In reality, the foundation model no longer fits. It probably never did.

Perhaps the goal for some people to find happiness is not to see love and physical intimacy as prerequisites for each other, but to see them independent of each other and just accept they are not the same thing.

In 1943, American psychologist Abraham Maslow published his paper A Theory of Human Motivation in the journal Psychological Review. In it, he proposed what later became known as the Hierarchy of Needs, a framework that remains influential decades later.

Often illustrated as a pyramid, Maslow’s hierarchy begins with basic physiological needs. These are the biological requirements necessary for survival, regardless of personality or preferences and include air, food, water, shelter, warmth, sleep, and reproduction. Maslow argued that until these foundational needs are sufficiently met, higher psychological needs remain difficult, if not impossible, to pursue.

Only once these base requirements are met can individuals reliably move toward needs of safety, love and belonging, esteem, and ultimately self-actualisation. In other words, fulfilment, and personal growth are luxuries of stability. They are not accessible when the body is deprived.

Deprivation

This idea is intuitive when applied to food or water. A person who has not eaten does not casually ignore hunger or thirst. Deprivation creates urgency, thoughts narrow and full attention is pulled toward finding nourishment. The longer food deprivation continues, the stronger the drive becomes, often overriding social norms.

Sleep deprivation works the same way. So does lack of oxygen – though it is far more urgent! Maslow described these foundational needs as “deficiency needs”. When they are unmet, they create a deficit state that motivates behaviour. Until the deficit is addressed, other concerns recede into the background.

Reproduction sits within this same category. Not just for pleasure though, but for the essential need to ensure the continuation of our species. Some have even argued this is the only real meaning of life – the continuation of our species. Yet unlike hunger or sleep deprivation, sexual deprivation is rarely discussed in neutral biological terms. It is often moralised, minimised, or reframed as optional, particularly in long-term relationships. This creates a disconnect between our physiological needs and higher cultural or religious doctrines.

If we apply Maslow’s logic consistently, the comparison becomes unavoidable: A person deprived of food experiences an increasing drive to obtain food. A person deprived of sex experiences an increasing drive to obtain sex. The mechanism is the same.

This does not mean the behaviours look identical. Sexual deprivation does not always manifest as overt pursuit. It may emerge as frustration, distraction, resentment, compulsive thinking, emotional withdrawal, depression, or risk-seeking behaviour. But the motivational pressure is real.

Non gender-specific

Importantly, Maslow’s hierarchy was never gender-specific. Women have sexual needs just as men do, though cultural narratives have often treated female sexuality as secondary, responsive, or even non-existent. This has led to the mistaken assumption that sexual deprivation is either trivial or something adults should simply tolerate or ignore indefinitely.

In long-term relationships, sex is often treated as something that should fade naturally, or something that can be sacrificed for the sake of stability, parenting, or emotional closeness. When dissatisfaction arises, individuals are frequently encouraged to “focus on the relationship”, “be patient”, or “lower expectations”.

But Maslow’s model reminds us that higher-order needs cannot reliably compensate for unmet base-level needs, especially in an older, fully functioning, healthy adult. Love, belonging, and esteem do not erase deprivation. At best they coexist with it acting as an anesthetic even long past the point where reproduction is possible.

The day-to-day reality

This does not mean sex must be constant, frequent, or identical for both partners. Nor does it imply entitlement. Maslow was not arguing that a need creates a right to another person’s body, anymore than it does their food, water or oxygen. Consent and autonomy remain absolute. What it does imply is that chronic sexual deprivation is not psychologically neutral.

Just as prolonged hunger reshapes behaviour, prolonged sexual deprivation reshapes emotions. It can erode self-worth, distort intimacy and undermine connections. When individuals are told that acknowledging this makes them selfish, immature or ungrateful the result is often shame rather than understanding or even empathy.

Modern cultures send contradictory messages. Sex is omnipresent in media, advertising and entertainment, yet often treated as irrelevant or inappropriate to discuss once commitment in a relationship is established. It is as impossible to go a day without seeing a sexualised advertisement.

Self-actualisation, in Maslow’s terms, is not achieved by bypassing the body. It is achieved by integrating it. When we understand deprivation as a driver rather than a moral failure, conversations about sex become less charged and more honest. The question shifts from blame to biology, from entitlement to awareness.

The caveat you say

All very well you may say, but sex is not necessarily about reproduction and reproduction does not require sex, so they are not the same physiological needs. Maslow is saying its the need to pass our genes on, not just have fun. Maybe with humans it amounts to the same thing.

Reproduction without sex is the result of recent advanced medical procedures. Throughout history reproduction has always required sex, so that is a strong natural motivator to enable us to pass genes on. Separating the pleasure of sex from the need to reproduce is unique to our species (and research shows possibly bonobos). As a species we have always had sex for pleasure. The book Sex At Dawn by Christopher Ryan, Cacilda Jethá makes for a fascinating read to further explore this far more than we can explain here. Suffice to say if all people only had intimacy to reproduce we would be living in a very, very different looking world than we do.