Why promiscuity is not the path to female enlightenment

ROBIN Rinaldi should sue her marriage counsellor.

When she was in her mid-30s and engaged to be married to a man several years older, Rinaldi, the author of a new book called The Wild Oats Project, entered premarital counselling with a quack named George. Rinaldi wanted kids, and her future husband did not.

Here’s what George said: “I don’t know whether you two will end up having kids. But my feeling, Robin, is that if you eventually want children badly enough, Scott will get on board.”

Scott — predictably — did not get on board. In fact, he had a vasectomy. And so Rinaldi decided that if she couldn’t have children, at least she should get to have a lot of sex with a lot of different men and women — and men and women together.

Yes, the logic escapes me, too — and I read the whole book. It seems to have something to do with the fact that both having children and having promiscuous sex are expressions of her “femininity.” Regardless, her husband apparently felt so guilty (or spineless) that he agreed to “open” their marriage for a year.

But let’s return to George’s advice for a moment, because it’s the kind of stupid thing women tell themselves all the time.

We meet a man and we immediately start thinking of all the things we will change about him. Maybe you can get the guy to pick up his dirty socks more than once a week. But men are not children. And as the average age of marriage has ticked up further, our spouses are even less likely to alter fundamental aspects of themselves to suit us. If you think a 40-something man is going to change his mind about children or religion or politics or money — well, don’t count on it, sweetie.

A pastor I interviewed in Atlanta once told me that when he is advising young people on dating and marriage, he says, “you have to know your non-negotiables.”

We are so clear on our plans for our educations, our jobs, even what kind of house we’d like to buy. But finding the right partner seems to inspire reticence and confusion — particularly for women.

It’s more politically correct for ladies to plot out their career trajectories than say we are looking for someone who will make a good father. (If you look at the profiles of the people cast in the next season of “Married at First Sight,” for instance, all of the men and none of the women say they were looking for someone who was family-oriented.)

Trying to suppress maternal desires in an effort to seem enlightened has the potential for disaster — as Rinaldi quickly learned.

In fact, it may be more necessary now than ever to have detailed conversations before we tie the knot. As more and more people decide to forego having children, we can no longer simply assume that men are just going to “come around.”

Many women say they are completely fulfilled without becoming mothers. Who am I to argue? But Rinaldi is not among them. She reports that she dotes on the offspring of relatives and friends — even excusing herself from adult conversation at parties to go chat with small children.

She seethes with jealousy when she finds out others are pregnant or planning to have children. She is profoundly sad about the empty state of her womb.

Indeed, the whole Wild Oats Project is a way for Rinaldi to escape the devastation she experiences when she realises she will not be a mother. So, can feminist empowerment provide her the comfort she needs?

Rinaldi finds new lovers — at a commune, on business trips, through dating websites, etc. The sex, she reports in great detail, is amazing. (Rinaldi’s prose has a kind ofFifty Shades of Grey quality — both the style and the substance.)

But in her quest to become a more fulfilled woman, she sounds like, well, a man. She proudly uses sex partners as objects and works hard to not become emotionally attached to them — her web ad says that she will go on no more than three dates with anyone.

Her journey to feminist enlightenment ends in a predictable place. “I learned I didn’t need a man or a child in order to experience true womanhood.” Just like a fish doesn’t need a bicycle. She ends the book divorced, and childless, in a relationship with one of her lovers. She says she has found “security” in herself.

Count me sceptical — the book is dedicated to “Ruby,” the child she never had.

This story originally appeared on the New York Post