The Myth of the Main Chick & The Messiah Complex

This is the first essay in the SXII Secure Prelude series Love Prism "Ego Death in Black Love"—a reflective, ritual-based exploration of relationship styles, erotic sovereignty, and the myths we inherit in Black love.

Love is often framed in binaries—main chick or side piece, savior or sinner. But what if love is a prism? What if devotion could distort—and still redeem? This opening essay spirals through those questions with vulnerability, sensual clarity, and ritual truth.

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I didn’t stumble into non-monogamy—I spiraled into it. Curious. Wide open. Wounded. Sensual.

I’ve been the beloved, the betrayer, the balm, and the burn. I’ve held hands across altars of transparency, and I’ve watched lies slip from my own lips—half-aware, half-terrified.

I’ve facilitated forums on jealousy, emotional literacy, and the erotic—and earlier on, I’d walk home, curl into myself, and realize I hadn’t yet applied what I taught. Expansive in theory, unpracticed in self-trust.

My story isn’t clean. It’s layered. Circular. Redemptive. And at its center is this truth: This is not a love triangle. It’s a love prism.

A sovereign, sensual, non-linear structure that reimagines how we love, how we lose, and how we return to self—radiant, refracted, and still worthy of devotion. I used to think being chosen meant I had won.

I once believed love was a battlefield—but it’s more like the space between creativity and manifestation.

It requires comfort with the unknown, a commitment to return, a willingness to break orbit, and the softness to nourish what wants to bloom.

“The One” was a spell—one I thought would give me safety, security, and validation. I played the role: The emotionally intelligent one. The one who “understood.” The chill girl with deep thoughts and flexible boundaries—just grateful to be included in someone’s chaos. Sometimes chaos I created, untrained in holding space for real freedom without a facade. It was never love. It was labor disguised as love.

The Main Chick myth seduced me. She’s not just a position—she’s a performance. A role designed to prove worth through exclusivity. And yet... I’ve also been the Messiah. The one who thought I could heal him, fix them, guide her through ego death.

I turned spiritual labor into foreplay. Believed my erotic devotion could cleanse a man into alignment. But I wasn’t saving him. I was avoiding myself.

The Messiah Complex and the Main Chick myth are two sides of the same coin: the belief that love must be earned through sacrifice. But real love? It doesn’t require martyrdom. It asks for presence. Truth. Release.

At 20, I chose non-monogamy. Not as rebellion—but as ritual. A reclamation of erotic autonomy in a world obsessed with possession. I read The Ethical Slut, Love Without Limits, and Amsterdam’s Love Anarchy zines—eager to find labels that would liberate me. Solo poly. Relationship anarchist. Fluid bonded. Hierarchical. Non-hierarchical. Each held some truth—but mostly, they felt like sarcastic reactions to freedom.

I wore queerness and openness like a badge. Not because I had it figured out—but because I was starved for systems that didn’t punish my multiplicity, intensity, or tenderness. But here’s what no one told me: Freedom without self-awareness is just another kind of cage. Yes, I was “free.” But also afraid. Untrained. Triggered. Still chasing worth through how wanted I could be in a room. I didn’t yet know the difference between being loved and being centered. Monogamy, in its toxic form, becomes a tool of surveillance. Patriarchy, racism, and survival culture create false binaries: main vs side. Savior vs sinner. Sneaky link vs spouse. In Black love, we inherit the scarcity myth: only one of us gets loved fully. We ritualize restriction. We confuse care with compliance. People want you to police your own presence—to dim your light, prove you're not a threat, and self-regulate your radiance. Monogamy becomes a weapon used to maintain control, not a commitment rooted in mutual freedom.

Platonic romance, emotional transparency, tenderness—all become suspect. Innocence gets overshadowed by performance. And because we lack RSE—relational and sexual education—we're left to mimic what we never learned to name.

Sex. Romance. The erotic—these are cultural.

When our insecurities are left undressed, we conform just to survive. We sneak. We shade. We lie—because we’re terrified to lose what we never felt safe in. After years of experimentation—situationships, romantic friendships, solo tantra, kink, and de-centering romance altogether— I learned this: When you choose the community, being chosen becomes a reflection of your contribution to the whole.

In monogamous or exclusive moments, love can still be sacred—if it’s rooted in heart-based receivership, not control.

In my clumsy search for what’s healthy, I found that care simplifies everything. Zuri, one of my metamours, taught me another layer of reflection—reflective, never reactive. We stayed friends. We even co-created. We honored peace in the kingdom.
Jealousy will always visit the room—but it can be softened. It’s the refusal to stretch into compersion that makes everything burn. Freedom without awareness? It’s just another performance.

Now, I see compatibility as an anchor, and commitment as a soft landing. So the need to compete becomes a losing game.

My intimate relationships become a compass, a reflection, a galaxy of sensuality—expanding attraction so it’s no longer a life sentence, but a dance of pure creative potentiality. Autonomy decides its lifespan.

We ritualize negotiation, uplift ongoing dialogue, and take space to process. We create beauty that aligns with our capacity and tackle conflict with somatic movement to reveal love’s tension. Because love, too, requires protocol.

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