Read the linked article, and I still cannot get my mind around it.

It's the end all, and be all of feminism, the total victory, the light of Man extinguished forever.

As I write this, my children are asleep in their room, Loretta Lynn is on the stereo, and my wife is out on a date with a man named Paulo. It’s her second date this week; her fourth this month so far. If it goes like the others, she’ll come home in the middle of the night, crawl into bed beside me, and tell me all about how she and Paulo had sex. I won’t explode with anger or seethe with resentment. I’ll tell her it’s a hot story and I’m glad she had fun. It’s hot because she’s excited, and I’m glad because I’m a feminist.

Being a feminist means no matter what a woman's depraved and outright evil behavior is, it's ok because woman.

Before my wife started sleeping with other men, I certainly considered myself a feminist, but I really only understood it in the abstract. When I quit working to stay at home with the kids, I began to understand it on a whole new level. I am an economically dependent househusband coping with the withering drudgery of child-rearing

Complete role-reversal; her, er, his Alpha wife is out earning and fucking around while he dotes away on the kiddies and does the dishes.

Still, as a man, I could, if I wanted to, portray what I’m doing as “work,” and thus claim for myself the prestige men traditionally derive from “work.” Whenever I tell someone I stay home with the kids, they invariably say, “Hardest work in the world.” They say this because the only way to account for a man at home with the kids is to say what he’s doing is hard work. But there’s a subtext in the compliment that makes it backhanded: We both know no one ever says it to a woman. Mothers care; fathers provide care. The difference is crucial. Despite my total withdrawal from the economy and the traditional sources of masculine identity, I can still argue I am a provider. I provide care.

This is my first confirmed siting of a male hamster.

In this way, my masculine self-image was stretched but not broken. Diaper bag notwithstanding, I was still a Man. It wasn’t until my wife mentioned one evening that she’d kissed another man and liked it and wanted to do more than kiss next time that I realized how my status as a Man depended on a single fact: that my wife fucked only me.

Hamster overload.

For my wife, the choice between honoring our vows and fulfilling her desires was a false choice, another trap. She knew how deep our love was, and knew that her wanting a variety of sexual experiences as we traveled through life together would not diminish or disrupt that love. It took me about six months — many long, intense conversations, and an ocean of red wine — before I knew it, too.

When my wife told me she wanted to open our marriage and take other lovers, she wasn’t rejecting me, she was embracing herself. When I understood that, I finally became a feminist.

The normal mind recoils at this; clearly her husband was unable to properly deal with the insane demands of his wife, and he went insane himself.

How does it work? We take turns going out. Because we have small children (ages 6 and 3), one of us stays home. (We don’t like to use babysitters because it gives us a curfew; we’d rather go out unfettered than worry about turning into a pumpkin at midnight.) Going out alone to hooking up with others was an easy transition. It does work both ways and, yes, I too enjoy sexual carte blanche. I just don’t use mine as much as my wife uses hers.

No shit?

How does it feel? It feels great ... mostly. Most of the time, it feels like a mature, responsible way to address our needs and desires within our loving, mutually supportive marriage.

This is not in any way a marriage.

There are of course moments of jealousy, resentment, and insecurity. Recently, my wife went on a date and fell asleep at his apartment. I hadn’t heard from her since 10 p.m., she still wasn’t home at 6 a.m. ... When she finally texted me at 7:30 a.m., relief coursed through me like morphine. She wrote, “fuckfuckfuckfuck Im soooooo sorry. Fell asleep.” I replied, “Just glad you’re ok, but next time, no radio silence. Remember: you’re not alone.”

If it turned out I was a friend of a friend of a friend of this creature, I'd dump my friend. At this point, I'm convinced this entire article is a parody.

This has been the great challenge of my open marriage: to draw strength from vulnerability. Doing so requires supreme self-confidence.

Only someone as powerfully confident as Mr. Sonmore could let his wife fuck dozens of other men. Got it.

From everywhere comes the message that what I’m doing is for weaklings, losers, failures, pussies.

The wisdom of crowds.

I’m grateful to my wife for pushing us to take this leap, and whatever happens to us in the future I would do it all again. And when she comes home tonight and crawls into bed beside me with a hot story about her date with Paulo, she’ll do it all again, too.

This then is the ultimate goal of Feminism; women can literally do anything they want, judgement free, and come home to a house and a cuddle - and have share their "hot" stories of cuckolding their castrated house-husband over a bottle of wine - just like they'd do with one of their girlfriends.

And the entire Nation is a no-judgement zone.