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When my partner Adam asked what I thought of his girlfriend Leah coming out to visit for his birthday, I pragmatically decided to view it as the next step on my path. I’d read in “The Smart Girl’s Guide to Polyamory” that one of the best ways to combat jealousy was to meet your metamour. Since she would be coming to visit for a week in August (a whole week straight!), I decided to reach out. And thus began the most texting-intensive relationship of my life.
Indeed, it was actually a huge relief to text with Leah. Our exchanges were overtly kind; we were both going out of our way to signal politeness. It reminded me of how some femmes will reflexively compliment something about your outfit when they meet you at a party, as if to say, “I come in peace.” Or is it a keep your friends close, enemies closer kind of thing?
Leah was deferential to my “primacy” in a way that made me feel like she had no interest in stealing my place. She did this by sometimes saying so directly, but also demonstrated it by rarely referencing her relationship with Adam at all. The same unspoken code didn’t apply to me, with her making generous references to admiring our “primary relationship.” But I tried not to talk about Adam in any way that might come off as bragging.
On the rare occasion she did mention Adam with romantic undertones, I’d feel a twinge of jealousy, a feeling that it was somehow a passive-aggressive power play. And then I’d consciously try to shut the thought down, because it was unfair.
I became close to my partner’s girlfriend, Leah
When it came to everything but the man we “shared,” we were almost compulsively forthcoming. We dished about sex (except sex with Adam) in the kind of detail I’d seen on “Sex and the City.” Was it because we shared the same man? Were we backhand bragging? Bonding? All of the above, I’d suspect. Soon, we could even commiserate over Adam’s newer romantic prospects like more senior sister wives; admitting how attractive they were, the precarious feeling of constant competition.
I soon became very protective of Leah’s well-being, a sort of on-call counselor. I found she was sometimes even more anxious, insecure, and neurotic than I was, which was really rather impressive/a little disturbing. Is this Adam’s type? No matter. Now that she was a real person instead of an abstract threat, what was important was Leah was no longer she-who-must-not-be-named in my mind.
I was even able to talk with Adam about her like a mutual friend. Sometimes, I knew things that were going on with her before he did. That felt good, too, like I was less excluded and more in control. Leah and I congratulated ourselves often on our friendship. It was a choice we were making, and not an easy one, not to cast the other as the enemy. It felt not just evolved, but laced with real sisterhood.
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Rachel Krantz is the author of the memoir “Open: One Woman’s Journey Through Love and Polyamory.” Photo Credit: Malika Danae Photography
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