Sex and Processing: A Polyamorous Life

What it's like on the insides

Today, I woke up in my husband’s bed. We were snuggled up together in the early morning light, suffused with satisfied exhaustion from a lovely night before.

I extricated myself and padded down the hall. Through an open door, I saw a pair of cute horizontal feet. I leapt through the door, onto the bed, and attacked our girlfriend with kisses as she smiled up at me.

Then, the both of us snuck quietly back down the hall, to hug and kiss and wrestle our other beloved into the day.

Poly family photo

I have been polyamorous for 12 years. For the most part it was not my choice. In almost all of my romantic relationships, my male partner has led the charge on relationship structure, and I struggled reluctantly behind.

I resented the form massively. “When I love”, I told them, “I don’t look at anyone else. I wish you wouldn’t either.” To them, free love meant a lack of confinement, which always had me feel like a unwanted jailor with beautiful keys.

I dated man after man who wanted to explore without losing security, and I tried everything to be okay with it. I went to therapists. I found other partners. I met my mens’ women and tried to be friends.

But it never worked. Without fail, every time my main partner went out with someone, and especially if I knew they were having sex, I had an anxiety attack. It was terrible: my emotions were on a roller coaster all the time, and break-ups and make-ups became the way of the world.

There were only two times that these relationships went well.

Once, my partner and I had a threesome with another woman. I actually found that fun. I knew I was just doing it for him - I wasn’t attracted to women; I wanted him to have the experience. But I felt surprisingly turned on and comfortable in that connection. I promptly stuffed those feelings in the “inappropriate” closet. I wasn’t polyamorous, I told myself, and I definitely didn’t like women like that.

In another relationship, my metamour (partner’s partner) worked hard to create a connection with me. Although we were very different, we fought tooth and nail to form a friendship. We had an open Voxer thread where we would bitch about our feelings anytime they came up. In that connection, with her and with my partner, I was able to relax a bit. Lots of feelings still came up - but I didn’t have to hold them inside, so they didn’t burn their way out of me.

I found that a lot of my jealousy came from distance. When I couldn’t feel or predict both people in the relationship, I started to feel unsafe. I didn’t know what was going on or whether it met the bounds of our agreements. I didn’t know whether I’d be included in the emotions that were developing. Unless I had a connection with my metamour, I didn’t feel like I had more love, but like the love I had was being taken away.

That relationship was better than the previous ones. It still ended with distance. The jealousy was less, but it didn’t go away for any of us, so there were constant stressors on the relationship. And while each person in our triad had connection with each other, when we all hung out together, the dynamic didn’t work. I and my metamour would dominate the conversation, while our partner held back. And there was no sexual chemistry between her and I. (That was expected, I thought, because I was Not Gay.)

I went from that mostly positive experience into a distinctly negative one.

My next partner was a (physically) gorgeous man with confusing desires. We started the relationship all in with each other, although he did tell me that he would want to explore with others.

When the relationship opened, it did so as a flood. He went on tons of dates and wanted something more akin to relationship anarchy, where no connection took precedence, than the primary/secondary dynamics in which I’d found some safety before. But he still wanted me close. Our relationship became a tumult of broken agreements and hurt feelings, where the bright flame of our connection burned us both equally - and me, probably, more.

The longer the relationship went, the more painful it got. I felt confused and hurt - hadn’t he told me, from the beginning, that he wanted to be open? Why was I having so much trouble? Our times together were so wonderful, and we acted so primary, that the constant string of women seemed like it shouldn’t be a problem for me.

A poem I wrote at the time

In retrospect, when I look back at that relationship, I can see how unhealthy it was. I think the main reasons were these:

On my side, I didn’t understand the difference between desires, boundaries, and limits.

I wish everyone learning to be polyamorous would be taught this, but I haven’t seen it in any book.

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