Metamour-phosis

A word I’ve been thinking about recently is “metamour”. Like so many inventions of polyamory, a coinage by the non-monogamous community that works to expand possibility, the term is a portmanteau of the Greek prefix “meta” (meaning “beyond”) and the French word “amour” (meaning “love”). It’s a way of recognising and celebrating the love that coexists alongside and between our own direct relationships – referring to the constellations of intimacy within any polyamorous community.

“Metamour” can mean different things to different people, but let’s start with some common ground. According to Rachel Seymour – a sex and relationship therapist who caters to non-monogamous, kinky and queer folks – the term can be defined as follows: “A metamour is the partner of your partner; someone who you generally don't have a sexual or romantic relationship with directly (although not always).”

Unspooling the word from its most literal meaning, however, there are plenty of different ways to define or experience being someone’s metamour. In fact, the interactions between metamours can vary hugely from situation to situation depending on the type of polyamory practiced and the level of contact between metamours. 

As Seymour explains, this can range from parallel polyamory, where metamours will “generally have little to no contact with one another,” to garden party polyamory, where they will be “friendly towards one another when in the same space, but won't choose to spend time together outside of larger social situations.” In kitchen table polyamory, metamours are close enough to “live together under one roof, or to spend extended periods of time together, either with their shared partner or alone together.” 

Naturally, the above definitions only suffice for platonic metamours – i.e. metamours who aren’t also sexually or romantically involved – but already there are huge differences between the comfortability and closeness of metamours therein. This wide range of experiences can be seen across media representations of metamour dynamics. 

While I can’t recall seeing the term “metamour” explicitly referenced by name in literature or onscreen, I’ve seen examples in action. The recent Ira Sachs film Passages, for one, explores metamour relationships to surprising effect. Revolving around the doomed throuple the film’s most poignant moments show Agathe and Martin  away from their hinge partner Tomas – in particular, a scene where the two metamours meet up in a cafe, gently enquiring into one another’s well being and stoically consoling each other in the aftermath of a miscarriage. 

Perhaps it’s fitting that the word “metamour” is indebted to the French language. The 1943 novel L'Invitée (She Came To Stay) by Simone de Beauvoir – which is broadly considered to be an autobiographical account of an incident encountered in de Beauvoir’s relationship with Jean-Paul Sartre – depicts the conflict between a woman and her partner’s other partner. While the book dramatises the difficulties of transitioning from an open relationship into a polyamorous one, it remains wholly unsympathetic toward the dynamic’s “third” and instead indulges the jealousy, acrimony and competitiveness that can flourish in toxic metamour situations. 

Which is all to say that, as much as we can try and define, and then redefine, the levels of interaction between metamours – but these dynamics will always be different shades of emotional complexity. Sometimes the metamour relationship contains more respect, care and dignity and sometimes less. There’s not any one way of navigating these dynamics perhaps because, while a direct relationship requires some commonality between those involved (at the very least, sexual chemistry), there is no such guarantee with a metamour relationship. At times, the sole common link is the hinge partner. 

Part of the beauty of metamour dynamics comes of what the emotional grey zone allows: the chance to lean into the uncertainty of a new relationship with limited social or cultural antecedents. Because even in a parallel polyamory situation, where your metamour isn’t mentioned by name, this other person is always there – in the lingering scent of a perfume, or the fresh sheets whose very crispness recalls the warm, tangled embrace that filled the bed hours prior. 

Ultimately, it’s up to metamours to define their own ways of relating to one another – whether as romantic flatmates always out of sight, or comrades in a loving support network – and to celebrate the beauty of a well-designed, intentional romantic life.