this essay was originally published for The Lesbian Bar Project & is available in print in Pardi Girl Postal @ The Locavore Variety Store in the West Village <3. don’t feel like reading? you can listen instead.
I texted Elle. She was six hours behind, in New York City. I was in Paris, in bed, next to my ex-girlfriend, Bea.
It was a hot summer night — the kind of heat that only exists in the last two weeks of August, in a European city without air conditioning. While most Parisians fled for their summer vacation, Bea and I took advantage of the empty city and a free place to stay. My friend’s vacant studio — a perk of keeping in touch with the middle school foreign exchange student.
Usually, Bea and I lived together in my Greenwich Village apartment. We’d been together for two years but for the last ten months, we’d been long distance while Bea worked abroad. We planned an end of summer trip to the “City of Love.”
And though I’d envisioned many things for this trip, the last thing I predicted was that Bea and I would be in bed together, texting other women.
Yes, I was completing the lesbian rite de passage — going on a pre-planned vacation after breaking up. And my ex-girlfriend already had a new girlfriend because we were poly.
Well she was… and I was really, really trying to be.
It started back in May, Bea WhatsApp’ed me:
“An interesting thing about [REDACTED LOCATION] is that there’s a lot of couples who swing.”
My immediate response:
“Woof.”
This should have been the first sign that what was to come was not for me.
But if there’s anything lesbians are good at, it’s ignoring red flags.
What ensued was an extensive text conversation (another red flag) about her new discovery from the swinging community: polyamory.
Bea: “Yeah idk I think poly is cool. Requires a lot of honesty and communication but like it’s very evolved to me.”
Emily: “Evolved in the sense of just a more modern/open view of relationships?”
Bea: “[It] makes sense when you look at how rare manogamy is in every other species and the heteronormativity behind it.”
She spelled monogamy wrong. Bea blew up our relationship over text and couldn’t even spell the reason right. That’s when I really should have gotten out.
But I thought I was in love — Bea was my first girlfriend, which Sapphics know is famously the most tumultuous, blinding, and unforgiving kind of love. I figured, if we’d survived a global pandemic together, couldn’t we survive this?
So I stayed, desperate to diffuse a bomb I didn’t know had been ticking.
In the conversations that ensued, Bea explained that she saw polyamory as more than just a relationship structure, but her sexual identity — like she was “coming out” again — and the desire to be poly always hung over her long-term relationships, but she never explored it from a fear of being judged.
Instead, I did some research.
I thought polyamory sounded like communism: great in theory, but horrific in practice for someone like me — a medicated, anxious, perfectionist Jewess. And yet, I would try anything to be a good, understanding partner — even sleeping with other people.
My new lifestyle began. I bought the books, read the blogs, listened to the podcasts, studied the shit out of how to be an “Ethical Slut.” It had no surface level appeal to me, but Bea was thriving – so I figured there must be something I was missing.
And I hit the town.
The town meaning the small pocket of lesbian night life in New York City: Cubbyhole, Henriettas, The Woods on Wednesday, and the digital-hellscape we call “Hinge.”
I quickly realized that I was not interested in another emotional connection, which left one thing to pursue: sex.
So I sexted, and DFMO’ed, and one-night standed… Unfortunately, I’m more of a prude than I realized and ended up primarily just “making out” then crying, alone, at home. Turns out heartbreak is not an aphrodisiac. But Bea already had a full roster and I felt like if I wasn’t hooking up, I was falling behind.
As the weeks wore on, a side of me emerged that I didn’t like — a transactional side, where all of the romance disappeared from dating. There was no intimacy, no connection, no passion. I just wanted to say that I’d done it, but really, I felt nothing.
Until one night at Cubbyhole.
It was a typical Sapphic Friday: my vodka cran was too strong and I kept locking eyes with NO ONE I WANTED TO… Until my friend, Kay, approached. She was in fishnets and 28 rings, despite only having 10 fingers (lesbians defy the laws of physics, I don’t make the rules.)
Kay pulled me aside:
“I HAVE SOMEONE FOR YOU TO MEET. SHE’S ONLY DATING POLY GIRLS.”
Kay excitedly declared. Fine, whatever. I rolled my eyes and let her drag me to the front of the bar — then, like the parting of the Red Sea, a gaggle of NYU baby queers moved aside… and I laid my eyes on the most beautiful woman. Big brown eyes, dazzling smile, and honey-colored, curled hair (which I later learned was dyed in a post-breakup haze) — this was Elle.
Elle sipped her Modelo while my knees went weak. It was one of the moments you hope for on a night out — walking into a disco-balled gay bar and meeting a gorgeous stranger that will change your life.
A classic West Village night ensued — drunkenly jumping in a cab to Henrietta’s, a round (or two) of shots, singing under the flashing lights. On the dance floor, I whispered in Elle’s ear, “I’m so incredibly attracted to you.” Only for her to respond, “awww” before being whisked away by another woman.
Damnit. Not only was I rejected, I was “awww”-ed.
That night, I went home without her number.
Not just home to my apartment, but across the country to my parents’ house in LA. Although I was still technically in a relationship, I was more heartbroken than ever. I made the executive decision to get out of the city and do some soul-searching from my childhood bedroom.
As much as I wanted to ignore it, the entire foundation of my relationship had shifted. I couldn’t call my girlfriend on a Sunday morning because she was in bed with someone else — and while I tried to accept it, I couldn’t. I was following along someone else’s playbook, desperate not to be left behind.
DING.
My phone chimed. A text from an unknown number.
“Hey, it’s Elle. I got your number from a friend. I’d love to see you again.”
I was intrigued. Maybe it was time to go back to New York.
The next week, Elle and I were at a cozy wine bar on Jane & Eighth on a first date. Well, a very untraditional first date — because we were both completely disinterested in falling in love.
Elle’s long-term relationship had recently ended and she had strict criteria for who she’d date to avoid another heartbreak. The new women had to be: poly (preferably in a relationship), shorter than her (a challenge when she stood a mere five-feet-three-inches), and twenty-six or under (to avoid any serious marriage talk).
I checked all the boxes.
Later that night, we had our first kiss in the same corner of Cubbyhole where we’d met. Elle did the impossible, she made the Daffy Duck barstools sexy — and she was a really, really good kisser.
While there is no greater foreplay to me than conversation — we stopped it right there.
Just a kiss.
Elle wasn’t like everyone else I’d seen that summer. I felt deeply connected to her, despite barely knowing her. So naturally, I wanted to push her as far away as possible.
Especially because Bea was coming back to town.
Three days later, Bea came to New York to spend a few days in the city before we left for Paris. Things had been… complicated as she was getting deeper into a new relationship with another woman. Our communication was breaking down. For months, I’d asked Bea to read a chapter of the holy text on non-monogamy:
POLYSECURE, CHAPTER 7: THE FOUNDATIONS OF BEING POLYSECURE.
Because, sure, we were poly. But we were anything but secure.
Bea promised she’d read it before landing in New York.
The evening of her arrival, I wanted everything to be flawless. This was the first time we’d seen each other in person since becoming non-monogamous. I wanted to prove to her I could handle it, when months prior she’d callously declared, “I don’t think polyamory’s for you.”
I cleaned the apartment, lit candles, dimmed the lights, put on music and waited.
When Bea walked in she asked:
“Do you have my packages?”
Of course, I had piled high everything that she’d shipped to the states because it was too expensive to send to her place abroad.
The first thing Bea did, was open the packages, try on her new bikinis, and look at herself in the mirror. She took photos of herself and texted them, presumably, to her new girlfriend.
It was at that moment that I realized exactly what I’d become: a storage unit.
A place for Bea to hold onto her New York life, while she was temporarily abroad. Bea got the best of both worlds – emotional support and an address in the states; sex and adventure elsewhere.
Surely, Bea’d read the chapter and we’d be able to work this out.
“Did you read it?” I asked.
“My wifi didn’t work on the plane and I didn’t download it.”
She didn’t read the book. Not even the book, a CHAPTER. An EXCERPT of the TEXT on how to have a healthy non-monogamous relationship. She was winging it. Poly was her newfound sexual identity that she had no interest in academically understanding – but she had the nerve to tell me to “listen to podcasts to educate myself.”
And as the rage boiled inside of me, I had to ask:
“Are you going to be poly forever?”
“Not for the right person.” Bea said.
Finally, the straw broke.
I was done. I couldn’t do this anymore, she had to move out. It’s one thing to be polyamorous, it’s another thing to be an asshole.
I went to Paris two days early; she stayed behind while I cooled off. Whether it was guilt over Bea’s PTO, sado-masochism, or sheer curiosity of what would happen next (I am a writer after all) – I still let her come to Paris.
We took our pre-planned vacation. Afterwards, she’d go back to New York and move out; I’d stay in Europe and go to Berlin. The summer would end along with our relationship.
On our first night together in Paris, as we lay in bed, I thought about Elle.
Her warmth, her kindness, her laugh. I’d kept Elle at arm’s length, scared that we’d be something real when I wasn’t ready for it. Besides, Elle said she never wanted to fall in love again. She liked me because I didn’t carry that risk.
Brave from the Bordeaux and restless from the time change… I texted her anyway:
“I’m single now, I hope that doesn’t change anything.”
It changed everything. We did exactly what we swore not to; we fell in love. We didn’t rush into anything — we took our time, I promise. Almost four years later, Elle and I are still together — in a monogamous relationship.
Had a brief tryst that changed your life? let’s talk about it in the comments xx
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