13 - Finally First Name Basis

Ever heard of a co-lover-in-law? A bed-sharing brother? A parallel spouse? No? Don’t worry—you didn’t miss a trending TikTok term. These aren’t hashtags yet. But maybe they should be.

And yet, those would all be fitting terms for the husband of the woman your own husband is sleeping with—with your full consent. Strangely, the dictionary offers zero help. Over the past few weeks, I’ve realized just how often language fails us—not just because we lack the vocabulary, but because no one really understands it when we try. It’s not just about finding a title for the people our partners sleep with. Sometimes, we don’t even know what to call our partner’s Tinder match.

She’s not a mistress—nothing's hidden.

She’s not a lover—no love, just logistics.

She’s not a friend with benefits—more like benefits with a possible friendship add-on.

She’s not a partner—they don’t share bills or a Netflix account.

And she’s definitely not a fling. Flings usually involve less calendar management.

The full absurdity of this hit me in Paris. I was there to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. She leaned back, took a sip of water (for once, it was too early for wine), and asked the kind of innocent question that derails your whole afternoon: “So, what brings you to Paris?” I could’ve lied. I could’ve mumbled something vague about errands or claimed I was just here to enjoy “Paris without the tourists in January.” But instead, I went for honesty.

“If I tell you, you’ll end up with more questions than answers.”

She grinned. “Now I really want to know.”

I took a deep breath and said:

“I’m in Paris to take my lover to a doctor’s appointment.”

Full stop. Silence. Not exactly ‘writing a novel’ or ‘finding myself’—but arguably the most Parisian thing I’ve ever done. She stared at me, wide-eyed. So I gave her a quick rundown of the past few months. And all the while, one thought kept circling in my head:

“Lover”? Really?

It sounded far too flimsy for what we had—too much boudoir, not enough bond. Especially since, to this day, we haven’t actually had "classical" sex.

And then came the kicker.

While I was busy debating semantics in my mind, the charming Swiss took a different approach. At the front desk of the clinic, he introduced me as:

“Not my wife—my mistress.”

I had to bite my lip not to laugh. Of course, it was pure provocation. The receptionist’s mouth dropped open. She looked at me. I smiled my brightest “everything’s fine” smile. 

Honestly, he could’ve called me his emotional support slut—would’ve landed just as softly. She blinked, closed her mouth, opened it again—and then silently turned back to her computer, presumably hoping she’d misheard. To remove any doubt, he pulled me closer and kissed my hand. Charming and unhelpful and way too long to be innocent.

But the problem isn’t just that we don’t have the words. It’s that we don’t talk about this stuff—so the language never evolved beyond the monogamy default. I’d love to use the word “polyamor” – as a counterpart to mon amour, but let’s be honest: it still sounds like a vegan sausage: ethically sound, emotionally soggy, and in desperate need of rebranding.

So what’s our solution?

Nothing revolutionary: we just use first names.

I’ve never liked saying “my husband”—I don’t love him as a husband. I love him—as a whole person. So I use his name. Even though it took me embarrassingly long to spell it correctly without checking, French names are a different topic. 

And we do the same with everyone we care about.

For the sake of privacy, they get aliases here:

Chloé is the Tinder girl,

Giovanni is the Swiss,

Pablo is the Spaniard.

At the end of the day, we don’t need a definition for everything. Not every connection fits neatly into a box with a tidy label. And if we do label it, let’s at least make it something that fits—something uniquely tailored to the connection itself.

May I suggest:

Heart-companion. Lust liaison.

Emotionally non-monogamous co-explorer with occasional nudity.

Or, if you prefer simplicity:

The kind of person you cancel dinner for—so you can eat her on the dining table instead.

Or reversed.

Your call.