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There was this era, in the few months between my last long-term relationship and my current marriage (to a woman), in which I, also a woman, decided to be bi-curious and “experiment” with dating guys. I wonder what that’ll be like, I thought, switching the gender over on the app and watching as hoards of 20-somethings with little mullets and pulled-up socks filled my screen. I hadn’t been with men since I was a teenager, but hey, I was intrigued. What would stubble feel like on my face? Are men into getting topped these days? Might I end up crushing on a guy?
It didn’t go particularly well. Not for one central reason—there were many—although I do think my total unfamiliarity with an unspoken heterosexual script had something to do with it. Men thought I was really into them if I was being a normal level of friendly, or not into them enough if I was busy (the latter was probably true). Mostly, though, I just didn’t feel straight or even bi enough. I’ve only ever been in love with women. I didn’t even know where to begin when it came to men (they think completely different things are hot), which is funny, because, whenever you hear about bi-curiosity, or even straight-up bisexuality, it’s so often the other way round. People don’t feel “queer enough”. They’re too used to the straight world. They’re trepidatious about queer sex, and so on.
It’s easy to see why we mostly hear about people dipping their toes into the queer pond as opposed to the straight one. Compulsory heterosexuality (the assumption that you’re straight until you prove otherwise via the inescapable process of “coming out”) means that plenty of people naturally find themselves in straight-passing relationships to begin with (as many as 88 per cent of bi people are in opposite-sex partnerships). I can imagine queer dating feeling daunting if you’re not used to it, and I can also understand why you’d put off the whole rigmarole of living an openly queer lifestyle considering all the homophobia and biphobia. But when it comes to the other way round, things get a little murkier. It’s much harder to explain. It’s like making a big thing about not drinking, and then one day randomly asking for a shot (people look at you with suspicion, closely followed by concern).
I think one of the reasons we don’t hear so much about bi-curiosity in “the other” direction is because, if you’ve come out as gay or a lesbian (rather than bi), you’ve probably already done a lot of thinking about whether you fancy the opposite gender or not and then decided that you don’t. So we just see bi-curiosity happen less. To go back on that already quite arduous process can also feel confusing—for everyone, not just yourself. I spent so long carefully extricating myself from any heterosexual expectations or frameworks that, ultimately, I just didn’t feel strongly enough about men to start wading back into all that with any vigour. Living queerly is freeing in a million different ways, so being bi-curious, in the other direction, perhaps doesn’t hold the same appeal as it does for straight-passing people.
My “dating men” phase burned out quickly, and I soon returned to where I felt most at ease: in the queer bars and unofficial lesbian coffee shops of East London. I may never know if I have the propensity to fall for a man. I met my wife in 2017 and never looked back. But, when it comes to labels—which can be useful, and empowering for so many people—I don’t think we need to be feeling such pressure to grip onto them so tightly. Sexuality is complicated, sometimes it changes over time, other times it doesn’t. Where you exist on the spectrum is up to you, regardless of your orientation. We needn’t be forced to pick one team and stick to it until death.
This article first appeared on Vogue.co.uk
Also read:
My bisexuality curse is being thought of as “neither straight, nor queer”
Why is Gen Z so turned on by monogamy?
Shawn Mendes addressed discourse around his sexuality mid-concert
