‘Oh, you’re in your bi phase?’ At 34, I had been on three dates with a girl I met on Tinder and was telling some friends at a birthday party. I was not, in fact, in my ‘bi phase’. I was in my ‘coming out phase’.
It wasn’t until I had a relationship with a same-sex partner (that was serious enough to introduce to friends and family) that I felt I was able to come out as bisexual. I have known I was bi for as long as I can remember but when I was with my ex-husband — who I met at 18 and was with until we separated when I was 30 — it didn’t seem important to acknowledge my queerness to others, or really, to myself. In many ways I regret this now, but two years as an ‘out’ bisexual have shown me how challenging immersing myself in the queer community while in a straight-facing relationship would have been.
I experience bierasure and biphobic comments on an almost daily basis. The following are just a handful of statements made to me (to my face) by friends, work contacts and acquaintances in the last two years: “Didn’t you have your gay phase when you were younger?”; “Are you gay now?”; “Are you straight again?”; “Don’t you miss proper sex?”; “Do you prefer men or women?” (No, you have to choose); “Who’s the man in your relationship?”; “Is that why you got divorced?”; “Are you back on men now?”; “Isn’t it all a bit confusing for your son?”; “You’re not queer, though”.
It’s even more challenging for those who identify as queer but are yet to have a same-sex relationship. One of my closest friends is often challenged by those inside and outside the queer community on her right to the title of bisexuality since she predominantly dates men.
And so to my ‘dating phase’. The following are questions I’ve been asked on dating apps or by potential romantic partners I’ve met in the real world (a retro habit of mine) over the last five years: “How many men and women have you slept with?”; “Have you been with women before?”; “Why do you identify as bi?”; “How can you be bi and monogamous?”. And shout out to my favourite dating bio of all time, written by a woman, a targeted sniper attack just when I thought I was ready to look for love again: “No single mums, no bis.” Poetry.
These words have never hurt me, and they have no power to do so. They are the buzz of a distant mosquito, easily swatted, never close enough to bite. But I know that this is because I am privileged. I grew up masking my queer identity, enjoying straight privilege alongside white privilege.
I rebuilt my self-esteem after becoming a single mum (my ‘therapy phase’) and my queer identity is in the very foundations of me: it is unshakable. So why moan? Why request a platform to talk about a hardship that isn’t a hardship for me at all, really? Because representation is important, and misrepresentation is dangerous. Invalidation and erasure may sound less dangerous than overt discrimination but they are insidious. They can get into your very bones and make you question who you are, especially if you’re grappling with your sexuality without the privileges I’m blessed with.
The challenges faced by the bi community are taking their toll. According to a report by Stonewall, just 36 per cent of bi individuals are out to their friends and 20 per cent to their families, compared to 74 per cent and 63 per cent respectively in the gay and lesbian population. The report also reveals that bi individuals often report not feeling welcome in LGBTQ+ spaces, and experience much higher rates of discrimination from within the LGBTQ+ community. Because of this, 43 per cent of bi people have never attended an LGBTQ+ space or event, compared to 29 per cent of gay men and lesbians.
Studies have also found that bisexual individuals are at increased risk for mental health, substance use and sexual health problems, and this is due in part to stigma and discrimination.
But why is there so much derision levelled at bisexuals, both from inside and outside the queer community? And why so much reluctance to proudly stand by a label of bi-or-pansexuality?
I know lesbians who explored their queer identity under the label of bisexuality and then settled on same-sex partners and dropped the bi. Gay men, too. There are also celebrity examples. Olympic boxer Nicola Adams spoke publicly in 2016 about her bisexuality before announcing in 2020 via social media: “I’m lesbian, not bi, just saying.” Gillian Anderson (a bicon of our time) has spoken about being with women, but chooses to self-identify as heterosexual. We all have a right to love who we want, and choose a label that suits us best. However, the seeming reluctance to adopt a label of bi or pansexuality and the expression of bisexuality as a transitional sexuality, rather than a valid identity in itself, can feel isolating to members of the bi community.
It paints bisexuality as a phase: a route between gay-town and straight-town, rather than a lovely suburb in the middle that’s well worth settling down in for good. It suggests that if you don’t ultimately make a choice — gay or straight — then the love you have to offer is in some way less steadfast, less dependable.
It would be remiss of me not to mention the role that patriarchy has to play in this, too. When viewed through the lens of patriarchy, bisexuality has only one outcome: choosing a man. Bisexual men are often accused of using a bi label to mask their preference for men. Bisexual women of using their bisexuality for attention from, you guessed it, men. The assumption is that if you can choose to be with a man, why would you not? (This is a rhetorical question, I am limited by word count, here.)
When viewed through the lens of patriarchy, bisexuality has only one outcome: choosing a man
I cannot be validated by a man. Nor a woman. Partnered or single, bisexual identity is valid. My sexuality is about more than the person I happen to be dating at any given time. All iterations of me are valid and make me who I am, the past me (though arguably a disaster zone), the present (slight improvement) and the future. If I never date another man, it will not erase the love I’ve felt for the men in my past. Likewise if I never date another woman, my female loves will be no less real. To paint them out of my story and slot myself into a binary sexuality would feel dishonest to me. They were not phases, and our relationships were more than skin-deep.
It’s easy to feel lost in this modern world. Finding your tribe can feel essential, and for queer individuals facing discrimination even more so. Finding a label that fits, stepping into it and zipping it up tightly around you can feel important. But what’s wrong with settling on a label that gives you a little more room? One with space to grow? Bisexuality isn’t a phase, just because it felt like one for some, or was judged to look like one by others. We can’t fight for queer representation and inclusion without making the queer community itself as inclusive and welcoming as possible.
So, to any closeted bisexuals out there who have never had a same-sex partner: whether you’re sticking around in bi-town or will settle on a more binary sexuality that suits you better someday, I hope this Pride you’ll feel able to dip your toe into the LGBTQ+ world and feel like a part of it. To the bi-curious: stay curious! What a beautiful nature to possess. Your queerness is valid and you are welcome here.
There have been many phases in my life, but my bisexuality is not one of them. My bisexuality doesn’t make me fickle or flaky. It does not make me flighty or afraid to commit. Quite the opposite — it is a dedication to being open-minded. The ability to look beyond a person’s gender, to choose not to categorise them by their body alone. It is the ability to understand that femininity and masculinity have meaning beyond the gender boxes we tick on hospital forms.
For me, it is a dedication to romance, and seeking it in unexpected places. To be open to the possibility of loving every person on this planet. The possibility of being rejected by more than half the population: she who dares, wins! There is no indecision in my sexuality, whether you personally understand it or not. Your conviction in your own binary sexuality cannot shake my conviction in my own, loosey-goosey, easy-breezy, world-is-my-oyster one.
This is not a phase
