I’ve been in a relationship with my girlfriend for over two years. We’ve lived together for almost a year now, and we share two cats. It’s the longest, most serious relationship I’ve been in. I’m a cis man and she’s a cis woman, and we’re in what some people call a straight-passing relationship. Anyone who walked past us together in the street would assume that we’re both heterosexual.
As many bi people in straight-passing relationships will relate to, you can sometimes feel as though you’re not bi enough because of who you’re dating.
Don’t get me wrong – there’s a heavy degree of privilege here. It’s safe for us to display affection in public no matter where we are, and we don’t have to worry about being abused or harassed for walking around with each other.
But biphobia is still so prevalent, both in cishet and queer communities, that being straight-passing can come with a sting. If you’re bi, a feeling pervades that you almost need to prove it – for me as a bi man, that would likely mean me dating another guy – and, if not, you’re only saying that you’re bi to be different, or because it’s trendy. Bi men are seen as gay but in denial, while bi women are seen as straight but going through a phase, because of course attraction to men is considered the default.
It’s maybe because of this that, while I’m very aware of and try to be grateful for the privilege that being in this straight-passing relationship gives me, I do feel a sort of impostor syndrome. I sometimes feel like I’m taking up space in queer spaces, or that me and my girlfriend will be seen as allies rather than as members of the LGBTQ+ community. It isn’t easy to feel like I deserve to be in these sorts of spaces, given my relationship status and the privilege I have in other ways.
Even now, I catch myself having internalized certain ideas. Bi people are often seen as more promiscuous, and once or twice I’ve had to stop myself from thinking about my relationship history – more in the sense of having monogamous long-term relationships than the actual genders of those partners – and remind myself that there’s no actual basis in the idea that bi people are more promiscuous or less monogamous, not that there’s anything wrong with either. It’s just that I’m no less bi for being in a stable, long-term relationship.
The lack of representation probably hasn’t helped me, either. I think it’s great, of course, that there are more LBGTQ+ characters on TV – I spent my teens watching Cameron and Mitchell on Modern Family and Piper and Alex on Orange Is the New Black, but bi guys just weren’t represented.
At best, it would be hinted at or they’d question their sexuality – but it never seemed to end up with them entering into relationships with women. In some ways, it was tricky to relate to. I’ve always known that I tend to be attracted to women more often, but I couldn’t see anyone like me portrayed. At least, not in the media that I consumed.
Finding out that Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong is bisexual actually helped me. They’re one of my favorite bands, and that Armstrong – a real person, not just a character on a TV show – has long identified as bisexual, yet been married to his wife for over 30 years, reiterated to me that I’m bi.
I also worry at times that my presence could make other people in LGBTQ+ circles uncomfortable. Because I’m a cisgender, often straight-passing man, I’m aware, simply put, that some of my peers in these spaces will have been bullied or harassed by people who look like me. In a way, I partake in a form of code-switching, changing my mannerisms, my language, even my appearance as if to look more bi. (As though there’s a way a bi guy is supposed to look.) This doesn’t exactly help with me feeling like I’m not bi enough day-to-day, but I feel like it’s a sacrifice worth making in return for the privilege I have.
And there’s a sort of guilt, sometimes, when I almost feel as though I’m taking advantage of this privilege – even though I know that’s not something I’m consciously doing. Likewise, I’m very aware that I’m living somewhere in which I’m free to be bi.
I’m not forced to hide one part of me and only date women in order to keep myself safe. I’m not, like some people around the world, essentially forced into dating a gender I’m not attracted to, and can freely choose to be in a relationship with a woman.
When I think like this, it can make my own feelings seem pretty trivial. But, for me, that’s partly why I try to speak out about my experiences and my feelings. I’m very aware that I’m not alone in feeling how I do, and I appreciate that there are more serious issues in the world, but I hope to make other people feel seen. After all, it’s not a competition, and our feelings are totally valid here. Feeling like you aren’t bi enough is something many of us will experience.
Ultimately, I’ve been able to almost completely accept that I’m still bi. No matter what my dating or relationship history looks like, and that I’m in a happy relationship with a woman, I’m bi. In Scarleteen’s glossary, bisexuality is defined as such: “A term for sexual orientation that describes a person who can be sexually and emotionally attracted to people of more than one gender.”
Well, I am one of those people. My being in a long-term relationship with a woman doesn’t change that. A bi person who alternates between partners of multiple genders for decades is no more bisexual than another bi person who stays in one monogamous relationship for life.
Accepting that your bisexuality is valid, whatever form it takes, can certainly be easier said than done, and it can be hard for some bi people to go from accepting or realizing that they’re not straight to then accepting that there’s no right or wrong way to be bi – or sometimes doing both at once.
Whether you have a preference for some genders over others, or your long-term relationships are skewed toward a particular gender, or you don’t necessarily look bi – whatever that actually means – you’re bi if you identify as bi.
