Stories are written by people who don’t necessarily work or study in fields related to sexology. They convey emotions, perceptions, and subjective perspectives. Opinions voiced in the stories are those of their authors, and in no way represent the position of Les 3 sex*.

Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Gabrielle Baillargeon-Michaud.

“Still no girlfriend?”

Here we go again—it’s that time of year.

Let’s just say I’ve lost count of the numerous times my family felt compelled to check on my relationship status. 

But hey, we’re at the dinner table, I’m polite, and despite being single, I answer them. It seems the concept of addition eludes them—any number other than two is deemed invalid or insufficient, regardless of my explanations.

—No. Still no girlfriend. 

It’s a straightforward response, yet it’s ineffective. I can almost see Grandma pulling out her calendar, readying her pen to mark the next occasion she can examine my relationship status, to determine if I’m “normal.” Normal, as in, paired off like everyone else.

“Well, still no girlfriend?” That question is like an old, scratched CD stuck in your car’s player: other tracks might crackle and skip, but that one track still plays perfectly. Rather than changing her tune, it’s easier for her to hit repeat at every pause, right?

The issue, Grandma, is that you’re not the only one in this car. It’s clear when that song starts that I’m not into it—I don’t sing along, hum, or even tap my foot. But sure, play it again and watch my reaction this time. After all, the others don’t see the problem; they have partners—they’ve succeeded—they are role models. Unlike me, a failure in his mid-twenties, still searching for the right match.

According to them, the choices and possibilities are endless. Surely, there must be one, someone, that would make my journey more enjoyable.

But I’ve tried—I’ve tried all types of things, almost as one does shoe shopping.

I’ve tried on the “robust and indestructible” pair meant to “last a lifetime,” the casual ones for leisurely strolls, the slightly worn ones you try to restore even though I could barely stand them, and even the pair bought on final sale, snapped up during an online discount spree, regretted the moment I first walked in them.

—Actually, I must say, I’m doing great being on my own. I enjoy it. 

A bit of honesty can’t hurt, right? Why should I have to recount every relational test just to reaffirm my single status? We don’t have all night to discuss my numerous trial-and-error endeavours.

“To know if you like something or not, you have to try it!”

Oddly enough, I won’t challenge that statement. I think it’s true. But my trials are done. I’ve tried being with others. I’ve explored both long-term and short-term relationships, occasional and frequent, serious and casual. Believe me, I’ve tried it all.

I’ve tried 1 + 0 and I’ve tried 1 + 1. I’ve realized the latter isn’t my preferred equation, and I didn’t even want to attempt 1+n, where n>1. The first formula works for me; I’m content with it and don’t plan on changing any time soon.

“Well, you know, you can’t be sure you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it!”

Indeed, Grandma, indeed. I lowered my head towards my plate and took a big bite—my go-to method to avoid further discussion—replying: “Grandma, what have you tried, other than your 50 years with Grandpa? Do you know if you’d be happy alone?”

Because I am.