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 Les 3 sex* position.

☛ Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Florence Bois-Villeneuve. 

The holidays are a time of joy—and prying questions from the entire family about my love life. Some are less nosey than others, especially since I came out as bisexual. Some prefer not to think about the implications of my sexual orientation on my choice of future partners. Others can barely contain their hope that the next person in my life will be a man, and by “man,” they mean a cisgender man, of course. It’s hard to break with family expectations, especially when it comes to such private matters. 

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, but that’s really not my problem—or anything I can control. I have to accept that I’ll never be able to protect everyone I love. I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that other people’s expectations are not on me. 

But there’s still that visceral fear of being rejected again, by my family and my future partner. It’s the fear of introducing her to them, because I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect the woman I love from the possible disappointment in my parents’ eyes. It’s the fear that I’ll be made to feel guilty for giving up a tidy little life, with a husband, a cute house in the suburbs and a dog—the life my parents probably imagined for me. It’s the weight—but also the pride—of being the first in the family to break from the 1950s movie mold of the heterosexual nuclear family. It’s knowing I’ll be confirming their worry that I’ll never be “normal,” despite their best efforts, and that I’ll become the juiciest bit of family gossip for the night, if not the next several weeks. 

There’s also the fear of losing the woman I love, of her rejecting me. Why? Possibly because she’ll be scared, because she won’t want to be the first woman to meet my family, won’t want to essentially go through a whole other coming out. She’ll have to deal with the fact that, before her, there were only men. I’m scared she’ll think it’s too complicated to share her life with a bisexual girl who’s only just coming out. And because of all this anguish, caused I think by ambient homophobia, I still find it very difficult to approach women, despite my best efforts to deconstruct the heterosexist models I’ve been taught since childhood.

I don’t think I’m the only one struggling with having to prepare their family for the fact that the next person in their life is unlikely to be the ideal heterosexual partner, in my case, a cis man. For many sexually and gender diverse people, the holidays are especially stressful. The worst part about it, in my case, is that it all plays out under the guise of open-mindedness. And that alleged openness forces me to answer questions I have no desire to answer. If I refuse, I’m the one accused of being closed-minded.

Even worse, as the evening progresses, the questions get more and more inappropriate, like there’s a certain degree of drunkenness at which all bets are off, and they start asking questions even they’d be embarrassed to answer:

- Why are you still single? You should have so many more options! Hahaha! 
- When are you going bring a boyfriend home? Oh, or a girlfriend? (the last part spoken with obvious unease) 
- So, tell me honestly, which do you like more: men or women? 

I realize being a single straight person during the holidays isn’t easy either, but I honestly found family parties easier to deal with before I came out. 

Much to the surprise of my aunts and uncles, being bisexual doesn’t actually make it easier for me to find a partner, no matter their gender. First of all, when you’re bi, the dating apps are mostly a lost cause, between the unicorn hunters—heterosexual couples looking for a bisexual woman to spice things up for a night—the dudes who get off on bi girls, and the lesbians who accuse you of attention seeking. I feel like I spend my life switching between two hats. I like to turn people on, but I often worry that’s all I am: a living stereotype of the hypersexualized bisexual woman. I’m scared of someone hijacking my sexuality for their own pleasure. I’d love to have a space where I can talk about it, but my Aunt Janet after four glasses of wine is clearly not the best sounding board. Definitely not what I’d call a safe space.

So, I tell them I’m single by choice, even though I’m only fooling myself. Even though, if I’m being honest, that’s more the default mode at the moment, and I’m exhausted from having to pretend that I’m fine with being alone 100% of the time. To shut them up, I might even bring upEmma Watson, and say that, like her, I’ve decided to self-partner and not think of female celibacy as a negative thing, just so I don’t get lumped in with “those damned frustrated feminists” for daring to make my own decisions and follow the lead of strong, inspiring female role models.

Meanwhile, while I wait for a world where I can feel comfortable with or without a partner, I think the easiest solution this year is to hop on a plane and head south for the holidays...