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Last month, I turned 30. In the decade since university, while many of my monosexual friends settled down – buying houses with partners, getting married, having babies – I was on a rollercoaster of dating. Both in order to get to know, and fall in love with someone, but also with my own bisexuality. To explore it, understand it, and embrace it.
Growing up during Section 28, the legislation which banned the ‘promotion’ of homosexuality in schools, from 1988 to 2003, bisexuality never really seemed an option. For women, the labels were binary: either straight or lesbian. People often label bisexuals like me ‘greedy’, but honestly, I think we have to be: to gain clarity, in a world where we’re not taught how to exist.
There was always limited bi representation on screen – and what did exist was overwhelmingly negative. Take Carrie Bradshaw’s damning assessment in Sex In The City’s season three: “I’m not even sure bisexuality exists. I think it’s just a layover on the way to Gaytown.” The message was clear, ‘pick a side’: otherwise you’re ‘greedy’, ‘just confused’, or a total slut. And, don’t forget the mythical label of ‘unicorn’, for bisexual women who sleep with couples.
All of it makes for a slippery identity to grasp. You don’t exist – but if you do, it’s to be villainised, or fetishised for other people’s pleasure (usually men’s). Yes, attitudes are undoubtedly changing, but I can’t help wondering if millennials like me just missed the Gen Z boat: we’re accused of being ‘woke’, yet are still battling the hangover of this discrimination. Consequently, I struggled to trust my bisexuality, experiencing a phenomenon affectionately termed ‘bi panic’.
So, hurrah for dating apps! The likes of Hinge, Bumble, Tinder, Thursday, Her and Feeld – I’ve tried them all – have given me the freedom and power to date whoever I want in the last 10 years. And, after literally hundreds of dates, with people of all genders, plus several experiences of love, and heartbreak (and a bill of over-priced rounds of G&T’s that doesn’t bear thinking about) – I may not be a home-owner, but I finally know who I am.
However, the more I’ve owned my bisexuality, the more I’ve realised how much biphobia still exists – and the worst part is, it comes from all angles. People often think we have ‘double the choice’, but the reality couldn’t be further.
Firstly, even the algorithms are biphobic: ask any bisexual gal, you have to swipe past 20 men, to glimpse one woman. Then, I rarely get matches with lesbians, realising recently that most women I’ve dated were bi not gay. I blame this distrust on the patriarchal myth, that if we can ‘choose’, we’ll ultimately leave them for a man. (Interestingly, it’s similar for bi men, except they’re assumed to be gay: in the end, it all comes back to men).
FYI, this concept of choice is itself a misconception: bi+ attraction is a spectrum, and some people feel more sexual or romantic feelings towards different genders. So not everyone can take the straight-passing relationship path.
When dating straight men (because it’s much harder to meet out, bi guys), the biphobia I’ve found is even more shameless. I’ve been told: “I bet you’re the type who sleeps with women, but only dates men.” Or, after being chatted up in a bar: “I could never date a bisexual. I’d be worried I could never satisfy her.” Damn right.
Following four dates with another guy, I received a selfie of him on a date with a girl: “Fancy having some fun?” Rude. Indeed, so-called “unicorn-hunting” is real: I’ve been propositioned for countless threesomes, including by one couple who’d already asked (or slept with) five of my friends. Watch out tall, bisexual femmes of South London! And the classic: spotting a hot girl’s profile, then scrolling down to find pictures of her boyfriend. Every. Time. I’m not judging, but it’s frustrating to be seen as even more of a sex object than we already are as women.
Then, when you do finally meet someone, there’s an extra layer of bi erasure to navigate. That is, with a man, you’re automatically read as straight (especially if you’re femme-presenting), which definitely has its societal privileges, but can leave you feeling invisible.
With a woman, you’re assumed to be a lesbian, with an added serving of homophobia: for example, I’ve been approached while kissing a girl on a date in Soho, by a man filming us and asking to ‘join in’. That’s the most gay-friendly neighbourhood in London, if not the UK!
Your baby bi+ empowerment guide:
If you’re looking to explore your bisexuality, or find more bi besties, here are some ideas to start…
BI PRIDE PARTY:
September 23 is Bi Visibility Day, so celebrate by attending annual Bi Pride in London that month: a free day of in-person panel events, performances and stalls. The 2024 date is TBC, see biprideuk.org for updates. In the meantime, you can explore Stonewall’s LGBT in Britain ‘Bi Report’ for additional information on bi experiences and allyship (stonewall.org.uk).
DATING SWITCH UP:
In addition to better known sex positive dating apps like Feeld, which allows you to search for 23 gender options (feeld.co), there are bi-specific alternatives, such as Bindr, BiCupid, BiFish and Fluid – which was founded by queer actress Rebel Wilson last year, with the tagline ‘Love, no labels’ (fluiddatingapp.com).
FRIENDSHIP FIX:
Download apps like OutSavvy or Meetup, to find local bi events, such as the ‘London Bisexuals’ group (meetup.com). Or head to the ‘Fast and Bifurious’ Instagram page to find their upcoming bi club nights in cities nationwide.
SEX-PERT THERAPY:
To find a bi therapist, try The Pink Practice, a national LGBTQ+ remote counselling service (pinkpractice.co.uk). LGBTQ+ charity London Friend is another great shout for subsidised sessions (londonfriend.org.uk). You can also call Switchboard, the national LGBTQ+ support line for free advice daily, 10am-10pm, on 08000119100.
FIND YOUR BICONS:
Diversify your social feeds with bisexual activists, from Ruby Rare, who also runs ‘Bisexual Big Sister Advice’ events (rubyrare.co.uk), to Megan Jayne Crabbe, a bisexual body positivity activist, and the bisexual team behind the Hotter Project, who run a bisexual podcast (lifeofbi.co.uk).
Swot up with bi non-fiction: some of my favourites include Dr Julia Shaw’s ‘Bi: The Hidden Culture, History and Science of Bisexuality’, Vaneet Mehta’s ‘Bisexual Men Exist’, and ‘Greedy - Notes from a Bisexual Who Wants Too Much’ by Jen Winston.
The most nuanced on-screen representation often comes from bisexual actors playing these characters: from Sara Ramirez’s Callie in Grey’s Anatomy, to Hannah Einbinder’s Ava in Hacks, and Kit Connor’s Nick Nelson in Heartstopper. Check out bio.org for more recommendations.
On top of this, there’s the intrusive questions. I don’t know if it’s because of the ‘sex’ in bisexual, but strangers seem to feel entitled to request your sexual CV – including in work contexts. ‘How many women have you slept with?’ ‘Who’s better in bed?’ ‘If you had to pick, who do you prefer?’ It’s exhausting to constantly defend yourself, and I do wonder if I’ve internalised that pressure to ‘prove’ my own validity, by throwing myself into dating.
Of course, as a cis, white woman, I’m very aware of my privilege, and that there are many additional, intersectional challenges that other bisexual people have to deal with. Still, it’s a minefield!
It doesn’t help that many of us are juggling this alone. Despite us comprising half of the LGBTQ+ community according to the last census, we’re somehow the invisible, invalidated majority. Very few bi-specific spaces exist, and we can often be made to feel ‘not gay enough’ for the gay scene. For instance, a girl at one queer event said to me: ‘Oh, I used to think I was bi, too’, then laughed. I never went back.
I’m not the only one. Stonewall found that 43 per cent of bisexuals have never attended an LGBTQ+ event, and like me, 27 per cent of bi women have experienced discrimination from the community. We’re also three times less likely to be out to family than gay and lesbian people. Plus, 42 per cent hide our sexuality at work. This fear of coming out on all fronts, has been termed the ‘double closet’.
No wonder it’s impacting our health. Last year, The Journal of Sex Research found that bi people have the worst mental health outcomes in England. Specifically, the odds of bi women having long-term physical and mental health problems are four times greater than heterosexuals. They suggested this may result from discrimination by straight and gay and lesbian people. Similarly, Stonewall reported that 59 per cent of bisexuals experience depression, vs 26 per cent of gay and lesbian people. (The US Census Bureau even found that we’re more likely to have long Covid…!)
I’ve personally experienced these mental health challenges, and am a huge advocate of therapy. But not all professionals understand the nuances of bisexuality, either, so it was crucial to find a bi, female therapist (perhaps the ultimate unicorn!)
The biggest game-changer of all, has undoubtedly been finding my own bi community, through Instagram. It happened three years ago, after Florence Given, the bisexual influencer, and author of ‘Women Don’t Owe You Pretty’, did a post inviting queer followers to comment and make friends or flirt. On a whim, I created and shared a WhatsApp group for queer women, trans and non-binary people in London, not expecting much. But it took off!
Now we have several hundred members who still meet regularly, and, because of the nature of Given’s following, many are bisexual, too. Yes, we still experience biphobia: from being denied entry into gay clubs for looking ‘too straight’, to being asked, ‘Why are you here?’, inside. But it’s less impactful when you’re supported by people like you, who just get it.
It’s no understatement to say that these friendships have changed my life. They’ve shown me there’s no one way to bi. That I’m valid in my queerness, whoever I’m with. And that the best part of my sexuality is the community it’s gifted me.
Now my bisexuality is a joyful source of fun, pride and belonging – which I’d never want to change. And, thanks to them, I can finally say: I’m ready to find love.
