When you’re a single mum, dating is always slightly more complicated than “meet someone, fall in love, settle down, live happily ever after”. By single parenting’s very definition, often you’ve tried that before and there is an unfortunate fifth stage of “s*** hitting the fan”. Call it being realistic, call it being jaded, when it comes to dating I keep an open mind and hope for the best, while quietly expecting the worst.
My relationship with my ex-girlfriend was beautiful and challenging, and we taught each other so much, but ultimately she was set on a course of “happily ever after” (that everybody deserves to strive for, and I hope she finds) while my awareness of the invisible, but highly possible, step five left us moving in opposite directions.
And so, I entered 2023 single. But first, how I became a single mum. I married my first boyfriend after 10 years together, had a baby, separated and divorced. After slowly rebuilding my life, I decided to remould myself too, and started dating for the first time since being a teenager — and I was open to meeting both men and women, having always considered myself to be (an admittedly slightly inexperienced) bisexual.
When I met my girlfriend, it felt perfectly ordinary to me that my new partner was a woman, but I was slowly faced with the reality, one stare, glare or ignorant remark at a time, that it was less-so to the rest of the world.
And so, I spent over a year constantly validating my sexuality and my love for my girlfriend, correcting strangers and coming out time and time again, to colleagues, friends, strangers and acquaintances. The weight of every interaction accumulated and weighed heavy, yes, but also formed an armour to guard against future prods, a comeback to each ignorant retort stored and loaded for the next stab. “I could never sleep with a woman!” (“Because no-one would ever offer?”). “God, I wish I was a lesbian, it would be so much easier!” (“You’re right, the LGBTQI+ community has it so easy!”) etc.
But now I feel like I’m back to invalidating my identity once more. Are you still queer if you don’t have a same-sex partner? Do you correct someone every time they make the assumption that you are straight? Do you pick, and pick, until there are tiny holes in every conversation, adding weight to exchanges that meant less than nothing pre-correction? Or resume your straight-presenting persona and allow person after person to incorrectly pigeonhole you?
Navigating queer and straight spaces now requires mode-shifting as I approach them as a bisexual single person for the first time. Don’t even get me started on flirting, or picking up on cues — my bisexual brain is boggled.
I dread re-entering the dating pool and wading through the biphobia online. The sexualisation by (many) straight men and suspicion from (many) gay women. The requests for dating histories, justifications, preferences (“come on, you must prefer men or women?”), the assumptions of promiscuity. I cannot explain why (maybe porn?) but many people, particularly straight cis-men, assume you are “easy” if you identify as bisexual, and therefore put you in the “casual” category from the get-go.
Add on top of that the need to find someone open to dating a single mum and the chances of finding a good match seem slimmer than those couples on Tinder hopefully “searching for our unicorn!” (side note: has any couple genuinely ever found a woman open to a threesome this way?). If I had a pound for every person who asked me “will you date a man or a woman next?” as if my choice of partner is as simple as picking a team, I would be very rich indeed. And yet, the question does hang heavy in my life.
Many people assume you are “easy” if you identify as bisexual and put you in a “casual” dating category from the beginning
Who will I date next? The truth is, as uncomfortable as my sexuality seems to make others, I am completely comfortable with my bi/pansexuality. I don’t care about the gender of a prospective partner. It is the least interesting thing about them to me. I care that they are kind, interesting and open-minded (and yes, that I find them attractive, for reasons that go beyond the bounds of a physical type). But in choosing a partner I would be closing off one of two sides of myself, one of two worlds.
If I date a man, it would feel like closing off half of myself (and feeling ostracised from/turning my back on the incredible queer community), choosing a woman, the other. The urge, then, is to lean into the feeling that I should just shut myself off from both, so that I don’t have to choose.
They say opposites attract, but perhaps when you are navigating the dating scene as a cynical bisexual single mum, those opposites are just too numerous and far-reaching to make sense of.
Maybe, seeking like for like is the answer, and it’s a chaotic, jaded but hopeful queer soul, (regardless of their gender,) with a whole lot of baggage and even more heart, that I should be seeking in 2023.
But that “should” exists because of external influences. Countless friends responded to news of my split with: “But you looked so happy.” And yes, on the whole we were, but being happier, or more at peace alone, is always a valid reason to end a relationship.
So, here’s to all the single queers navigating their sexuality at any stage in life without a partner as a definer for outsiders.
For the moment, I’m happy here alone, single and regrouping, but when I choose to dive back into the dating pool, I reserve the right to swim whichever direction I choose. Staying in your lane is overrated.
