3 hours ago
7 
‘Reading it made me realise that I’m a lesbian.’
Those were the words that stopped me in my tracks in February.
They were uttered during a video in which two women shared how they discovered an online document – titled ‘Am I a lesbian?’ and written by Tumblr user Angeli Luz in 2018 – which helped them unlock their sexual orientation.
Being that I’d always felt confused over which label fit me best, the clip instantly made me feral with curiosity and I knew I had to read Luz’s words immediately.
In the document, Luz suggests the reader asks themselves questions like whether they ‘can be truthfully happy with a man’, if they can ‘have healthy fulfilling relationships with men’, and whether they ‘actually wanna [sic] be with them’.
She lists a series of situations that lesbians who have not accepted their sexuality might find themselves in, too. For example, ‘I like the idea of being with a man, but any time a man makes a move on me, I get incredibly uncomfortable’, and ‘[I only develop] attraction to a guy after a female friend expresses attraction to him.’
As I ploughed through its paragraphs, mentally responded to the questions and digested all the information within it, I hoped a clear answer would present itself.
However, by 4am, I was still as confused as ever. That’s when, despite my sleep-deprived state, I came up with an idea…
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I’d stay celibate until I figured out my true sexual identity.
Questioning my sexual orientation isn’t a new thing. As a child, I crushed on female characters – especially the girls from Totally Spies – and shared my first kisses with girls. And as a teen, I initially identified as bisexual for this reason.
At school I fell hard for a girl, but due to the intense and unforgiving bullying that stemmed from our outing, I ended the relationship before it could flourish and instead stuck to dating men as it felt ‘safer’.
By my early 20s, I decided that pansexual probably fit better as, over the years, all types of people had entranced me – women, men, and non-binary folks of all shapes and sizes. It certainly seemed I was attracted to people rather than gender.
And yet, all my ‘serious’ relationships have been with men.
Why? The simplest answer is fear. Even with laws to protect us, society is often still so brutal to LGBTQ+ people, and I don’t think I ever shed the fear born from being bullied at school.
In fact, it was because of my most recent break-up that my questioning reignited.
Despite our amazing friendship, I had grown increasingly detached, both emotionally and physically.
In the days following the break-up, I had already started wondering if I had always been gay, but was too afraid to date women, or if these doubts were just my regret from the relationship overwhelming me. Then, a week after the split, I discovered that document.
In it, I discovered the term compulsory heterosexuality, which suggests that heterosexuality is a social construct that deliberately marginalises women’s queer identities by perpetuating homophobia.
Essentially, society forces heterosexuality upon us as an expectation of normalcy. And for me, that certainly seemed to fit.
Despite finding women attractive, I’d dated men because it felt safer. In fact, while reading through the document, I repeatedly found myself asking: ‘Am I even attracted to men or have I been conditioned to think I am?’
I’m still not sure of the answer, but at least I know that compulsory heterosexuality has dictated some of my sexual and romantic choices.
If nothing else, this discovery made me resolute in my determination to uncover who I truly am instead of allowing society’s expectations to guide me.
But I knew I didn’t want to use anyone’s heart or body as an experiment to do so.
Charging straight into dating women felt unwise when so much of my romantic history was marred by rashness and confusion. Sex and a desire to be loved have too often dictated my life’s direction, many times into the arms of an abusive or manipulative man.
Of course, not all my experiences with men have been bad or regretful, but I wanted time to decide if I was interested in having any more.
However, it also wouldn’t be fair to myself to muddy the water further with other sexual conquests. So, despite my own fondness for the act, celibacy seemed the best way to balance my romantic life, explore my sexuality, and the LGBTQ+ community that comes with it.
No dating, no sex. Just a year of reflection and self-exploration of my queer identity.
It may seem a dramatic choice, but I’m six months in already and I feel incredible.
I’ve immersed myself into the LGBTQ+ community, going to events I once avoided because I didn’t feel ‘gay enough’ and have met so many wonderful people in our vibrant community as a result.
This time on my own has also forced me to acknowledge how many of my romantic and sexual entanglements were me trying to fix something or to be socially accepted.
I also don’t miss sex at all. I actually feel more connected to my body than ever as I’ve focused on understanding how my body wants to feel pleasure rather than performing for the male gaze. It has been liberating, to say the least.
At the halfway point, my brain and body do feel like they’re screaming, ‘you’re a lesbian!’ – mostly because I haven’t fantasised about men once and largely only feel romantic and sexual interest toward women – but I’m still giving myself more time.
Maybe a desire to date again will take over in a few months, or I might decide that I feel secure enough in my sexual orientation and do away with my celibacy. But for now, I’m committed to giving myself 12 months free of sex, dating and all the complications that come with that.
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