In which we discuss all those swirly questions about who I fuck(ed), why it matters, and whether or not we should even be discussing it at all.
(For background on my sitch, and an ongoing discussion of the role of men in feminism, check out Part 1.
For a not-as-irrelevant-as-it-seems-at-first tangent on what to do when your friend is dating a manipulative fuckwad, check Part 2.)
So. Yes. From 1992 until 2006, I dated and slept with only women, genderqueers and queer-identified transmen. And then, last year, after the excruciating breakup of a four year relationship that I had expected at one point to last forever, and after a period of months in which I couldn’t imagine dating anyone at all, ever again, I discovered I was curious about dating cisgender men.
Now, I never identified as simply “lesbian” (though I did come out that way to my parents, since I feared that if they knew I was still attracted to men as well as women they would just insist I “choose” to be het). I used “bisexual” for a while, but never really felt like it fit, and eventually realized that I hated the term for the way it re-inscribes the gender binary. But labels aren’t — at least that particular label isn’t — the point here. The point is, it’s not like I woke up one day and realized I was still or again attracted to cisgender men. The attraction wasn’t news to me. The desire to act on it was.
I had dropped out of the world of men for complicated reasons. You can read more here if you like, or else suffice it to say that once I discovered that I was attracted to women, I immediately realized that I had no reason to deal with male bullshit at all anymore. Even after a decade plus of evolution and change, it still surprises me sometimes to find that I’m now in a serious relationship with a Factory-Direct Guy.
But how I got from Point A to Point B isn’t what I want to talk about here, either. It’s what it means now, to me, to my family, to my community, to society.
(Let’s get something out of the way upfront: No, I don’t think I’m the first person to have this experience, by quite a long shot. But I do think there’s a lot of silence around it, for reasons I’m about to get into.)
The funny thing for me about all of this is that when I was with someone who was genderqueer and decided to transition to a male appearance and identity, it didn’t in any way cause that crisis that a lot of queer women have when their formerly female-identified partners begin to ID as male. Everyone kept asking me if I was stressing about what his identity meant about me, and I was like, no, why would I? This is about him.
But at the end of the day I think what protected me from that identity dissonance that I’m struggling with now is that I was so obviously still in a queer relationship. He passed with ease in public, so we did have to deal with what it felt like to suddenly be treated like a het couple, and all the weird privilege that came along with that, but neither of us were closeted about his history, and he identified (and still does, I think) as a genderqueer transman, so while I never went out of my way to “out” him as trans, anytime there was an opportunity for it to come up naturally, it did.
And even when it didn’t, it was like a safe experiment. I’ll never forget running into an old dyke acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a long long time. We started chatting, and I said something about my “boyfriend.” And she was all, you have a boyfriend? And I’m catching her snap, but refusing to make apologies or play the “it’s OK, he’s trans” card, so I’m all: uh, yeah. And she’s like, how long have you had a boyfriend? And I say: oh, couple of years now? And then she’s silent and the conversation moves on as her judgment lays over me like a wool blanket.
Later that night I told the whole story to my partner and we laughed and fumed. Nice assumptions. We knew she would have been far less shocked if she knew he was trans, but we also agreed smugly that it shouldn’t make any difference.
Thing is? It does.
I’m a femme. I can’t explain everything that means for me in the context of this post. What’s important here is that it means my trans partner wasn’t the only one who passed in our relationship. I pass — despite my best intentions sometimes — as straight. (Sometimes even in a queer context, which makes it hard to pick up girls, believe you me.) And that makes me a suspect from all sides. That means I’ve spent the last 15 years insisting to my community and my family of origin — for opposite reasons — that my queerness is not Just A Phase.
At first, when I began dating cisgender men, I built myself a roomy new closet for that part of my life. It worked to keep my parents in the dark (though it had the side effect of convincing them that I was a spinster workaholic who wasn’t over her ex), but not my queer community — rumors found their way back to me almost immediately (Did you hear? Jaclyn’s dating a MAN!), though I never figured out the source, since I’d told so few people to begin with.
But I’ve never liked closets anyway. Silence makes me feel unsafe. So it was only a matter of time before I gave up and came out. Again. Some more.
In some ways, this was the hardest coming out I’ve ever had to do. When I came out as lesbian/bi, I was terrified of being rejected by my family (not my friends, really, given where I went to school and who my friends already were), but I felt righteously prepared. I was giving voice to the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name, and whatever I had to bear personally, I knew I was a warrior for Truth and Love and Liberation. When I came out as loving genderqueers and transfolk, I did fear my community’s rejection as well as my family’s, but my Speaking Truth to Power righteousness was stronger than ever.
It’s a lot harder to imagine you’re striking a blow against The Man when you’re announcing that you’re sleeping with one. Even now I can hear you, gentle reader, snickering: Boo Hoo. Poor Jaclyn and her heterosexual burden. I can hear you because I’m snickering that myself.
What’s my point here? I don’t know anymore, and maybe that’s my point. The losses I’ve suffered this time around aren’t political badges, they’re just personal wounds. My parents’ excitement about this penis guy they’ve not yet met far outstripping any enthusiasm they’ve shown for my previous partners they’d come to know and (I thought) love. My sudden discomfort in my own community, not knowing if people are whispering about me, not knowing if it’s OK to bring my love with me to the very place I’ve felt most loved and welcomed for all these years. Not knowing if it should be OK to bring him, but feeling that profound loss and separation from my community. Like I suddenly don’t belong in my own home, even if not everyone there knows it yet. Like they might throw me out at any moment, they might have already thrown me out, and I’m not sure I would blame them.
I am feeling anti-righteous. I am feeling like someone who has lived up to the worst expectations everyone’s had for me all along: like I really have “gone back” like everyone always suspected I would. (Some of you may here object: But you’re still just as queer as you’ve always been! Why should it matter who you’re sleeping with at any given moment? And I agree with you in principle, but answer me this: what if this monogamous relationship lasts a long, long time (as I’ve certainly begun to hope it will)? Sure, six months in I’m “still just as queer,” but what about six years in? What about sixty years?)
And what about the day some wingnut happens upon this very post and uses it as evidence that all we dykes need is the right man to fuck us straight? What about my family members who have already come to that conclusion? What can I do to undo that? What do I do about the fact that my life and my love and my desires can be used to oppress my own self and so many people I love?
Silence is not an option. Silence = death. It’s still true, and this is still a story about the consequences of patriarchy and oppression. About people being separated from each other based on arbitrary categories of GOOD and BAD which shore up the structure we’re trying to dismantle.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m in love. That’s a good thing. A blessing you can’t count on having in your life. I’m grateful. And the people closest to me could care less about his gender or his biological sex. I’m safe and privileged and loved and I have lots of support. I’m not suffering by a long shot.
But I am struggling to figure out how to make sense of all of this. How to stay part of the solution, how to keep taking apart the power structures when I suddenly have more power, and what to do with these losses I feel somehow I deserve.
Factory-direct? Funny!
Enjoying your story! I discovered when I lived with a lot of lesbians, I ended up thinking/desiring as they did. When I married and settled down, I ended up thinking/desiring like a straight woman…just call me Zelig!
But we all change according to our surroundings and who we feel ourselves to be at any given time. Those of us who have changed our desires several times are simply the people *more in touch* with that. IMHO
I don’t envy you in this issue at all… I can see why it is difficult for you. I’m a transwoman, and I call myslef “bi”, but I only use it as shorthand for “I’ll love who I want to love no matter what equipment is or ever was attached.” I’ve been in relationships with men and women (all cisgendered, so far). And I think if people could just accept that you love the person, not because or despite their sexual or gender orientation, but in complete disregard of those orientations, there wouldn’t be a problem at all. I guess that’s maybe a little too subversive still in a world where we still have to self-identify as gay/lesbian/bi/straight or cisgender/transgender/genderqueer woman/man/none-of-the-above, no matter what community we align ourselves with. Finding someone you enjoy spending your time with is hard enough without adding the problem of satisfying your friends, family and extended circles. If you’re happy with the person you’re with, I’m happy for you… and a little jealous.
I have friends who deal with this dilemma in part through non-monogamy and/or having a very kinky sex life. I mean, it’s not like they wouldn’t do either of those things anyway, and maybe it’s totally not applicable in your relationship; I don’t want to sound like I’m saying “well, if you’re worried about being straight, then the best thing to do is have sex with lots of people and/or get queer with your boy!” But it does seem to really help my friends with exactly the stuff you’re describing. I mean, you get that same “laughing in private with your partner about people’s assumptions” feeling when in public you look like a straight girl with her straight boyfriend, but then when you go home both of you crossdress and you peg him. Again, that might not specifically work in your current relationship, but you never know =D
I just need to say how much I (and I feel I can speak for B and say ‘we,’ but I won’t) love you.
If I could hand pick someone for CG to be in a relationship with, she would have all of your characteristics, including your queerdomness.
Of course, when he first told me your back story, I was like, “what the hell are you thinking…she’s a lesbian!” but I feel like in the short time I have known you as a couple, I can see how this just works.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to come out again and this time as straight. I give you a lot of credit.
I wish I could just give you a hug. =)
Plus, if your friends truly knew CG, they would realize you are dating a man more lesbianish than me. (and I say that with only love).
Good luck chiquita, and I hope we can see you soon!
Heh, I feel this also.
An interesting read that I’m working though right now is Baumgardener’s “Look Both Ways, Bisexual Politics” which talks quite a bit about the tensions of identity.
I’ve been reading this series with a sense of “Oh, I know this story!” Except I know it from a different angle. My best friend (and ex girlfriend) has always identified as bisexual but is also dating a cisgendered man for the first time in quite a while. She too voices worries about being ousted from the queer community and being whispered about when she does bring her lover with her to functions that she and I used to attend. (And it’s a little weird for me, but only a little, as she is so happy and in love that I can’t help but grin a little at the sight of the two of them.)
But what does piss me off is the reaction of other queers. People will come up to me and ask “how I’m doing”, like I just lost a close family member to a rabid dog attack. WTF? What, am I supposed to feel hurt? Betrayed? Like less of a person because someone who was once my lover has found love with someone who happens to possess a penis? That’s some serious bullshit, right there.
I can advocate for my friend when queers are misbehaving, but that doesn’t directly address how my friend feels about herself. I’ve never had to deal with this kind of emotional process as someone who is (for practical purposes) lesbian identified (this doesn’t rule out being attracted to a man, trans or cis somewhere down the line, but not an issue for me and hasn’t been for a while). So I don’t know. I’m going to keep advocating for my friend with our queer circle and hope that she can hear that and know that it’s certainly a radically queer thing to do to follow your heart when it means some serious consequences with your community.
If I may respectfully disagree – I feel like that doesn’t address most of the more serious issues Jaclyn raises. It may help people feel like they’re not REALLY like all those boring straight people (ahem), but it in no way deals with all the political and privilege issues. Pegging one’s boyfriend is not generally a political act (assuming he’s not a Republican party operative…but that’s a whole ‘nother story :-). Not that I have any better ideas, but maybe this isn’t something that needs to be “solved” so much as acknowledged and discussed.
In six months, six years, sixty years, you will still be whatever you determine you are. My time with a male partner taught me that. ‘How can you say you’re bi/pansexual when you’ve never slept with a woman?’ ‘You’re not really queer, it’s just a phase, you’re just overwhelmed by your own privilege, get over it’, ‘You’ve “gone back to being straight”‘, and so on- it’s a new game of Bingo. I am queer not because of who I’m with, but because of who I am.
The same is true of you.
I don’t know what you mean by this.
Jaclyn, from my POV, if you say you’re queer, whether you’re currently having sex with a woman or transperson is irrelevant. But I agree that other people don’t see it that way. And part of that is that not everyone keeps identifying as queer when they have a relationship with a cis-MOTOS.
There are four women (and interestingly no men) in my wide circle of friends who have identified as gay or bi in the past and now are with cis-men. The run the gammut. One is a Bay-area kinkster, and her online profiles still say she’s bi; she’s a politically active queer in a relationship with a cisgendered man and separated from her transman husband. At the other extreme, one friend of my spouse identified as lesbian and lived with a woman for more than a year, but she’s married to a cis-man, and he doesn’t even know that she ever slept with a woman, let alone had a long-term relationship with a woman. Her parents are overjoyed that she’s with a man and she feels her career depends on being closeted. The other two play the “I don’t like labels” game. But they clearly are not participating in the queer community.
My take on it is that you can tell where folks stand by who they stand with, not who they go home with. But I see why not everyone believes that.
A not about kinksters: being kinky is really, really easy to hide. I’m a sadomasochist and I’m closeted at work. I can stand up as a feminist, I can stand up on GLB issues and trans issues and even sexual minority issues at work and for the most part, people don’t suspect that I’m a sadomasochist and I continue to get the privilege that het white men get. So being a kinkster does not interact with the hierarchy of social position at the level of daily interaction.
It’s not nothing, though. Being a kinkster, if one is at all smart, means knowing that the enemies of queers and transpeople are for the most part one’s own enemies. In a Handmaid’s Tale world, I’m an outlaw, too, and I never forget that.
Also, certain kinds of kink do interact with social hierarchies in other ways, at the “personal is political” level. For example, I am the enveloping partner in anal sex all the time; and I think that the experience of being the entered partner in sex alters one’s framework from the stock “I stick the thing in” cis-male perspective. It has implications, I think, for how one views communication and consent; when one is the fuckee, the idea that consent is active participation rather than acquiescence isn’t just a theoretical construct.
But, of course, that doesn’t change the hierarchies that we walk around with every day, just the ones we take with us in our sexual encounters.
Yes, but the comparison I was making was to Jaclyn’s experience of dating a trans guy who passed as non-trans in public. So she was, in some ways, in a straight relationship, and they got het privilege in public, like she said. That’s political and personal. The point of “laughing in private” is that in your personal life, amongst friends and in the bedroom, there are a lot of things about us that aren’t visible — the nuances of our identity that go deeper than what’s perceived on the street, the way we express our gender and sexuality. And if these were visible or public, it would definitely be a massive violation of societal norms about what a “heterosexual relationship” is supposed to be. I do agree that this side of things is less political — it’s private, for one thing — but I think it often does play a big part in individual experiences of queerness and queer identity.
As for whether we should be focusing more on public privilege or private queerness to determine how to categorize people, I certainly don’t have any answers about that. Maybe it’s not a good idea at all.
But actually yeah, I agree, this doesn’t address the more serious parts of what Jaclyn wrote, which I think do have to do with suddenly finding that you’ve suddenly gained privileges and your relationship to sexual orientation and homophobia and queerness has changed, at least on the outside, and our outsides can’t help but influence our insides too. I am reminded of a lot of similar experiences — trans guys dealing with what it’s like to have male privilege; people who grew up poor suddenly finding that they’ve managed to make enough money that they’re economically advantaged; fat folks who lose weight and don’t experience fatphobia anymore… the list goes on. As individuals we often have fluid existences that cross categories and boundaries, we often cross these boundaries because we have to — because that’s where love, or our relationship with our body, or necessity, or survival, takes us. I think those truths have to come first, if you’re going to be able to survive and thrive and be able to engage politically — and they generally don’t mean that suddenly you get brainwashed into being an Oppressor, either.
I think you foreshadowed what your own answer will end up being. As much as revealing that you’re with a cis-man seems like another coming out with regard to your queer community, I get the feeling that the threat you’re seeing in six or sixty years of het monogamy is the threat of the closet creeping back around you. It’s hard to say on the basis of just three posts’ knowledge of you, but I suspect that you have some good temperamental resistance to that threat that will serve you well.
(It’s always easier to see the light at the end of other people’s tunnels, isn’t it? For myself, it seems like cracking the closet open every so often when I’m sure it’ll be safe for me and my partner is the best I can manage. So, *admiration*, to you and everyone else who lives to shake things up.)
I am a ciswoman married to a man who identified as gay for many years. And yeah, he feels like he’s lost his “queerness;” it certainly isn’t visible as we’ve moved cities. The worst part, in my mind, is that his homophobic mother feels vindicated in her “just a phase” reaction to his coming out as gay as a teenager. It’s people like my husband who exacerbate that myth and the ones about bi-til-graduation people. He has some guilt about that; but what can he do?
I want to say something comforting and wise but I’ve got nada.
I will say this though, I find the story of you and your partner rather romantic. While it has created some troubling issues for you socially, your personal journey does show beyond doubt that you love the person inside your partner, not an image, lifestyle, or social status. I envy that.
Thank you for posting this thoughtful series, Jaclyn. I (along with one woman in every 5 or 6 thousand) was born without a vagina. And while I think that this biological fact has definitely contributed to my identified bisexuality, I’ve always been uncertain as to how much of my inability to choose a gender can be linked to the fact that I lack that extra opening. It’s incredibly comforting to see that other women, other people have the same issues. One more way I can be like others rather than different. So, thank you again.
If I may…
This is just my opinion, and you’re free to disregard it by all means, but: I think what matters should be your OWN identification, Gender Police be damned. I’m sure you’ve been a member of the community for many years, and by now there should be many people who know you well enough to know that you haven’t “gone back.”
So you’re in love with a man. If you love him, I’m sure it’s precisely because he LACKS those traits that make a Man into “THE Man.” And that should be obvious to anyone with an ounce of sense. Am I off-base? Also, does your bond with him mean you’re going to stop being attracted to women, cisgender males/females, etc? Must you necessarily be incapable of both at once? In each case, I’m going to guess probably not.
If you’re comfortable with it, everyone else should just have to bite their tongues and deal. Are there going to be people who whisper, people who judge? Sure. But as my own better half always says, “The only people who matter, already know better.”
I genuinely hope that helps. Thanks for this post.
It’s all part of being human, luv.
I’m a prime-time lurker to this blog, and I break my silence now because the above sentence really confused me.
Why does who you’re sleeping with affect who you’re attracted to? I mean, well, yes, of course, obviously; but how does it constitute the be all and end all of your sexuality?
As someone who is debatably too young to be reading this blog, and who has never had sex before in her life, I find myself puzzled. Certainly, I’ve never actually proven to myself that I am attracted to women In The Flesh, and, really who knows? — maybe one day, when it comes down to the actual rubbing-together-of-bits, I’ll totally chicken out and discover my Inner Heterosexual, but until then, I’m pretty certain of my sexuality. (Well, okay, that’s a lie, but I am pretty certain I like women. Um. A lot.)
Possibly this all constitutes as the rambling of a virgin fool whom you do not suffer gladly, and if so, consider me sheepish and apologetic. If not, though, why can’t people just take you on your word when you say “I’m queer”, despite who you may or may not be involved with?
Curiously (and respectfully, admiringly, supportively, &c. &c.),
–Miarr
Thanks for all the thoughtful responses. To be honest, I expected to get raked over the coals from multiple directions, so this was a pleasant surprise.
A few responses:
Some of them will, and some of them won’t, and I have no control over who and when believes what. You’d have to ask them. But the underlying question here is, I think, why do I care what the haters think? I know the answer here should be fuck them, I’m queer and if they don’t get it that’s their problem. But it just doesn’t work that way, emotionally. This a community I’ve felt safe in for over a decade, and now I feel uncomfortable and outside. Should I feel uncomfortable? My family is more excited about this barely-established relationship than they’ve been about anyone I’ve dated my entire adult life. Should that make me feel hurt and rejected and misunderstood and resentful? Should I care what people think, and should they think the things they do? Those aren’t the right questions for me right now. I just do.
This is probably truer than I care to admit. Well spotted. And thanks for the vote of confidence.
I’m sorry, that’s just not so. We both had queer histories, queer bodies, queer oppressions, queer families (and struggles with our straight families of origin), queer sex, queer friends, queer politics, queer attitudes. There was nothing straight about our relationship except the times we were taken for het in public. But even then, we were queer. Trust me when I say that this experience (with the Current Guy) is significantly different. And whatever sexual kinks we may or may not enjoy isn’t really going to change that.
That said, I agree wholly with the last part of your post, about crossing power/privilege lines.
This is an awesome thing to remember, and it will strengthen me. Thanks, Thomas.
I can relate to this to a certain extent. I still have a hard time saying I’m straight, for fear that it betrays the years that I was with women and a part of the community. So, I just say, I don’t date women anymore, and leave it at that.
I stopped dating women about 3 years ago. IN fact, I went into my last lesbian realtionship knowing that when it ended, I would likely date men again. I’ve had feelings of being a “traitor” and even distanced myself from lesbian friends when I was with my ex-boyfriend because I didn’t know how to be in front of them with him and how he would be received. Thankfully, they told me that who I was with didn’t matter, and makes it easier to be *me* with them.
There are other things that make it challenge. In addition to my mom feeling like it was just a phase, add in the fact that in this time I’ve also become more serious about my faith (I’m a Christian), adds a whole other level of complexity to the issue.
I am finally delurking… because the topic struck home with me. I, too, am now in a relationship with a man. For the first time since 7 years.
For me, telling people felt like a second coming-out. What made it even more difficult is that my coming-out just happened a few years ago. Now I feel like a fraud, or at least I fear that people see me as a fraud. I have always been more attracted to women than to men; nonetheless, I married a man, tried to live the het lifestyle, and became very unhappy. Then we divorced, and I allowed myself to explore who I really am. I really enjoyed the two brief but serious relationships with women and the flings, flirtations… Until a few months ago I was sure that I would never-ever be with a man again, so I changed my label from “bi” to “lesbian”.
And now? I feel like a traitor; I miss the queer community; I feel constricted into the het category although my identtity encompasses so much more; I am afraid of the “all-she-needed-was-one good-fuck” or “just-a-phase” thoughts; and I miss being with a woman, sensually and sexually.
My biggest concern is that this issue will eventually be too much for my current relationship. There are a lot of doubts when I am alone, and I am back to questioning my motives. Giving in to society’s norms? Taking the easy way? Negating my own true self? Settling for less? What is love, what is lust, what is just the pleasure of finding someone who enjoys similar kinks? And I cannot stand the thought of never enjoying myself with a woman again, and to break up with someone who feels so right on so many levels just because he has the wrong plumbing feels wrong, too. So how do I solve this? Threesomes? Going poly or opening the relationship (I do not think he would be ok with that)? Rely on my fantasies to fulfill this part of me?
I do not know yet. I have talked to my partner about this and will continue to do so. Eventually I will find a solution. I hope I can be mature and adult enough so that I do not cause unnecessary pain with it…
Thanks again for blogging about this. I hope I added something valuable to the discussion.