I recently said yes to dating a bi-curious woman. Cue the seasoned queers dropping their iced coffees and smacking me across the face. But, hear me out. Ever since having my heart shattered by a str&*ght woman in my early twenties, I’d been obsessed with knowing whether someone’s 100% into women before dating them. If I was going to get my heart broken, I wanted to know that it’s me and not my sexuality. There’s enough rejection of gay people for our sexuality as is, so we’d like to avoid adding more if possible. But now, some years later, I was experiencing long term feelings of loneliness, disconnectedness, and a general lack of inspiration. And I wondered if my policy of “eat pussy or keep it moving, ladies” was cutting me off from connection. After all, most ladies had kept it moving.
My usual remedy to knock me out of my depression is a cocktail of British TV. The Brits have far superior television (at least what’s exported) than American’s— everything’s funnier, stranger, more pure. Shows like This Country, I May Destroy You, Fleabag, Crashing, and Stath Lets Flats (the sister kills me) have broken the barrier of what I think is possible— mixing wild comedy with boundless heart. But as I was about to click on a show, my phone lit up with a Hinge message: “You’re a beaut. So gorgeous and tall. And your dog is the longest I’ve ever seen.” I checked her profile. Name: Jamie. Hometown: London. I tossed my computer aside and booked a date with her, hoping the people were similar to their TV.
My hinge photo she was referring to. It’s not my dog ;)
I didn’t know Jamie was new to dating women when I met her. I arrived at our Silver Lake Reservoir meeting spot, spotted her, but pretended not to see her. I get overwhelmed thinking about greetings on date— do you hug? Shake hands? Twist nips? I snuck around the corner to buy myself more time, and sent her a text: “I’m here by the sign.” Maybe this was a subconscious reaction to years of hearing some guy in a sitcom say, “Let her come to you.” Or was it just a power move I’ve relied on to protect myself?
“You’ve got a little perch there,” a mellifluous British voice said, interrupting my anxious internal monologue. I looked down, I was standing on a ledge raised a few feet above the ground. Was everything I did a subconscious power move? I stepped down to her level. She was gorgeous and tall. Forgoing any hug or handshake, we started walking.
The gravel crunched under our feet as our conversation began with the dry basics, hoping to catch a spark. Where are you from? What are you doing here? How long have you been here? Three weeks for her, three months for me.
”Oh, well then I’m basically Ms. LA to you then,” I said, wishing I hadn’t.
It was an undercooked joke that didn’t deserve a laugh and yet she laughed, understanding whatever I was trying to go for. The kindling caught, and soon we were laughing at anything and everything: how LA called a park a meadow, how she thought I said I liked to write New Years romcoms instead of queer romcoms, and how she recently escaped a pathetic death: choking while a chihuahua looked on.
I had to leave before I wanted to. After recently having stayed on a date two hours too long, I “cleverly” began scheduling things to get me out of them. This time, it was to pick up a CB2 rug I’d found on FB marketplace. I was kicking myself for this now, but I really did need that dumb little rug.
I sped down Beverly Boulevard as I dialed my BFF, and we squealed like teens all the way to West Hollywood. When I arrived, the lady tried to chat with me, but I swiped the rug from her, got back in my car and continued to manically gab about this beautiful British angel. At home, I checked my phone to find a fat block of text from Jamie: she was apologizing for turning into a bumbling Hugh Grant at the end of our date. It was true— she’d begun talking about some brussel sprouts she had at a restaurant recently, but I went along with it, as she’d done earlier with my dumb joke. Her text went on to explain that she was nervous and trying to tell me that she was new to dating women and was exploring a curiosity. Oof.
Was this a test from the gay gods? We really connected, but date a bi-curious girl once and get hurt, shame on her. Date a bi-curious girl twice and—
“But that’s how it is whenever you date anyone, isn’t it? You never know how it will turn out,” Jamie said over coffee two days later, again interrupting my internal monologue. I guess she had a point. Sexuality isn’t the only determining factor for whether two people will become romantically involved. Or is that just something gay people say to convince themselves to pursue a beautiful bi-curious woman?
On our third date, we went to the roller rink (I discovered I’m kinda into roller skating!). As we flew around the rink, I was checking out her butt, wondering if she was also checking out mine. But an earlier google search of “bi-curious success stories?” told me statistically the odds were not in my favor. We took a breather, and she bought me a peach LaCroix from the vending machine. As we sipped on bubbles, we talked about what we were writing. I never thought I’d like to date an actor or a writer, worried I’d be jealous if they were better than me, or be turned off if I didn’t like their work. Jamie was both an actor and writer. To my surprise, I lit up when we talked about our work—no jealousy, or disgust—just inspiration and encouragement.
As I drove her home, we did a classic LA thing and asked each other our astrological signs. I told her I could be either a Leo or Cancer. I’m born on July 22, and believed that I was a Cancer most of my life, until recently discovering that I was technically a Leo because I was born at night. Jamie’s a Sagittarius. She looked up the compatibility and read it aloud. Cancers and Sagittariuses are compatible as friends. Leos and Sagittariuses together create hot and heavy fireworks of passion. We drove on as I silently bargained with the stars, paying them compliments about their beauty in exchange for their blessing.
As I rolled up to her house, she thanked me for a good time and fumbled with the doorknob.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked, ready to put this curiosity of hers to the test.
“Yes.” (Consent is king).
The stars danced as our lips met. Lost in the kiss, I took my foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward towards her roommate’s Mini Cooper. I stopped it just in time. We broke out into laughter.
“That was good,” she confessed, blushing slightly.
But I sensed she was also still trying to work out if she felt a spark. Shit, maybe I am a Cancer. She left, Hugh Grant style, babbling about brussel sprouts. I drove home hunched over, pulled down by the weight of impending rejection. I cursed the stars— most of you are dead anyway.
The next day, I spun around an axis of hope and dread until she texted me to say that while I’m “amazing,” she’s not sure how much she is attracted to women, and wants to be friends. Absolutely Gutted.
I fished for my feelings among the rubble. Was my decision to pursue her motivated by old rejections of my queerness, or by the desperate need to make a connection in this modern world? Could it be both? As the days went on, I realized most of what I was grieving was a loss of self. I missed who I was with her— fun, witty, creative, bold—the full 100% of who I'd like to be. How long had I been (dis)functioning at 30%?
British TV shows rarely go beyond three seasons— they understand that good things must end if they want to remain pure. Americans prefer to bastardize what we love. It’s greed or foolish optimism or selfishness, I think. I’ve watched some of my most beloved shows like The O.C. and Grey’s Anatomy crumble to trash after their third season. I like the British way, but as a born and bred American, I can’t help but want more of Jamie, or perhaps, I just want more of who I was when I was with her.
