Not queer enough, p.1
Not Queer Enough, page 1
NOT
QUEER
ENOUGH
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To my love, the one who made this story possible
I love you with my whole heart.
Thank you for making this my own fairytale ending.
And to those who feel like they don’t quite fit into
the queer community . . . You do.
All are welcome.
Especially you <3
CHAPTER One
"Have you tried online dating?” the middle-aged woman asked.
I plastered a sugary-sweet smile on my face, trying to control my visceral reaction to that question.
“Yes, Karen, I have. I am currently on two dating apps right now. It’s just hard to meet people online,” I said, trying to keep the bite out of my voice.
I had tried at least five or six apps. I wasn’t about to explain that to my client, considering she had probably never even downloaded a regular app let alone a dating one. It was cute when people thought online dating was the solution, when they had absolutely no previous experience with it.
I don’t know why my yoga students thought it was totally cool to butt into my personal life, but they’d always ask how such a “pretty young thing like you is still single!” I wanted to gag at that. I was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need ANYONE to validate who I was and my success. Plus, I had more to offer to the world than being “pretty” and “young.”
Ugh.
Except, sometimes, it did get a little lonely. But I wasn’t there to dive deep into my emotional psyche. I was there full time to teach yoga. People did not sign up for me to emotionally dump on them, and I held boundaries to avoid reciprocation.
It seemed like, because I was their yoga teacher, they thought they had exclusive access to my personal life. Sometimes, I wanted to scream at them, claiming dating absolutely sucked, especially after being in a long-term, serious relationship for years prior. Because that meant you could spot a red flag from a mile away, including your own. And let me tell you . . . there were plenty of people on dating apps where their first interaction sent off warning bells.
Like the man who insulted my belief system right off the bat and got a little too excited that I was bisexual. Or the woman who just wanted a plaything outside of her husband or just wanted a friend. To each their own, but I knew what I wanted. It was to be treated with basic human decency and to be seen as a legitimate, monogamous partner. I wasn’t a plaything, and I certainly wasn’t going to compromise my beliefs for some asshole on Hinge.
I also wanted to cackle maniacally and tell them their precious yoga teacher was a flaming bisexual and STILL couldn’t find someone to date.
I was truly bi-myself.
Ha-ha.
But I didn’t because it didn’t seem like the wealthy white women who came to my classes were ready to handle learning about a literal, straight-cut, twenty-something-year-old woman out of the Midwest. Plus, I needed to keep my job, and there are only so many yoga studios I could teach full time. And sometimes, I just couldn’t bear to make myself any more vulnerable than I already was.
So, I was bi-myself in more ways than one . . . I tried not to laugh at my joke, even though I thought I was pretty freaking funny.
“I am sure you are just being picky!” she says, waving at me, slipping on her Hermés sandals.
“I like the term ‘selective.’ But I will keep that in mind. Thanks for coming to class today, Karen!” I said, escorting her through the door.
People loved misconstruing dating standards for being picky. Could we stop shaming women for asking for what they deserve and desire?
K thanks.
I sighed as I shut the door behind her and scanned the studio for any stragglers.
“Do I just have a sign plastered on my forehead that says ‘Please give me unsolicited dating advice’?” I said, turning to my friend Autumn, who was also an instructor at the studio.
She cackled. “No, but you know how they love to be involved . . .” She winked.
Her dark hair was shaved, and earrings lined her dark-brown earlobes, with one embellishing her eyebrow. Autumn has totally owned her sexuality as a lesbian since she was in middle school, and no one had said anything to her about it. Her girlfriend practiced at the studio, and it was obvious they were together. It was like watching the definition of love unfold in front of you, straight out of the dictionary.
It was lovely.
It also incited jealousy within me, but I was working on that.
But my bisexuality was new—well, not new exactly but new for me to acknowledge, tell other people, and date accordingly. Sometimes, I wondered if I was pansexual . . . But being bi felt like the next step up from straight, and I wasn’t quite ready to embrace being pan yet.
Sometimes, it was too confusing and overwhelming. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a chicken noodle soup for the soul on how to figure out your sexuality. The bi-panic was real for me. I vacillated between thinking I wasn’t gay enough because I was more comfortable in a relationship with a man than wondering if I was just objectifying women by societal standards and feeling like a bad feminist. I’d even idly wonder if it was a phase but also wanted to scream from the rooftops that I wasn’t just an ally in the LGBTQIA+ community when I was with a man but that I was the big capital B in it!
It was a lot to unpack from day-to-day, so I’d just leave it be. I’d usually agree that I was ninety-nine point nine percent confident I wasn’t straight and that bi felt like a semi-comfy place most of the time.
Labels seemed to fit like a glove for some and felt more like a too-small scratchy sweater for me.
I pulled myself back to the present and exhaled loudly. “I do have a date, actually, with someone from one of the other places I work at.” I shrugged.
I was trying not to get too excited about it. The saying “hope for the best but expect the worst” should have been on my dating profile because that was my mindset.
She was cute. We had been flirting for a while, and she asked to go to dinner. But I wasn’t sold on her. I was twenty-six for god’s sake, and I wasn’t interested in hooking up, which felt like the vibe she was giving off. I mean, sometimes, I was . . . but not long-term.
I wanted a life partner.
Since I have yet to have good-enough sex that covered the need for emotional attachment, I was pretty sure it didn’t exist for me. Emotionally detaching from the physical act of sex was a struggle.
One time, I was on TikTok and saw a video that asked if I wanted just sex or to feel sexually desired and validated, and—damn—that hit me hard. Because anytime I hooked up with someone, it was less than great. Sometimes, I wanted to sleep around because I was just horny and then when I tried, it was . . . well, it was less than stellar.
Recently, I had been playing around that I might actually be demisexual as well. But I felt like I wasn’t sure I met the parameters for that either. I felt physical attraction but usually had to pump myself up to have sex immediately and then almost always felt deflated afterward.
My brain continued to be a confusing place to exist in.
In reality, I would have been better off not sleeping with random people anyway because, at least then, I wouldn’t freak out about my not using a condom or some barrier method or not asking about their sexual history. Because let’s face it: in the heat of the moment, I was not the best at making sure all my Ts were crossed and my Is were dotted, you know?
I liked to blame the lack of sexual education that is the United States of America public school system for that.
Anyway, it was hard enough going from having someone you were ready to spend your life with and having them know every single thing about you to nothing, then to casual dating. I wasn’t shopping around. Dating apps were an absolute shit show, and, honestly, I knew what I needed in a future partner. With more than twice as many opportunities to date someone because I liked most people inside and outside the binary, I still couldn’t find anyone who fit my list.
Someone please tell me how that was even possible.
Plus, living in the Midwest, I found a toss-up between weird dead fish photos and someone posing in camo for men. Then I barely saw anyone who wasn’t what I assumed to be a straight, cis-gendered male. It felt like the app was purposefully pushing a straight agenda, and it was annoying. Like, I knew other people were out there who liked women, but goddammit, Bumble, why were you not showing me their profiles?!
“Oh? Tell me about them,” Autumn said, crossing her legs and putting her elbow on the desk’s black countertop, forcing me away from my constant bi-panic.
“She’s cute and nice! She teaches at the rock climbing gym I’m at. I’m trying not to get too excited, you know? But, genuinely, she’s the first person I’ve been interested in in a while,” I said, trying to hide my smile.
She wasn’t the first girl I had been with. I had been with some women, actually, before I had announced to the world I was bi—or, ra
For the most part, my coming out was just a casual conversation that ended in everything being pretty much the same. I was grateful for that because so many didn’t have that as their story, and it ended in hurt. Still felt kind of weird to have a coming-out story past the age of high school, but here we were. The idea of coming out made me feel weird because—hello—straight people don’t have to come out, so why do I have to disclose my bisexual identity like it’s some big secret?
Ugh.
Anyway, I digress.
“Just have fun, okay? Try not to overthink it,” Autumn said, winking at me.
“Easier said than done,” I mumbled, heading to the cleaning closet to grab a mop and the disinfectant spray.
It was this next weekend we were going out. Her name was Zhara, and she was so adorable. We both were about the same height, and she had beautiful hooded brown eyes that made me want to melt. Her hair was cut short in a blunt bob, and her mouth was this beautiful little cupid’s bow begging to be kissed. She had tattoos snaking around her arms and hands in an array of colors. She was thick-waisted and had the most deliciously strong thighs I had ever seen.
I was totally into her physical look. But I really couldn’t shake off the feeling she was ready to get physical, like, yesterday, and I had little confidence that would be enough for me.
“We’re going to get dinner and then climb together,” I called back as I snaked the mop back and forth in the mirror-lined studio.
Autumn was leaning against the door frame, smiling.
“That seems like a very Elena-esque date,” she said, teasing me.
“I like to do active things and eat—sue me,” I laughed, my eyes darting to my own reflection in the mirror.
It was hard not to be excruciatingly conscious of your appearance when you stood in a mirrored room all day, every day. But I had come to terms a long time ago that my belly would always be soft, and my size would always be in the mid-sized category.
My long curly light-brown hair hung in a limp bun to the side of my head and little corkscrew curls haloed around my heart-shaped face. My blue eyes were probably the most interesting feature in addition to my septum piercing. My skin was impossibly pale, and my cheeks flushed from the class.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Autumn said, shrugging.
“I’ll update you next time I see you,” I said and looked at the Apple watch on my wrist.
I needed to head to another studio to teach another class. The glamorous life of a freelancer.
Hurrying along, I finished mopping and rushed to get my things together.
“Byeee, friend!” I said, waving to Autumn.
“Bye, E!” she said as the door slammed shut behind me.
I checked my phone and frowned. No text from Zhara. We had been having boring “how are you” conversations for the past few days, and I didn’t know how to get out of the slump.
Was she just a bad texter?
Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk to me?
I am a pretty interesting person, if I do say so myself.
I shook the thoughts out of my head. We were getting to know each other and doing it over texts sucked. One of the many reasons I always wanted to hang out in person ASAP was because that was when you could really tell if you had the chemistry and connection to make shit last. Or to just make it to a second date. I hadn’t had any second dates in, well, ever since my last relationship. Because, as Karen would say, I was “picky.”
Whatever, it would be fine. I was probably just overanalyzing things. No biggie. We vibed when we talked in person, so, obviously, texting wasn’t her jam.
Scoffing, I walked to my car because it was so funny for older generations to think that online dating was so easy. Like, of course you would find the love of your life there because it’s so easy and accessible. As if walking into a coffee shop and simply existing as a human being was enough for some suitor to walk up and be like “I have fallen in love with you at first sight!” which would, actually, be super creepy and not attractive at all.
Don’t even get me started on trying to navigate if a woman was into other women or not. Even if she clearly was, I still was like, Well . . . maybe she just likes to keep her pointer finger and middle finger nails shorter than the rest for work-related reasons?
Being bi was soooo fun.
They also didn’t seem to understand that matching didn’t guarantee they’d message each other. People ghosted at the beginning, middle, and end of conversations all the time.
Welcome to online dating, a dumpster fire that never stops.
Not only did you have to get over the hurdle of matching with someone you may be interested in, but you would have to get through a conversation that was the most painfully awkward thing you had ever done in your life, especially if their profile was bare bones. How was I supposed to talk about anything except the fucking weather with no good conversation material?!
I could rant for several hours about the quality of profiles. Because if you couldn’t be bothered to put effort into a profile, what the hell made people think that they could put effort into a relationship?!
And the photos . . . Oh god.
So many group photos.
Gym selfies.
Blurry pictures.
Ugh.
I took a deep breath and told myself not to worry until we hung out.
I looked at my watch again and swore. I needed to get moving, or I would be late.
My dating life could wait until I made money.
CHAPTER Two
"Does this look good? Like, good casual date-y?” I said, turning my hips side to side while I FaceTimed my best friend Fatima.
I was standing in front of my floor-length mirror in dark two-toned, straight-leg jeans, white sneakers, and a long-sleeve, button-up, cropped cream shirt. My curly hair was tamed in a multi-colored headband, and I had my standard set of gold hoops lining my ears, silver and gold rings on my fingers, and a rose quartz crystal hanging around my neck.
I was hoping it looked queer enough.
“You look hot, E,” Fatima said as she adjusted her dusty-pink hijab in her mirror.
She was getting ready to volunteer time at our local bookstore when I had FaceTimed her in a panic because I had tried on 850 outfits before deciding on this one.
“And then I’ll just do my standard all-black leggings and cropped tank for climbing,” I said, looking at the neat pile of clothes at the end of my bed for climbing later.
“Duh,” she said as she put mascara on her already-thick dark lashes and dusted highlighter on her light-brown cheekbones.
“Okay,” I said, sitting on my bed and sighing.
“What’s going on in your head?” Fatima said, swiping on a dark-red lip in her mirror. “I could have heard that sigh, even if we weren’t on Facetime.” She arched a sculpted brow at me.
“Dating is weird, and I’m nervous. I actually like her, and this is the first time in a long time someone has asked me out in person. And, honestly, I am fucking terrified. Butterflies exploding in my belly right now, and I am getting hookup vibes from her, which could be fun but not exactly what I want long term.” I looked down and splayed a hand over my soft stomach.
Recently, I had been reading on Reddit that butterflies weren’t actually a good sign with someone, that it was your body’s trauma response, and I didn’t know how to feel about that. Felt sort of true and sort of not? It was really not the time for me to look into validating it. I had spent way too much time on the Internet anyway, and I needed to take things with a grain of salt.
I would put a pin into those spiraling thoughts for therapy.
“Take a deep breath. Try to stay present and worry more about if you like her as opposed to if she likes you. Communicate your boundaries if things start to get physical. You know what you want and have confidence in your ability to say it loud.” She turned the camera around and gave me a soft, encouraging smile.
