My coming out was purely accidental. The year was 2020, a sultry day at the pride gathering in Azad Maidan on the eve of the Covid-19 pandemic.
As a lover of men, women and puns, I was holding up a sign that said ‘Bi till I die’. None of my friends were very impressed. So you can imagine my delight when a professional photographer asked me to pose with the sign. When the photograph was posted on social media, I immediately shared it as my Instagram story, thrilled for the world to see my clever sloganeering, not really thinking of it as a turning point in my journey as a queer person.
Then my mother saw the photo and texted me saying, ‘Tu bi aahes ka? Majjach aahe mag tujhi,’ So you’re bi? Sounds like fun.
I’m fortunate that my family is supportive. When I went to university in London, I found an even greater freedom. I was free to explore my sexuality, devoid of judgement or secrecy. I was surrounded by queer people brimming with assurance and self-expression that seeped into my own sense of identity.
There, equality has reached the stage where lesbian couples not only have the right to marriage but also the right to be as annoying as any other married couple.
Then I moved to the city of dreams, Mumbai.
I was young and a hard-core romantic. During my first pride march at August Kranti, I heard chants of ‘Prem mhanje prem asta, tumcha amcha same asta.’
‘Love is love’ but in Marathi.
I believed in those chants wholeheartedly. I assumed my dating life wouldn’t change much from when I lived in London, that people would be free, open and out.
But very soon I found myself in a maze of closeted and confused women, who at times did not seem to understand consent, nor have much regard for my feelings.
The ones who got away
There was one girl who I went on multiple dates with, who kissed me sweetly, said she wanted more, only to tell me that it was all just an experiment.
Then there was the one who got drunk and made out with me in a scenic Bandra street only to stop communicating with me altogether.
Then there was the one who I had the biggest crush on, the one who made my pulse quicken when she told me she’s queer, who flirted with me intensely until I wrote to her, asking her out on a date. She replied with many heart-eyed emojis. ‘My face is still splitting with a smile haha,’ she wrote.
But 10 minutes into our date, she informed me that she is “physically attracted to women but not sexually attracted to women”.
“What does that mean?” I asked her.
“It means that when I look at a woman I think she’s hot but I can never have sex with her, even hypothetically.” I should have recognised that this was a waste of my time and politely taken my leave.
Instead, I spent six exponentially confusing hours in conversation with her, trying to decipher her sexuality. As a woman, I believed that I must hear her out, even if I had to do it over the din of my shattering heart. Did I also have a feeble hope that I might change her mind?
But as I sat there, I felt like I was listening to what was a monologue of self-diagnosed therapy speak. You see, she saw me as holding space for her to justify her “unique brand of queerness”, but my crush was putrefying to frustration and bitterness.
In the end, I was left with no clue why this girl went on a date with me when she was never planning on having a same-sex relationship.
Consent? What’s that?
I had thought that dating women would be easier, that women are in touch with their emotions, better at communication, and empathetic. I was mistaken. Then again, I had also assumed that women understand consent. Alas, I was to be proven wrong about that too.
During the pandemic, I went to a party and met a woman who told me that she is bi. I told her I was too, but didn’t show any more interest. After all, there is no rule in the bi-laws that stipulates that all queer women must be attracted to one another.
Then the untoward happened; she kissed me without my consent.
I did nothing and I said nothing. If a man had done this to me, I probably would have slapped him. The shock of being treated this way by a woman was immense.
The worst part? The next day, I get a call from the host of the party.
She tells me to stay home for a few days because someone at the party had tested positive for Covid. Who? I asked with a sinking feeling in my stomach; ’twas the barmy bi broad with bad breath.
People often say to me, “You’re bisexual, so you have more options.”
“I just have more assholes to choose from,” I tell them.
Last year, a woman took me on a date to an art gallery where we kissed and then put our arms around each other in the ladies compartment of the local train on the way home. She raised my hopes by describing her life like “every episode of Sex and the City”, then left me fully unsatisfied by turning out to be a Pillow Princess.
That was the last straw.
I’m in my 30s, for God’s sake. I’m too old to be inducting people into a WLW course. I decided I was done being the “experienced one”, the guinea pig, the giver. I was pissed off and feeling not a little self-righteous.
None of the so-called bisexual women I met felt like the real deal, but rather like landmines sent on my path to test me at every stage of dating. None of them were interested in being queer beyond the surface level.
Theoretically, sure, we can see that when shame and secrecy are the main emotions that surround sexuality, people’s behaviour becomes distorted. But life is not theory and I couldn’t simply rationalise my feelings away. I was undeniably being treated like a toy, to be played with for a time then discarded or kept in a dark drawer. I felt anger towards the women who were window shopping for same-sex partnerships. How can they be out of the closet with so many doors closed? What was I to get out of these relationships if they were going to be neither romantic, sexual nor committed?
Two contradictory feelings were grappling in my head. One was that women, both queer and straight, have been dealt an unfair hand and, therefore, I needed to show up for them. The other was the fact that some of these women had hurt me and, therefore, I needed to run in the opposite direction. Why should I put myself out there, over and over again, open my heart, my home, my everything to these women only to end up feeling LGBetrayed?
Unfreeze my heart
Then, salvation arrived in the form of a friend visiting from out of town during Pride month.
A spontaneous night of debauchery ensued. We partied all night with a big group of people, until we were the last ones standing. When she told me that she’s straight, I rolled my eyes and said, “Here we go again.”
Then I threw caution to the wind when she suggested we go back to her hotel room. At this point, I found her insistence on being straight amusing. Like claiming to be an atheist while partaking of the body and the blood of Christ.
But we continued to text even after she left the city the next day. I sent her songs from my ‘Good Bi’ playlist which she listened to chalantly.
“You got me grinning like crazy here,” she wrote. “Stop it,” I replied as snapshots of texts from other women started flashing in front of my eyes. “You’re such a queer bait.”
“Which part of my face shoved in you was baiting?”
“The part where you kept saying you’re straight!” I argued.
Then she posted it – an Instagram story telling the world that she is bi. Just like I had done all those years ago.
Her act of courage was a microwave for my heart. I had built so many walls around me, denying myself from having deeper connections with women. But with one single post, they came crashing down.
I always had this bare-minimum expectation from the women I dated; that they would come out. If not now, then at least eventually; if not to their family, then at least to their friends. Over and over again, expectation and reality had been misaligned. But not this time.
And, here, I had played a part, however miniscule, in this coming out journey.
I responded immediately, welcoming her to the community and asking her how she’s feeling. She said the signs were always there, she said she just needed proof. I told her I’m happy for her. That the journey would be tough but that there is freedom in knowing oneself truly and living that truth.
Perhaps, I needed proof too. I had begun to convince myself that the society we live in would never allow women to feel safe in their identity as a bisexual person, that there were too many struggles faced by the LGBTQIA+ community, and that while these taboos existed, I would never be offered true love or companionship by a woman.
I had given up, chipped away my own wants and needs, on the boulevard of broken dreams. Now, I realised that I was not alone.
My travels in the bi lanes of Bombay have been riddled with potholes and roadblocks but I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Cheers to that!
Naina Mehendale is a filmmaker, feminist and proud member of the LGBTQ community. A fan of sci-fi, horror, fantasy, and rom-com, Naina’s creative vision aims to tell unconventional stories while making them relatable and entertaining to diverse audiences.
