'Am I queer enough?'
An existential crisis.
A few weeks ago, we asked members of the community to pitch their own stories for this newsletter, as we want to hear from more voices and broaden our own perspectives. Our next guest essay is by Jennifer Hakim, a writer and editor based in London. She enjoys writing about mental health, relationships, sustainability, social justice, LGBTQIA+ life, culture and arts.
Want to write for us? If you want to pitch a guest essay idea for the newsletter, read this guide and email our editor, Taylor Majewski, at taylor@askdiem.com.
A few years ago, I came out as pansexual. I had refused labels for a long time, as I did not identify as either straight, gay, or bisexual. These terms felt too restrictive, and the last time I felt ‘straight’ was probably before I hit puberty. Since then, I have dated boys and girls, and ‘pansexual’ felt right: I am simply attracted to people. Gender doesn’t impact me, or so I thought.
I am now a 36-year-old cis pansexual woman who’s only ever had sex with (cis) men and is in the middle of an existential crisis.
What used to be cute and exciting now fills me with dread; meeting a beautiful girl, flirting for hours, kissing, holding hands and feeling butterflies at the prospect of what might come next. The truth is that I’m a queer virgin—an immediate mood killer.
When I was a young student in Paris, I was in love with a girl. At the end of our last date, I wanted to take her home. But the timing wasn’t on our side, as my best friend was visiting from England and staying in my studio apartment, canceling any chance of a sleepover.
If it wasn’t for those logistical issues, that night might have been the night. Granted, I was nervous and might have needed a little time, but I wanted her to be my first. Instead, she cheated on me, and we broke up a few days later.
Fast forward 16 years and I sometimes wonder if my inexperience disqualifies me as queer. Maybe that ship has sailed. Maybe ‘that night’ was just meant to be hers. Maybe it’s just a mental block.
I recently met a beautiful woman in a gay bar. Our connection was instant, but as the flirting heated up, shame crept in, and I felt like I owed her a disclaimer. Why on earth would a woman like that want to spend the night with a thirty-something virgin? But she was lovely and reassuring and said all the right words. She said it wasn’t a big deal, and that it will happen with the right person at the right time. As we parted ways, we talked about going on a date, but neither of us has followed up since.
Meeting her was an awakening. She asked about my heritage, and about how my upbringing affected my queer journey. She asked when I kissed a girl for the first time, and what was going on in my life then. It felt like therapy, without an ounce of judgment, giving me some space for reflection. It really got the wheels turning.
As it turns out, the first time I kissed a girl was a few months after my father died. I grew up in a Middle Eastern and French mixed household—one I’m proud of—but queerness wasn’t a welcome topic at home. I also went to a Catholic school, where there was very little space for divergence. Being half-Syrian was ‘other’ enough.
There are things I allowed myself to do over the years and other things I’ve unconsciously categorized as “crossing a line.” Kissing girls was fun and harmless, but going to bed with them was a different ballpark. The funny thing about shame is that it multiplies in the most paradoxical ways, between the conscious and the subconscious. I feel shame in my queer inexperience, yet I feel shame in the limited queer experiences I do have. I am out and proud, yet I judge myself constantly.
Today, I feel closer to crossing that line. Instead of wondering whether I should be booted out of the queer community for my lack of sexual experience, I should be working on self-love and on silencing the imposter syndrome that creeps in. There is no such thing as being too queer to be straight, or too straight to be queer. In other words—who cares? Sex doesn’t validate sexual orientation, nor does it define it. This is what people mean when they say that sexuality is a spectrum.
It might take another few years to take the step I’m scared of, as some things are out of my control. But I am still a romantic and will keep looking for the right person. I won’t let shame bring me down, and only I will decide what my queerness looks like.
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