I don't want a boyfriend.

notes app musings on queerness, relationships, and desire

What if it's not meant for me?

Love

— Wolf Alice, Don’t Delete The Kisses

When you’re sixteen and have never shown an interest in anyone, your mother starts to worry. It should feel nice, a testament to her affectionate vigilance. It doesn’t. Her words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken queries. Suffocating. So when are you bringing someone home? The question carries with it the weight of expectation. Her tone’s accusatory like I’m keeping something from her, like I’m living a double life. I am, I suppose. Sometimes, it feels like the life lived by everyone else doesn’t fit me right. It’s too big. I keep telling myself I’ll grow into it. But every year, it keeps expanding and I keep shrinking and normalcy feels even further out of reach. Suddenly, I’m eleven; I’m thirteen; I’m fifteen. I am every age I have ever been, every iteration of myself, trapped in a dance of perpetual becoming.

Do you even like boys? There it is, that secondary inquiry. It’s a rational explanation. It’s probably a correct analysis, too. She doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing. It isn’t. It feels like it is. It leaves a bitter aftertaste. To confess that you don’t like anyone is to invite disbelief, to be met with raised eyebrows and searching glances. There must be more, something exciting. There must be a story, a secret teenage love affair you simply cannot reveal, or an unrequited crush on your best friend. Sometimes, there just isn’t. Sometimes, you just are.  You wish that was enough for everyone.

I’m seventeen and my grandfather asks me when I’m bringing a nice boy home. It’s almost ritualistic. Each time I pay a visit, precisely at that point in the evening when he realises he hasn’t asked me a single question. He’s trying, I suppose. What strikes me about clichés like this is that there must have been someone, somewhere, who once asked this question with genuine innocence, unaware of its loaded implications. Yet, for me, hearing it every week from either my grandfather or mother, it's become background noise, easily dismissed, a linguistic reflex that signifies a vague concern rather than any genuine interest in my life.

So I laugh and brush it off. Again. I appreciate his adherence to the script, playing his role flawlessly in our little theatre of family dynamics. The stereotypical, emotionally repressed, ex-miner grandfather inquires about his queer granddaughter’s love life. It’s almost comical. And yet, I’m grateful for his participation, for choosing those precise words, allowing me to maintain my façade of composure and pretend I’m not crumbling at the weight of expectation. 

When I bring my girlfriend home at eighteen, I don’t come out to my parents. At eighteen, I fancy myself a renegade – eschewing the need for labels or the shackles of expectation. I refuse to be put into your boxes. I’m different, edgy. You can’t label me. I revel in the illusion of radical autonomy. In retrospect, this supposed nonconformity is just another form of avoidance. It’s easier to bring her home under the guise of nonchalance than to confront the true extent of my own queerness, still messy and unformed. 

To utter the words I’m a lesbian, or I’m bisexual, or even I like girls feels like grasping at elusive truths, elusive because perhaps none are entirely accurate, or perhaps all are. Deep down, I yearn not for the validation of a specific identity, but rather for affirmation of my capacity for love, for connection. I want to easily answer inquiries about our relationship. I want to confidently say, we are dating, and be met with the expected nods of comprehension. It’s not a rebellion against societal norms that holds me back from defining my sexuality; rather, it’s a fear of confronting the unsettling possibility that my desires may not align with any prescribed category whatsoever.

When that relationship eventually crumbles months later, I’m forced to face some uncomfortable truths. Superficially, we were the archetype of the perfect couple — the femme4femme, cottagecore, aquarium visiting, Lego flower-building, relationship that was meticulously curated to align with the whims of the TikTok algorithm. My foremost concern was conforming to this idealised image, proving my capacity for love, for devotion, for the mundane rituals of coupledom. So we adorned our digital personas with photo-booth kisses and anniversary photos as though each day were a milestone of eternal significance. A picture-perfect romance! Was it any more than that? Not really. It felt itchy, stifling. The notion of commitment gnawed at my insides. It shouldn’t have. I should’ve revelled in the attention, in the image of it all. This is what you wanted. Why can’t you just commit? Why can’t you just be normal? 

When you come to terms with being queer, you anticipate a sense of finality, a resolution to the tumultuous journey of self-discovery. You don’t expect to face any supplementary revelations. Ah, that’s it, we tell ourselves, I’ve addressed that and now I can carry on, albeit with a hint of unconventional flair. We envision a conclusion to the narrative, a cathartic release from internal suffering and societal expectations. There may be tears shed, a fleeting skirmish with internalised homophobia, but ultimately, we expect to resume our existence unencumbered. After all, it’s the twenty-first century — gay couples get married, have children, and even have TV shows made all about their lives. Virtually my entire female friendship group has dated or hooked up with a girl. It’s a new era of acceptance, especially for those raised in liberal households like myself. This is why it comes as a devastating blow when you realise that your queerness transcends mere attraction to girls, that another facet of identity lurks within the recesses of your consciousness, waiting to be acknowledged and reconciled.

Now I’m nineteen and, several failed situationships later, I finally have to acknowledge it, that extra layer of my identity. For me, sex has always been a simple affair. I don’t care for it much. It’s funny, the way people talk about it. I remember seeing this quote on Tumblr ages ago. I want to unzip her body and crawl into it. I couldn’t help but laugh the first time I read it. A bit melodramatic, right? I didn’t understand how the pull of lust could be so intense. To this day, that level of intimacy and vulnerability eludes me.

It’s not that I never want sex. It’s just that sex, for me, exists firmly in the background —a distant murmuring amidst the chaos of everyday existence. This realisation has been the reason for many failed romantic pursuits and a consistent source of self-loathing. I envy those who can partake in raunchy banter about past escapades with friends, or even navigate intimacy without succumbing to the weight of guilt and self-doubt. Each sexual encounter leaves me grappling with a profound sense of unease, a nagging disquietude that lingers long after the moment has passed. Every kiss and every touch play on my mind for weeks afterward, like I am betraying my body — my soul, even. It's only under the haze of alcohol that I can relinquish the burdens of self-awareness. In those moments of inebriated abandon, I am granted a fleeting taste of freedom, a brief reprieve from constant internal scrutiny. I’ll take whatever semblance of normalcy I can get, however brief it may be.

Navigating the dissonance between your own sexual inclinations and what society expects of you is difficult in itself, but the revelation that this divergence may preclude the possibility of ever experiencing romantic connection is the real gut-punch. Because that’s the essence of existence, isn’t it?  I remember the innocent fantasies of childhood, dressing up as Princess Belle and envisioning a future of fairy tale romance — a narrative of transformation, a beast turned prince, and eternal bliss. How intoxicating it was to believe in the promise of a happily-ever-after, in which all imperfections would be subsumed beneath the veil of love. It was exciting, back then, the idea that happily ever after was guaranteed. He’ll accept me and I’ll accept him. It’ll be perfect.

As you grow up, you realise life is messy. You realise life isn’t as simple as marrying a prince. But you still cling to the idea that, one day, you’ll find solace in the embrace of another, someone who truly accepts you. When this illusion shatters, when you finally realise that your aspirations may never align with societal expectations, it’s devastating. Suddenly, that life that felt too big at sixteen feels like it’s slipped through your fingers entirely. No longer is it a mere oversized blazer awaiting an inevitable growth spurt, but rather a celestial body beyond the grasp of mortal hands.

So you find yourself listening to Don’t Delete the Kisses on a Saturday night, staring at your ceiling, hoping that the glow of your bedroom light transforms into that unreachable star. It becomes a silent plea, a fervent prayer that somehow, someday, you might navigate existence with grace. Somehow, someday, you will be able to do life right.

 — Vincent Giarrano, Diana’s Dream

okay so here’s my first post. bit dramatic. it gets even more cringey every time i read it. i’m aware that some of my musings on sexuality, especially those about coming to terms with same-sex attraction, might seem to downplay the difficulties that often come with accepting one’s identity. let me be clear, i don’t believe that for a second. it took me years to come to grips with my attraction to women. i'm not saying this is an easy thing to accept; rather, i wanted to highlight the added complexity of grappling with a secondary identity on top of the first one (for me, likely falling somewhere on the aro/ace spectrum). it's like, you think you've got it all figured out after accepting one part of yourself, but then life hits you with another layer to unravel. this is just my attempt to make sense of what’s in my head in a somewhat creative way, so please don't take it too seriously. don’t consider it my definitive stance on sex and sexuality. i'm just riffing lol. anyway, lesbians are valid, bisexuals are valid, gay people are valid, aro/ace people are valid, trans people are valid, and however you choose to identify, you are valid!

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