I only dated straight men until a disgusting remark changed everything

Sitting in a café, nursing a lukewarm cappuccino, an attractive man stopped in his tracks and looked at me through the window. 

He came inside and introduced himself – Jack*. 

After a brief flirt and an exchange of pleasantries, he asked what I was doing that evening and we swapped numbers. I was ecstatic. This is just like how it happens on Sex And The City. 

That evening, I walked into the bar we agreed to meet at and greeted him with a hug. It was clear there was a mutual attraction. 

I was wearing four-inch black boots, fishnets, a modest skirt and shirt combination, a leather jacket, and a face of make-up that included nearly every colour conceivable. It was a classic look for me at the time and I was really feeling myself. 

After sitting down, it took all of 10 minutes for Jack to talk about sex. I wasn’t opposed to a one-night-stand – after all I was a queer 20-something living in London – so it wasn’t out of the question. 

I laughed it off and went to the bar. Coming back with a glass of red wine, I could feel Jack eyeing me up. 

Within minutes, he professed: ‘I’m really into the way you look. I love shemales.’ 

He clearly thought I’d be flattered, even though I’d already told him earlier in the day that I identified as non-binary. 

I suddenly felt a deep sense of disappointment. I tried to laugh it off, but the bubble had burst. 

This is just one of the interactions I’ve had with straight men who only saw me as a sexual object. And it’s why I’ll never date a straight man again. 

Coming out as non-binary at the age of 20 was pretty uneventful. I shared a Facebook post declaring my love for sitting within the middle ground of masculine and feminine in 2015. 

I then began my journey into androgyny and self-expression, growing in confidence by wearing the ‘women’s clothes’ I’d always thought were more interesting or creative and using the colours in the eyeshadow palette that I’d once perceived as ‘too much’. 

In these early days, dating was difficult. 

I felt ‘too femme’ for gay men, so was often rejected in queer spaces by guys who prized masculinity. Dating apps were a minefield too – none more so than Grindr. 

But I quickly discovered a cohort of straight men – footballers and rugby players, bank managers, and men from the city – who found me attractive. 

For a time, I felt like I fit in and that I was attractive enough to be with these types of big, masculine men.

But after the sex or the drink, the desire would instantly switch off. I would be asked to leave, or the attention would disappear, replaced instead with a coldness that only comes from shame and internalised homophobia. 

It made me feel dirty. That I could only be loved in the confines of secrecy.

But I found myself seeking straight men, since they were the only men on Grindr that were interested in me. The conversation often started with them explaining their lack of experience with gay men but that they preferred hooking up with trans women or people who presented femme. 

I wasn’t one to judge, and also at the time enjoyed the compliments and attention that I had never received before.  

The most common thing about these interactions was that they were simply looking for casual sex rather than anything romantic.

They wouldn’t want to date, or be seen out in public, and would often hesitate to even send photos of their faces due to fear of being ‘outed’. 

I didn’t realise it at the time but I confused their attention for love, when it was often just a chance for them to turn their late night porn search into a reality. 

Then came the date with Jack and his ‘shemale’ remark.  

The date ended swiftly after his comments. I stated that I was done, and thought we should both head home. 

I walked him to the train station and despite his many attempts to try and invite himself back to my flat, we said goodbye. 

That – among other interactions – stirred something in me. I wanted more. Less transactional sex and more validating romance. I couldn’t keep putting myself through this. 

So I decided to simply stop dating straight men, aged 24. 

I made a conscious effort to really work out what I found attractive in other people, rather than just using someone else’s attraction to me as a reason to pursue a romance. 

Now, I’ve found the most nurturing and beautiful dating experiences with other non-binary people and queer folk who know exactly what it’s like to be fetishised or seen as just a sexual being. 

Dating, or even having casual sex with someone who also understands your identity is affirming and respectful, is now non-negotiable.

I’ve been able to go on those romantic cinema dates, or walks along the river or trips to museums with people that have provided me with that romantic desire and flirtation I’d been searching for in my failed dates with straight men.   

It’s a beautiful feeling. One I thought I wouldn’t experience as a non-binary person, and felt like I couldn’t find in my early 20s. But now, I know that I am not only worth more than just sexual validation, but that it’s possible to find respectful and loving people within my own community.  

Now, I feel confident that I am able to not only know what I find attractive in other people, but know what I find attractive in myself. 

By giving myself the space to get to know me, I’ve been able to learn that I am not just a sex object or person to ‘experiment’ with. Instead, I now know I am capable of being loved inside and out, as a proud and confident non-binary person. 

*Name has been changed

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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