Preamble: this is written from the perspective of a white, cis, (somewhat queer-identified) bisexual British woman in her mid-30s, with an ethically non-monogamous & kinky primary relationship of several years standing. My primary partner is a cis man with otherwise similar credentials. While it should be utterly bleeding obvious, I shall nevertheless point out that that these are my opinions only and have minimal wider significance, just so we know we’re all on the same page. K? Moving on…
So, we (the Royal We) have started “trying for a baby”, to use the cliche. It’s typically assumed that when straight people say that, it just means they’re fucking a lot, and when gay peeps say it, there’s something complicated going on with turkey basters, 29 minute sperm dashes and a whole lot of ticklish diarising. But what does it mean when 2 cis bisexual people of opposite sexes do it? My experience thus far is that it’s more than a little surreal.
For starters, there are no role models, nor even cautionary tales. Just none. If there’s an assumption at all, it’s of default heterosexuality, because when it comes down to it, a differently-sexed bi couple is basically a straight couple for babby-forming purposes, right? Hell, I even made that assumption myself. But either it’s something else entirely or we are.
Unexpected realisation #1? I’m not actually enjoying it that much so far. Yes, sex is nice, but simply increasing a good thing doesn’t always make it better. Ask someone who’s ever had a hangover.
Like most women who fuck men, a significant aspect of my sex life up to now has been my avoidance of pregnancy, which is now bafflingly reversed. And frankly, I actively enjoy safer sex. I like condoms and their mess-reducing, insta-lubing qualities. I like other barriers too (mmm gloves) but they don’t get a look-in here. What I positively don’t like is the post-sex sensation of semen running down my legs, and that is now happening every damn time. Screw you, bodily fluids.
Then there’s the actual PIV sex itself. I’m not against it in any way, but it is so NOT an essential part of the repertoire. Hey, I like it, but honestly, my libido is a moderate one. I’m not secretly greysexual, there are just plenty of things I like to do at least as much as any sexual activity. But now it’s all about ejaculation, so we both have to break the habit of a lifetime to fuck when we’re really not in the mood. This doesn’t just make our sex life more boring and annoying, it’s starting to make it scarily unfeminist as well. I hear phrases like, “It’s ok! Don’t worry if I’m into it or not, just do it!” and “I give you full permission to pounce on me as soon as you’re ready!” coming out of my mouth and it scares me. I’m reassured by having a feminist partner, but we don’t exist in a vacuum. I had never even contemplated that having a male partner who just can’t do something if I’m not totally into it could be anything but good! And this is hardly one-sided; we’ve never really had to deal much with performance pressure before, so it’s a bit of a nasty novelty. Being reduced to a single body part is no fun for anyone.
Don’t even think about jazzing it up with kink. There’s no time or energy left for anything non-reproductive, and after all that stress it’s really cuddling we crave most. Unless we’re tense & ticklish from over-stimulation. Which happens. Obviously, this is not so great for other relationships either, and the ovulation-related diarising certainly gets in the way of external dating. Which we fully expected would happen at some point, but maybe not quite so soon. Sorry, metamours.
We briefly contemplated boosting our queer credentials – and giving ourselves a break – by inseminating turkey baster-style, but sadly our ice box wasn’t cold enough. And frankly, I think demanding some procreative wanking as well might have led to a full-on mutiny. The compromise was investing in ClearBlue’s ovulation detector tests. They’re not cheap – up to £40 per 28 days! – but it’s a small price to pay for restricting the stress to 3 or 4 days a month.
Oh well. At least it makes pregnancy look even more desirable. Hurry the fuck up, babby!