Navigating Dating as a Non-Binary, Queer, Polyamorous Person

Rushing to catch the train to my late-night date with this lovely French girl while texting this masc enby* I met on Bumble about their clothing business, just after the date with this Syrian dude as we watched the sunset and drank wine? Just another Tuesday for me!

Just kidding (I wish). In all honesty, it was an exceptionally good Tuesday rather than a regular one. Nonetheless, I must say that since I realised I’m poly, dating has become more exciting and better suited to my needs, and a lot of previous dread and frustration went away. Spreading my love and attention across multiple people gave me a strange sense of relief, one I never knew I needed. I used to swear I would never be in an open relationship, I used to not understand what it meant to be outside of the gender binary. But here we are.

Being non-binary, queer, sapiosexual, and polyamorous is wonderful, but let’s face it—it’s a mouthful. It makes dating interesting and exciting, but it also makes it arguably a little more complicated. Some may think it’s because there’s not enough time in the day to date multiple people or that I’m promiscuous. But that’s not the case (again, I wish, and when that happens, it’s great). But it’s less about that colourful, liberated, queer aesthetic we tend to assign to polyamory, and it’s more about facing my own demons, my own internalised phobias. The queer, trans joy, linking up with cool, like-minded people, expanding my tribe, and occasional resulting promiscuity are the effects of this internal processing, not the core of my experience.

Dating other queer and trans people can be intimidating – they’re so cool, am I as cool? Do I belong? But dating cis people (especially girls) can be nerve-wracking – will they accept me the way I am? Do they get it? Are they transphobic? It’s not that cis people are inherently different, but the fear of not being understood or potentially rejected based on my gender or sexuality is frightening. I can tell you, I say this after multiple dates with queer women who got back with their toxic boyfriends right after we went out. And it’s not that I’m seeking validation from the people I date. At this point in my journey, I’m comfortable with who I am. But still, when you like someone, go on a date, tell them you’re non-binary, and they get weird – it’s unpleasant, even if you never see them again. And what’s even worse is when everything does go well, but you’re in your head about whether they really liked you. Or you notice thinking about stuff you thought you left behind a while ago, like whether you’re feminine or masculine enough, whether your fluidity and androgyny will confuse them – even though the date itself went great.

* masc enby = non-binary individuals who experience masculinity

My queer journey moments unfolded as follows: coming out as bi, coming out as queer, coming out as gender queer, coming out as non-binary, coming out as poly, realising everything is fluid, coming out as sapio-sexual, coming out as pan, making peace with being non-binary. Amid all that, I got into an open relationship that’s been a grace in my life for the past 3 years. A boomer’s nightmare.

This all happened in Amsterdam and Rotterdam, and although the Netherlands is not as progressive as it claims, the LGBTQ+ community there is larger than in Luxembourg. I got used to people not misgendering me, using the right pronouns, respecting my gender identity, and its expression. I got used to exchanging ideas and experiences in a safe space, free of judgment.

When I first moved there, I knew that I was queer, but at the time, I dated mostly men, and I can tell you this was never an issue. Because I never cared what straight men thought or said about me, I never cared about their opinions, and I was dating them for the story, for the drama. I was young, and it was the first time I felt free and wild, and I just wanted to feel something, to experience something crazy. And crazy it was, but rarely exciting, and it got cringy and boring pretty fast. I knew so little, I experienced so little, so anything out of what I’ve experienced so far felt like a blessing, like a new scrapbook entry. But these days are long over. I mean, I still love drama, and I love doing something for the story, but as years went by, I realised that I was not satisfied with what I used to be, as I gained more clarity about who I am. But dating women and queer people can feel more stressful, although more meaningful.

I think it’s because I care more about what my community thinks of me, I care more about their approval. I’m not there to mess around with them like I used to with men. I crave meaningful connections – platonic, romantic, and sexual experiences with people I truly value and cherish. So the stakes are higher, I’m not playing a part, I’m not performing a gender I don’t feel comfortable in. I’m just fully myself, and if I get rejected for that, it hurts. If things don’t work out with someone I finally vibed with and I genuinely like – it hurts.

Coping with these external situations is one thing, dealing with my internalized homophobia and transphobia is another. Sometimes, I wonder if a person genuinely does not like me, or if I am making it up, projecting my own insecurities. It gets better, it definitely gets better, and it already has. Compared to the beginning of my poly and non-binary dating journey, it feels much more harmonious and secure these days. But as long as being trans and queer is associated with so much stigma and erasure, we can’t just shake these feelings off completely. Even when we’re secure, the behaviour of others can be triggering or simply disappointing. There are not a lot of queer or trans people I get to meet in general, and even more so here in Luxembourg, and when you do end up scoring a date and it goes wrong or you get ghosted, it just stings, no matter how grown or self-confident you are.

Nonetheless, despite all this, dating is now better than it has ever been before. It’s real and cool, and when it goes well, it feels really good. Dating queer and non-binary people is such a delight and relief. It feels equal and relatable, there’s none of that pretending and performing that I experienced with straight men.

Fast forward, I’m back in Luxembourg. I’ve been with my partner for the past three years, and we are very close. We spend a lot of time together. We moved in six months into our relationship, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. But even before we met, I knew I was polyamorous, so I knew I could not be in a monogamous relationship. I felt like I would be cheating myself and who I am if I did that, and after some hesitation, we decided to try it out. I was worried they’d be jealous, that they’d feel like I was spreading my love and attention too thin. In the end, I was the jealous one, or at least I was more jealous. Everything that worked well ideologically exposed me to whatever conditioning was still holding me back, making me question whether I was truly poly or whether I was forcing myself into it. But I knew deep down this was right, and I had to see it through. As much as we’ve seen other people throughout our relationship, it hasn’t been that much of a challenge to navigate all this in practice. Each time something happened, each time we hooked up with someone or went on a date, we spoke about it, processed it together, and carried on seeing other people. It felt empowering and positive, like we both gave each other this freedom, freedom of choice, freedom of privacy. But most of the time, I just go home and watch Below Deck on the couch rather than hook up with someone at the club. Am I getting old?

At the beginning of our relationship, I went through a very tough time personally, so dating others wasn’t really a priority. But around one and a half years into it, we decided we were both ready, talked, and got each other’s blessings (again). I needed these blessings now and then because I was feeling guilty. Not all the time, but there were moments when I did. Being poly whilst being single was easy and emancipating, but being in a committed relationship whilst seeing other people was a challenge I didn’t foresee. Suddenly, I felt guilty, I felt like I was cheating on my partner. I felt insecure about whether they were seeing someone else and whether that person would be “better than me”. It felt crazy because I didn’t think this consciously, and it surprised me because I thought these feelings were behind me. When I was single, I didn’t feel this way towards my lovers, but now that I was in a committed relationship, I realised that I need some time to decondition from this residue of past insecurities. Putting the experience of polyamory into practice revealed what I felt subconsciously, which was different from what I felt in my mind and in my heart. It’s as if all these years of conditioning had to catch up with the changes I wanted to implement in my life.

Now we’re amazed at how easy these things are. I think the biggest misconception that people have is that couples in an open relationship don’t commit to each other, and don’t care for one another. And although every relationship is different, and I’m sure some couples are less committed to each other or spend less time together than I do with my partner, I don’t think this freedom and flexibility come from “not caring” or “not committing”. I think it’s the opposite. It’s precisely because you love someone (and yourself) that you want to set them free (and yourself). At least in my experience, that has been the case.

During my first month back in Luxembourg, I went on Bumble and Field. After maybe two minutes of swiping, I got the familiar “THERE IS NOBODY IN YOUR AREA”. Classic. But I know y’all are out there. It’s just a matter of time before I meet more queer people in “my area”. I know about the Rainbow Centre, I know about Richtung 22 meet-ups, I know about the queer parties scattered across the country. So get ready because this spring I’m coming out (of my house).

But I’m not rushing. Years of dating have taught me to put my own comfort first. It gave me this radical hopefulness. Each time I say no to someone or something that doesn’t work out, I make more space for new, better-suited experiences and people to come into my life. And it feels good, it comes from deep self-love and self-respect. In bad moments, I used to think I was not good enough, I didn’t deserve to be who I am, I would never be accepted – those days are gone. And it feels so light and peaceful to be able to say that. Now, in bad moments, I think: this is not for me, something better is on the way, stay patient, no expectations, what is meant to find you will find you. And this always clears the way somehow. And sooner rather than later, I meet cool, interesting people that I end up staying in long-term contact with. That’s what it’s all about!

For now, I don’t know many queer and trans people in Luxembourg, and I find it challenging to find the time for dating. But I do want to. I just don’t want to overthink it. So I will do what I always end up doing and stop thinking about it altogether, so I can just let it happen and remain content in the fluidity of expressions that make up who I am. But spring is around the corner, love is in the air, and my boyfriend is gay, so who knows? Maybe we all deserve some goddamn happy ending!