After my first long-term queer relationship ended, I reluctantly returned to dating apps, asking myself:&nbsp;Who do I want to share my life with?&nbsp;As someone who identifies as bisexual, I initially kept my options open—including to straight men. That experiment ended abruptly after one date with a cisgender heterosexual man: I paid for his dinner, endured a critique of my personality, and left vowing never to date straight men again. Five years later, I’ve held firm to that decision—and I’m not alone.

Many bisexual, pansexual, and queer people—who could theoretically date cishet individuals—choose to limit their romantic connections to other queer partners. For some, it’s about safety: Queer people are more likely to understand LGBTQ+ identities and create space for authentic expression. This is critical, as bi and pan women face disproportionately high rates of intimate partner violence, often rooted in fetishization and harmful stereotypes.

When rapper Doechii recently called straight men a “red flag” on&nbsp;Hot Ones Versus, backlash erupted. Critics labeled her “anti-man” or blamed her for the “male loneliness epidemic.” But her stance resonated with me. Like Doechii, my bisexuality doesn’t exclude men—only straight ones. With queer partners, I share emotional intimacy, gender exploration, or at least mutual understanding of marginalization. With straight men? The connection feels fragile. Would we bond over sports? Crypto? Toxic masculinity? No thanks.

Katie, a pansexual journalist in London, has dated her bisexual non-binary partner for six years. She values not having to justify the toll of homophobia or coming out. “We’ve both lived through those battles,” she says. “It removes a layer of exhaustion.”

My choice is also political. As a Bi Feminist, I reject monosexism—the notion that attraction should be confined to one gender. This means demanding equitable standards from partners, regardless of gender, and resisting societal leniency toward men’s harmful behavior. I also refuse to date anyone who fetishizes my queerness or fears it.

Lou, a non-binary Londoner, prioritizes queer men for similar reasons. They note queer men are less likely to enforce rigid gender roles: “They don’t expect me to perform femininity or follow heteronormative dating rules.” Avoiding straight men also means Lou doesn’t have to hide their queer community life from a partner.

Straight Women’s “Fruity” Fantasy—A Double Standard?

The appeal of queer men isn’t limited to LGBTQ+ circles. Straight women increasingly joke about wanting “slightly fruity” boyfriends, romanticizing bi men as less toxically masculine. Films like&nbsp;Challengers, which centered a bisexual love triangle, fueled this trend. The assumption? Queer men, having faced marginalization, might be more empathetic partners.

Vaneet Mehta, author of&nbsp;Bi Men Exist, challenges this. “Bi men may have done self-reflection to embrace their identity, but that doesn’t guarantee they’ll be better partners,” he argues. “They’re still men with male privilege.” He also questions whether straight women confront their own biphobia, noting many still prefer partners who appear “straight-passing” over openly queer men.

As movements like 4B rejecting marriage, dating, sex, and childbirth with men gain momentum, queer4queer dating offers refuge. Yet it doesn’t resolve the root issue: young men are increasingly drawn to right-wing, anti-feminist ideologies, widening the values gap with progressive women.

Is dating queer men a fix? Perhaps not. But for many of us, it’s about prioritizing safety, shared understanding, and mutual respect—qualities straight men too often fail to provide.

Like Doechii, I prefer dating queer men—but why is that controversial? This explores personal preferences, identity, and the debate around them.

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