On our first beach day of the year, ceremoniously marking the beginning of summer in Vancouver, my best friend Aya and I made a celibacy pact. We both got out of long-term relationships earlier that year and did everything together since, including dating.
Before the pact, we had both been swiping and meeting strangers for about a month. It wasn’t going well. I was single for the first time in my adult life after dating my high school boyfriend for six years and, in the immortal words of Megan Thee Stallion, I was ready for my hot girl summer.
I used to joke that I learned a lot about myself after my breakup, including that I’m a total slut. My first date activities usually consisted of going to a park (walking distance from my place), going to a different park (walking distance from his place) or asking him to come over to “watch a movie” (the universal code for sex).
What I already knew about myself before the breakup was that I’m Queer. Part of my debut summer as a ‘single’ was supposed to be reclaiming and exploring that part of my identity. Navigating dating after being in a relationship for so long was hard enough, but adding Queer dating as a baby gay on top of it was a Herculean task. I felt uncertain, inexperienced and embarrassed that I wasn’t ‘gay enough.’ In hindsight, I may have overcompensated for feeling like a gay virgin by being a heterosexual harlot.
That day at the beach, despite the sun shining down on us, the menacing shadow of men loomed large. Aya was still recovering from a philosophy major who, on their third date, told her he didn’t believe in systemic racism or patriarchy (yikes). I had just hooked up with a guy who I’m pretty sure told me he’d “never gotten good head” just so I’d try really hard, only to say the next day that we should “just be friends” (ouch).
While chewing on sandy chunks of watermelon, Aya and I consoled each other as we so often did.
Those privileged enough to have experienced it will understand that the intensity and intimacy of femme friendships cannot be overstated. After our breakups, Aya and I clung to each other like those baby monkeys separated from their mothers clutching surrogate dolls. We became each other’s person.
Our dating deficiencies didn’t just cause us inner turmoil, they triggered conflict between us. When one of us would start seeing someone, the other would try to resist a bitter cocktail of jealousy —one part from our friend finding someone when we hadn’t, and one part from our friend’s attention being taken away from us.
Dating was taking up so much of our time and energy that our conversations were rarely passing the Bechdel test. Realizing this, we decided together to cut out the rot — the apps, the dating, the sex, everything. No more Tinder Tamagotchis. No more disappointing first dates. No more pretending to like a guy’s Spotify playlist. We would spend the summer focusing on ourselves and our friendship.
I deleted my dating apps and returned my stuffed animals to their rightful home on my bed after being imprisoned in my closet.
It lasted about three weeks.
Even though my stint with chastity could barely constitute a free trial, I like to think it had a lasting impact on me. Before, it felt like I was trying to prove something — to others, but also to myself. I wanted to know that I was still desirable after getting out of such a long relationship. I wanted to feel validated by men when I didn’t in my Queerness.
Letting go of sex meant letting go of all the expectations I placed on myself after my breakup. Desperation fueled by insecurity was not leading me toward a good relationship with any person, let alone with my own sexuality. That insecurity was even infecting the few precious relationships I already had, including the one with my best friend.
Without the sexual or romantic pressure, I also discovered different ways of expressing and connecting to
my Queer identity. Being Queer is so much more than sex and dating, it’s about community and culture. It’s about ordering an oat milk latte with whipped cream and asking for someone’s sign before you even know their name.
In seriousness, finding and fostering a community of Queer friends gave me more confidence in my identity than any one hookup ever could.
It didn’t make me more righteous to stop using dating apps or having casual sex, but it did free up space in my mind for me to remember that I am whole without those things. Yes, I went back to doing both for the rest of the summer, but this time my stuffed animals stayed in plain sight. I didn’t have anything to prove anymore. I wasn’t looking for validation, acceptance or even love. I knew I already had those things, in great abundance, from my friends.
This article is from Reclamation, The Ubyssey's 2023 sex and relationships issue. Read more personal essays and student stories from Reclamation here, and sexual health and education articles here.