It’s been an exhausting few weeks for those of us chronically online enough to be following the JoJo Siwa/Chris Hughes drama.

To sum up for those who don’t eat, sleep, and breathe the former Dance Moms star’s life: JoJo went on Celebrity Big Brother and shared that she now identifies as queer, rather than a lesbian as she previously believed. This came alongside a very… intimate friendship with fellow contestant Chris Hughes—cuddling, whispered chats, and the word “soulmate” getting thrown around a lot.

After the show, Siwa ended her relationship with Kath Ebbs, an Australian non-binary content creator. What was initially framed as friendship with Hughes quickly escalated, culminating in a sleepy bedroom selfie that appeared to show them undressed under the covers. Before that, Siwa had already raised eyebrows by cheekily changing the lyrics “Bette Davis eyes” to “Chris Hughes’ eyes” mid-performance, flashing a mischievous grin.

Why does this matter? Because parasocial relationships keep us glued to celeb drama, and because it reflects something I’ve long experienced: society still struggles to grasp that bisexuality exists.

(Note: JoJo identifies as queer and has implied this includes attraction to multiple genders. I’ll be linking her experience to the broader bisexual conversation, but feel free to sub in pansexual or queer as needed.)

Personally, I always knew I was bisexual. In fact, I sort of assumed everyone else was too. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I realised not everyone felt the same. My friends either liked kissing drunk lads at parties, or, as one put it, only wanted to kiss drunk girls. Then there was me, with a finger in each honeypot.

I never really “came out” because, frankly, I never felt I deserved to. I wasn’t “queer enough,” I could still hide behind heteronormative relationships. I once went to a queer society meetup at uni, where I was dismissed as a straight girl looking to “experiment.” Another honeypot lover later introduced me to the delightful term “bi ‘til graduation.” I blended easily into straight circles, but I always felt like I was hiding a part of myself.

When I eventually started casually mentioning my interest in both men and women to friends, and later family, the reactions weren’t hostile, but they weren’t what I needed either. More than once, I heard, “It’s okay if you’re a lesbian,” or “You can just say if you only want women.”

I even started to question myself, especially during a long-term relationship where the spark had gone. Had I only ever liked women and been misled by societal expectations? But no, I can confirm I still fancy men, women, and non-binary folks. Gimme all of them.

Courtesy of Fleurine Tideman