Last week Alanna and I finally watched Black Bear, a movie that’s been on our to-watch list since it hit streaming platforms in December. Our interest came solely from the fact that it stars Aubrey Plaza.
As a disclaimer, this movie is not queer. Or at least it doesn’t have any major queer characters or plotlines. There’s a minor side plot with lesbians, but it’s so small that I’ve already forgotten the details.
I’d personally argue, though, that any film starring noted bisexual Aubrey Plaza is not 100% hetero. Also, she looks unbearably hot in every scene she’s in, which is basically all of them.
For that reason I feel very comfortable recommending this movie, even though I still don’t fully understand it. And if you’d prefer a more overt portrayal of bisexuality, keep on scrolling. This week’s book delivers exactly that.
— Becca
You Exist Too Much by Zaina Arafat
Fiction, June 2020
Before I read You Exist Too Much, I saw a Goodreads review claiming that it was “extremely harmful towards bisexuals,” portraying them as, “love addicts who fall in love with every person they meet ... jumping from one person to another.”
I went ahead and read it anyway, partly because I am so hungry for bisexual novels that I will take them even when they are bad. As it turns out, that reviewer was wrong and this book is actually very good.
The unnamed narrator here does have quite a few sexual partners, which could possibly be misconstrued as playing into the stereotype of the slutty bisexual. But if you feel that way about bi characters who sleep around, please let me direct you to this Reductress article.
But back to the book. The narrator can’t seem to stop sabotaging her relationships, primarily by cheating on every single person who genuinely cares about her. After deciding that she’s suffering from a “love addiction,” she checks herself into an unconventional rehab facility to treat the problem.
As she undergoes treatment, the narrative shifts between present and past, telling the story of her upbringing in both the United States and the Middle East. She’s always existed in an entirely liminal space, unable to move freely between her homelands, or to bridge the divide between familial obligations and her own desires.
She’s also absorbed all of her mother’s expectations and a ton of her unhappiness, both of which show up every time she gets even remotely close to a healthy relationship.
“I want to marry you,” she said one night as we lay wrapped in a sheet on the floor, having slid like salamanders off the bed.
I winced with fear and fleeting disgust. A relationship with a woman meant failure: I had failed to get a man, failed to find something normal, failed to not be pathetic. “This is why you don’t have a boyfriend!” my mother yelled at me each time I did anything she deemed wrong, even if it had no relation whatsoever to what I’d done or why I didn’t have a boyfriend, even when I did have one.
More than anything else, this book is a deep dive into just how badly a parent can fuck up their child’s ability to exist in the world and form meaningful connections with other people. The glimpses of the narrator’s childhood, interspersed with her adult life, paint a pretty bleak picture—but one that ultimately makes perfect sense.
Queer points:
+3 for several painful, one-sided relationships with “experimenting” “straight” women
+8 for a dramatic breakup via email
Buy it on Bookshop