He Didn't Change My Identity, He Expanded It

As a man raised in a Muslim culture, bisexuality challenged what I believed about attraction and desire. Then I met someone who changed everything.

Photo by Imad Alassiry on Unsplash

The term “homosexual” was like a foreign language to me at eight years old. Until my parents recited it from their Islamic holy book. The words echoed in my mind, tearing apart the innocence of my childhood. I asked for an explanation, but all I received was a vague interpretation of "men who marry other men." My young mind raced with thoughts and confusion as my parents emphasized the punishment that awaited these men. Little did I know, those words would haunt me for years to come.

Sex and sexuality were taboo topics at home in our Cairo residence. We were raised as Muslims in Egypt, which often meant that we must pray five times a day, follow certain rituals, and never question them because Allah says so. My parents inhaled Islamic teachings to their core and carried it throughout their lives. Sex was treated with disdain by my mom, who saw any expression of desire as animalistic and shameful. She would point out how it was different for us “good Muslims,” that we should hold ourselves to a higher standard.

Dating was no exception, with non-committal relationships or intimate encounters outside of marriage strictly forbidden. I was always a rebel, not the kind who snuck out at night or got caught smoking behind the school, because I’d already done that before I was 15. By the time most of my classmates were learning to roll cigarettes in secret, I had already decided it was boring.

My rebellion wasn’t about keeping up; it was about questioning why we’re doing any of it in the first place. I tested boundaries to see if they were worth keeping. I walked away from ideas that felt too heavy, from the religious teachings and beliefs that didn’t respect your intellect, from the belief that love had to last forever to matter. Maybe that’s why I don’t see breakups as tragedies now. Love to me is a season; beautiful while it’s here, and just as natural when it ends. You don’t curse spring when winter comes.

The mere thought of adultery¹ piqued my curiosity, but I always remembered the strict religious teachings that deemed it a sin punishable by hellfire. This was the suffocating reality of my upbringing, one where even our most natural instincts were laced with shame and guilt.

At the age of 15, I secretly dated a girl without my parents' knowledge. Her skin held the kind of tan that shouted beach vacations and endless sun, a warm accompaniment to her golden, sun-kissed locks. What stayed with me wasn’t just her look, but how open-minded she was. She was different from most girls I knew growing up in this culture. Our first real conversation happened in English literature class, when I asked her what “crepuscular” meant. From there, we bonded over music, with us both hooked on Eminem’s tracks. true music lover, she gifted me a floppy disk packed with a thousand songs, some of which are still my favorites to this day. Back then, none of it felt like a big deal.

We shared nearly all our classes together, and during recess and class breaks, we would get to know each other more. After school, when I could give my parents an excuse and my twin sister in tow, we would hang out and try the best sub sandwich. While we were home, we would text on Facebook and plan our next day together. When she came to visit my house, we disguised it as a friendly visit for her to meet my sister, so she’d be allowed inside. This was only the start of what my religion deemed "secret relationships and infidelity.”

I was secure in my sense of self and had no trouble attracting girls. Each relationship solidified the idea of who I was and who I wanted to be. My friends would joke that I had a way with women, the way that made people feel seen. I liked the chase, the flirtation, the puzzle of someone’s mind. Each new love felt like a new song, a new language. And women with their presence, their attention, affirmed the version of myself I believed to be the truest. Each relationship was like a brick in the wall of my self-image. In the back of my mind, I repeated the motto "Men for Women; Women for Men" as I lived it out in every aspect of my life.

In our community college, in 2015, I met Ann. She and I became best friends overnight. She was also a rebel and didn’t accept the rigid Muslim rules in her house. She felt like trouble. The type of girls that my mom used to warn me about, and that’s when we clicked together. We questioned what we were taught. She was a repository for all my thoughts, ideas, and questions, and I was hers. She saw me as a getaway to express herself more freely and share what she couldn’t share with anyone else. Like sharing her boyfriend’s unconventional attraction. That’s when I first encountered what bisexuality might mean.

When Ann said, “You know my boyfriend is attracted to men too…” I froze inside. I had always believed attraction was binary—you liked men, or you liked women. Simple. She looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

Then she asked, “As a man, do you think this is something a lot of guys experience? I mean, is this normal?” The story from scripture was still lodged in my subconscious, half-fable, half-warning. I couldn’t understand why someone would “choose” both.

Back then, I thought bisexuality was a phase. A pitstop on the road to being fully gay. It made me uncomfortable, not because I thought it was disgusting, but because it challenged everything I believed about attraction and desire. I wanted sexuality to make sense, to be orderly, to fit into a box like everything else.

For six years, I was in a committed relationship with a woman named Leila, whom I loved deeply. I met Leila three months before I started a new job in the ballet world in 2018. We both had a mutual friend who introduced us to each other. To her, I felt like something she wasn’t supposed to find, like the man who steps out of her favorite novel and into real life. “You’re the kind of love that feels like a story someone writes but doesn’t want to end,” she’d often say. That being near me was like holding onto a story.

The relationship began when I was only 20 years old. Leila was 27 at that time. My love for her came after we were in a relationship. She confessed first. The relationship played a significant role in shaping my identity and understanding of my own attraction. We were on the path to marriage. My future seemed clear: marrying the love of my life and starting a family together. Even if it didn’t happen immediately, even when both our families had no idea about our clandestine relationship, I believed it would happen eventually.

Then, one day, it ended. Maybe in a dramatic, unexpected way. Maybe with a whimper. We broke up more than once and always returned, but every beginning has an ending. Our story was one that Leila was afraid to turn the last page of because: What if it ends? Even though my relationship with Leila ended, my attraction to women didn’t. Yet, during the same year, in October 2023, I went on a trip to Prague, and that’s when I met Noah. A man who changed everything.

Noah is two years older, tall, blonde, with unmistakably strong German features. It wasn’t a moment of clarity at first. It started out like any friendship between guys. The video game sessions, making bets about who could burp the loudest after a couple of beers, or how many bags of spicy flavored chips we can eat in under five minutes. It started off with banter: He teased my German skills; a laugh here and a laugh there. I liked his confidence, his outlook on life, and his character was a match for mine. We got close to each other. Maybe in a non-traditional way, but there was a unique bond. That dark humor, like teaching each other secret words to call people we don’t like so nobody could understand but us.

The first time I learned about his bisexuality wasn’t dramatic either. It wasn’t a coming out story. It came as an answer to my question through my naivete and me throwing lines like, “Are you gay?” Many of his gestures and words made sense. The way his hug lingered longer. The words he used to flirt with me were half-German and half-English, and then he would cover it up as a joke.

He was confident in his skin, in who he was and is. I thought I would run away, but why didn’t I? As the days in Prague together continued, I found myself looking forward to his company, and planning months ahead of when to visit, thinking about him in ways that I never thought of about men. He was occupying my mind.

The kiss came as a dare, deep into one of our endless nighttime conversations. I wanted him to see how much he mattered to me; how much I appreciated him. But maybe I was testing him, or maybe testing myself.

I later texted: “You are awesome and a great person, but the only comforting thought that I have left about you is that you are a mediocre kisser. I think that’s why I am able to resist.”

He met my challenge with a grin, one only I could discern behind the glow of the screen, full of bold certainty, daring me to accept and promising that next time we met, if my body didn’t answer his kiss, I could ask for anything. I took the risk.

Soon enough, after the Prague adventure, we had a virtual routine that included our shared interest in food. Each day, Noah would always share with me what he planned to cook each day, ask for my opinion on recipes, even when he had guests over. Many times, we’d prepare the same dish and compare our results.

I taught him how to cook “Prison Ramen” from a weird little cookbook I found, and then I joked that at least he wouldn’t lose his cooking skills if he ever ended up behind bars.

Once, I asked him, “Which meal are you most proud of? One that guests always compliment?” He answered, “Enchiladas.” I told him, “When I visit, you’ll have to greet me at the airport with the best enchiladas you’ve ever made.”

My cooking was never quite a match for his, but we always joked about who would cook which meal and who got to make the drinks. I’d gifted him the latest cookbooks, and we’d laugh together over recipes that didn’t quite turn out as planned. When we text, our conversations stretch into the night. Sometimes we lose sleep and curse ourselves the next day. Having a conversation with him was the highlight of my day.

Most of our communication has taken place online because we live a thousand miles apart. The shift wasn’t sudden or dramatic when it happened. There was no grand confession or pivotal moment, just a slow unfolding. Like peeling back layers, one by one. Acknowledging that there’s something deeper beyond our comprehension. Conversations that lingered. A comfort I hadn’t expected. His presence became something I looked forward to, a kind of ease I hadn’t realized was missing.

He once whispered my name over the phone, laced with German slurs, and all I felt was how I could listen to him chanting my name. Over and over, like a quiet song just for me. Thinking of him made me smile so much my cheeks ached. The first time “honey” slipped from my lips, I didn’t stumble or hesitate. It felt like my heart spoke first, before my mind could even understand.

I look forward to his touch, even anticipating it. I noticed that the way I thought about him mirrored the way I’d felt about women I’d been with. There wasn’t confusion, just recognition. Even when it happens, I never wake up on the other side of the bed questioning what I’d done. It felt natural. It was the first time I understood that life didn’t have to fit into the neat lines I’d been handed, that there was a whole space in between, and that space could feel like home.

Even if nothing had come of it—even if it never became anything beyond what it is or was—meeting him still shifted something fundamental in me. He didn’t change who I was. He showed me that who I was could hold more.

Love, for me, was never about ticking the right boxes or following the right path. It was about how someone made you feel. If they made you laugh when you were tired; if their voice made the day lighter; if your world expanded just being around them. If their presence enriched your life. I’ve loved in loud, reckless ways and in quiet, consistent ones. The shape of the love never mattered. Only the truth of it did.

And the truth is, I used to think I had love all figured out. I knew how to make someone feel wanted, how to be magnetic. But over time, I learned that being desired isn’t the same as being chosen day after day.

Being in a relationship that ends doesn’t mean you failed. Or they did. Sometimes your futures just don’t line up, and that’s it. But most people don’t see it that way. They chase that honeymoon rush, then panic when it fades and scold: “You don’t love me anymore!” When maybe that was never the real thing to begin with.

I think love starts after that. When it’s quieter. When you’ve seen the other person clearly, past the charm and the version they show to the world—and yet you still choose to stay. It’s not about changing each other. It’s when you realize that neither of you is perfect, but this is someone you’ll meet in the middle, again and again. Maybe that middle ground is where the real beauty is. The part that isn’t black or white, but something you build together. Because they add something to your life that matters. Because they’re worth it.

And even when it’s not perfect, you look at them and think: I still choose you.

Yet, through it all, I never felt the need to redefine myself. It wasn’t about being gay, or bi, or anything else. It’s just him. He wasn’t a challenge to my identity but an expansion of it. He taught me, without meaning to, that attraction isn’t about fitting into a label or that bisexuality is a stepping stone to being gay. It’s about connection, something that’s beyond categories or definitions.

We still talk. Every day. There’s no definition for what we are, and maybe that’s the point. When we connect, it’s like picking up the same story mid-sentence, never having to explain the beginning. I’m not thinking about what comes next or what this means. I’m feeling the warmth of his hand on mine, the weight of his head against my shoulder, answering without running the words through my head.

The past is gone, the future is uncertain. But this moment? It is enough. In this moment, we can make choices. Whether we’ll ever live in the same city or be anything with a label doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s still here. And so am I.

We live in a world obsessed with categorizing. We check boxes for gender, sexuality, ethnicity, profession, like it’s the only way to make sense of ourselves. We think labels will help us feel included, seen, and valid. But all they often do is create new ways to feel boxed in. We say we’re breaking free of societal norms, but then we turn around and tape our labels on like uniforms, just another way to conform.

The truth is, it’s not about the labels, but it’s about the people who make us feel alive. The people who make us feel seen. Maybe the gray is where the real freedom is.

1. Typically, in Western Judeo-Christian culture, we reserve the term adultery just for married couples cheating outside the confines of marriage. Infidelity is more applicable to any sort of act of being unfaithful to any romantic or sexual partner (married or unmarried). I phrased it that way, because in Islam, sex outside of marriage is termed as adultery (Zena) whether you are married or not. It's a term used by the majority of Muslims to signal a sin, and one I often heard growing up.

---