Dating a Pansexual: How Jealousy Teaches You to Trust

We were young, inexperienced, and passionate. I was 21; he was three years younger. He told me right away that he was pansexual and explained what that meant—after all, back then, to me, the world was divided only into straight, gay, and bi. It all sounded clear enough in theory, but inside me, anxiety flared up. There seemed to be countless potential “rivals”: any passerby, a glance from an acquaintance, a chance touch—anything could pique his interest.

i A pansexual is a person who can be attracted to people of any sex or gender. For them, personality, character, and chemistry between people are more important than their partner’s sex. It’s not about being attracted to absolutely everyone, but about having no restrictions based on sex in principle.

I felt it as a heaviness in my chest, as if my heart were contracting and relaxing with every thought that he might be drawn to someone else. Sometimes it seemed to me that I could even smell, feel, and sense the movements of other people’s bodies around us—everything became a threat that I had to anticipate and control.

Especially at the beginning, during the candy-and-flowers phase, I’d catch myself thinking, “What if he moves on to someone else?” Those thoughts hung over me like a fog, and I was afraid to fall asleep without keeping myself in check.

I’m jealous and possessive by nature. Every glance he gave, every smile, any casual attention he paid to someone else seemed like a warning sign. I always felt like I had to be right there, keeping a close eye on things, or else I’d lose him. Sometimes I’d imagine him going on a date with someone else, and I’d feel my chest literally tighten. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was almost a physical anxiety.

About a year later, I started to notice a pattern. In reality, his interests were limited to guys. Girls and transgender people existed more in theory and in his fantasies than in reality. And gradually, that began to put my mind at ease. I realized that he was staying with me not out of fear or habit, but because he wanted to.

But the first few months were very difficult. I was jealous of his friends, of strangers, of anyone he might potentially be attracted to. Sometimes this turned into irritation, sometimes into silence, and sometimes into endless inner monologues that no one but me could hear. Over time, I realized that part of that anxiety wasn’t about him, but about my own fear of being left behind.

Gradually, I learned to let go. I realized something important: if he’d fallen for a girl or a trans person, I would have taken it as a personal failure, a blow to my self-esteem. With guys—it hurts, but it’s easier. Probably because I’m a “straight-up” gay guy, and in my mind, there’s a certain logic to cheating with a man.

I remember how one time we went to a gay club, and he disappeared into the crowd of guys. My heart sank, but then I saw him coming back toward me—and felt that strange sense of calm that hadn’t been there at the beginning. Step by step, I began to trust—him and myself.

It was a long journey: through the fear of losing him, through jealousy, through comparing myself to everyone I met. But it was precisely through all of that that I saw, for the first time, something new emerging within me—peace of mind. I realized that trust isn’t about the absence of jealousy. It’s about no longer being afraid of it. Because every time he came back, I felt: the world is vast, there are millions of people, but he’s walking right beside me.