A thing about bisexuality (by Angela Webber from the Doubleclicks)
What I would like to say right now is this: I am a bisexual person. This is a real thing. If you feel this way, you shouldn’t feel like you are making it up, like you are just seeking attention, like you’re cheating, or like you are negating anyone else’s experiences. I would like to never ever talk about my sexuality, because it is my business and it does not define me, even though I am a woman in society. Wacky, right?
That being said, however, the first part of that negates the latter. When I read about the experiences of People Who Do Not Just Find Themselves Attracted To One Gender, it makes me feel better. It makes me feel like I am not a fake, cheaty person. And that’s why this essay is happening. Here’s my story.
When I was in high school, I was told, and I believed, that bisexuality wasn’t real. If a girl said she was bisexual, she was straight and just wanted attention. If a boy said it, he was gay and wasn’t willing to be out yet. I heard these things, and I internalized them, and I said them out loud, to other people. Oops. As they say on Sesame Street: “Everyone makes mistakes, so why don’t you?”
I had a boyfriend all the time from the beginning of seventh grade until the end of high school. I would break up with one boy and then immediately, sometimes during the same after-school club, acquire a new one. It was just what I did. My parents married young, and I was under the impression, starting at age 14, that I could at any moment be missing my opportunity to find Mr. Right. Plus, I wanted validation, and relationships do that. Hey, it happens.
At the end of high school, I was best friends with a girl I will call Edie. We had the very best time. We would do things like hold hands in the hallway and cuddle and laugh at everyone who thought we were lesbians. “Ha! I’m not a lesbian! I have a boyfriend! Those are two different things and they could never possibly coexist!”—those were my smart thoughts. I was smart, because I was 17. I was so sure we were straight that I helped her get a male date to the prom. Heteronormativity is super important you guys! (Note: finding dates for people is something I do when I am in denial that I have a crush on them. I do it to this day. I am a delightfully not-self-aware human.)
But then, in an event some might find inevitable, Edie told me she was gay. We were having a sleepover in my room at my parents’ house. It was around 5 o’clock in the morning. She was crying. We were sitting on the floor.
At this moment in my life a lot of things were happening. I was deciding where to go to college. My boyfriend was trying to convince me to have sex. I was about to spend a summer in Germany. I was way hotter than I thought I was (this is true of everyone all the time, of course, but it feels worth mentioning.)
Of course Edie was gay. In fact, she was and had been dating girls in other cities for YEARS. I don’t know why she hadn’t told me, but here’s the answer that makes the most sense: she didn’t want to *only* talk about her sexuality all the time. And when she came out to all of her friends at school, OF COURSE that is what happened. That is pretty much STILL what happens. Hooray.
What this meant for me was this: this weird “totally not a couple” act we’d been doing was “totally not an act.” Great. Great Great Great.
So I broke up with my boyfriend. “I’m a lesbian,” I told him. Because we all know bisexuality isn’t a thing, this meant that I had never actually had feelings for him. Everything is very dramatic in high school. Bonus, though: I didn’t have to have sex with him. High fives all around!
When I went to college, Edie and I broke up, horribly, dramatically, dishonestly, awfully, and I started dating a dude again.
In my time as an “out lesbian,” this is what happened: I was called names. I was told I was faking it (because I had dated men before). I was called REALLY MEAN NAMES. The kids on my summer high school trip to Germany innovated new German/English combination terms to tease me with. I felt alone. I cried a lot. I was guilted, a LOT, by my ex-boyfriend. I constantly felt like I had to pick a side. I couldn’t figure out what I was feeling. I thought I was lying. I didn’t want the attention, but somehow it felt like I was doing all of this FOR attention.
But in this period of time, these things also happened: I had the most memorable first kiss and most memorable second kiss and most memorable and meaningful first “sexual experience” (sorry mom) of my life. When I forget when and where and how my first ever kiss happened (this I think has already occurred), I will still remember these things that happened with ladies.
I don’t talk about my sexuality. It’s none of anyone’s business, first of all, and that’s important to me. But it’s also easy. When I’m dating a man people assume that I’m straight, and that means I never ever have to answer questions about it. At all. Sure, it’s a little annoying when people just assume I’m straight in this strongly heteronormative world, but that’s small potatoes to me. (Is that a saying?)
I think this is why my bisexuality/pansexuality/queerdom/etc really annoys me. If you are a lesbian, you need to deal with this crap every day. You get asked stupid questions. You are mocked and challenged and become the subject of violence and harassment. When I’m dating a dude, I’m not out there for the cause. I’m not dealing with shit and being visible and letting kids know it’s going to be ok. And I don’t want/need the attention. I don’t want to jump in and steal spotlight from the rest of the GLBTQ gang, and I have complicated feelings about being “that girl” bringing a boyfriend to a Pride Parade. I don’t talk about it and, until super recently, this has been one of those things I just didn’t even acknowledge about myself except in a dark, guilty way. Bisexual Visibility can feel to me like the dumbest “WHAT ABOUT ME” imposter-syndrome game in town. But guess what, friends, it isn’t.
Rights and visibility aren’t a zero sum game. I’m not going to take anything away from any other movement by posting this, and it would have helped me to know back when I was a teen that it’s ok if you aren’t either/or. It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s honest. It’s great. It doesn’t matter. And it’s not your responsibility to tell anyone about your identity. Be yourself. It’s ok.
And don’t set up your crush with a different date for prom.
<3
Angela
PPS: If you are looking for more stories about queerdom and bisexuality, I recommend to you checking out Erika Moen and Gaby Dunn, who have both had a huge positive influence on the lives of many. And please google around for wonderful things people have to say and think about the term “bisexuality” and the complicated issues involved.
Yes. This.
I was what you’d call a ‘late bloomer’ - not physically, but socially - and my first boyfriend didn’t come along until just after my 19th birthday. For years, if you’d have asked me about my first kiss, I would have told you about the May evening, four day after our first date, when we spent hours parked behind my dorm, making out in his late 80s Honda Accord until dawn, even with my Greek final exam looming at 8am.
It wasn’t until a few years ago that I admitted to myself that my real first kiss happened years earlier, sitting with my best friend on the trunk of a fallen tree in the woods surrounding my childhood home, on a crisp autumn Saturday. We were windswept and giddy; it was perfectly imperfect.
I still think of her; we recently reconnected via Facebook after fifteen years. In fact, the last time I saw her in person was the afternoon prior to my first date with that boy; she was in town and stopped by to introduce me to her boyfriend. They’re happily married with two kids, now; I’m happily married (to a man, though not the boy) with two cats. I have no idea how or even if she remembers the intimacy we shared; as far as I know, she’s straight, or at least has only ever dated men, and chances are she considers the months of stolen moments we shared as youthful experimentation. Certainly, we’ve never discussed it.
For me, though - my first kiss, my first sexual experiences, my first taste of falling in love - she was all of these to me, when we were both 14. It may have taken me close to two decades to admit to myself that I’m bi, but it’s an identity I now wear with pride - and if ever again I’m asked about my first kiss, I know what answer I’ll give.
