While packing for school, I came across my old high school agenda. I opened it to the notes section, where I had doodled floating anime eyes, dick monsters or that one really hilarious caricature of a teacher who couldn’t teach and filmed students in the hallways. This time, instead of softcore yaoi, I found a poem about a girl.
It was an infant-level rhyme scheme, one that made me grimace, but the force of what I had written hit me. The past year had been an RPG of male-centered sexual encounters; Achievement Unlocked: Guy Wants to Have Sex With You, First Blowjob Given, Virginity Annihilated, and mostly Broken Heart and Self-Deprecation Gained. But this poem was written in all caps, as if I were screaming at myself; it reminded me of a part of myself I’ve pushed aside, joked about, expressed only in defiance to heteronormativity. I’m not straight, and despite how many dicks I draw in any given week, I don’t only think about dicks; I also think about girls, because I’m bisexual.
Being bisexual means being constantly fictionalized. It means a category on PornHub, existing to entertain only. It means doubt and guilt and to be shunned even from the LGBTQ community. The first few times I came out, it wasn’t for any reason except to prove that yes, bisexuality exists. No one talks about how bisexuality isn’t always 50/50; sexuality can be as fluid as what you want to eat on any given day. There have definitely been cases where someone comes out as bisexual, and then realizes no, they are gay through and through. But bisexuality isn’t a gateway to the gay side of life.
It’s not an indication of a kinky nymphomaniac, either. Dating someone who is bisexual doesn’t mean they’ll automatically jump at the idea of having a threesome with you and your friend. Dating someone who is bisexual won’t guarantee she’ll be cheating on you with another girl or suddenly crave “the D” and drop you, or that he’s secretly gay and using you as a beard, or that he’s just using you to experiment with his bro. Being bi doesn’t mean being sleazy and loose. It doesn’t mean I’m desperate or indecisive. If anything, instead of getting two times the sex, it’s getting two times the heartbreak.
Nowadays, I usually tell people I’m bi to gauge if they’re open-minded enough to be worth my time. A lot of people are chill with it, usually if they’re already my friend. If they aren’t, that’s when things get weird, especially if they’re a guy. Being a biological female, with boobs bigger than the average gorilla fist, I’m familiar with being sexualized, objectified. When one guy realized I was bi he said, “Not to sound OD judgmental, but that’s so fucking hot.” I expected that sort of reaction for the most part, and being objectified is still better than being rejected, isn’t it? But the more I thought about it, the more it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t go through a traumatic self-realization journey when I realized I was bi, like some do when they find themselves, but I did, and still do, have constant self-doubt; the worry I’m lying to myself for attention, to be different. There were the days when my father didn’t speak to me, couldn’t look at me when I accepted myself. Being bi comes with more than just an attraction to more than one gender, and the part of the that’s dealt with the ensuing emotional and societal baggage is not OK with being fetishized.
When someone comes out as bi to you, don’t try and tell them to pick a “team” and don’t use it for your fantasy; don’t doubt them and don’t tell them they don’t exist. If you are bi, love yourself. Write yourself a disgustingly sappy poem with third-grade syntax and tape it to your desk to remind yourself that who you love is your business; it’s a part of you, but it doesn’t define you.