I’ve long identified as bisexual. When I mention it to people, I leave out the part where I feel ‘bisexual but kinda inadequate’. I frequently advise bi people in our help inbox about where to take their feelings, but I don’t have total certainty over my sexuality. I think the uncertainty helps me get into the minds of others when I write to support them. It just feels like part of me is still behind an opaque screen.
Sexuality itself is fluid. We can’t control its flow, but we can watch where it ends up. It’s more viscous for some people, and there are particulates suspended in the fluid that make each person unique. Fluidity is just one state of matter, but I don’t know how sexuality could be frozen or evaporated. The fluid metaphor is rapidly breaking down, but what I’m getting at is I don’t find my fluidity easy to follow or understand. Two of my best friends are bi and they’ve had unwavering surety for as long as I’ve known them. I often wish I had that so I could put my brainpower to things I want to focus on — like recipes.
The most certain part of my sexuality is a robust and well-established attraction to the broad category of ‘women’. My attractions to other genders are always eclipsed by the feeling that a woman might be a better pick for me. This is why I’ve long ruled out pansexuality. To most people, pansexuality is attraction regardless of gender. My attraction heavily factors gender into consideration. Incidentally, this specified interest based on gender is why the pansexual label doesn’t always fit bisexual people.
I used to try being a ‘better bisexual’ or ‘more’ bisexual. That was always a mistake. Intellectually, I know that pushing myself out of a comfort zone to make my bisexuality a goal is a terrible idea. It’s a quick way to turn uncertainty into misery. It didn’t stop me from spending years trying to divert the course of water, to return to that fluid analogy.
During my undergrad years, my best friend was living her sexual uncertainty. She was a hallmark college girl with good class performance, lots of partying, and her gaggle of girl friends. She was hot, and she knew it. She drew attention from all corners but found it difficult to take things further than making out. When we discussed our sex lives, we seemed to have opposite problems. I was aching for intimacy with people but couldn’t get it. She had access to intimacy but didn’t feel compelled.
She considered herself bi because she was attracted to different genders, but her difficulty with sex led her to think about the possibility that she was asexual. She wasn’t happy about it because asexuality did not match her vision of self. She wanted to sleep with people and have her wild college years. She was used to facing stressors and uncertainty, but uncertainty was only acceptable if it didn’t drastically affect her ideal self.
We’re still good friends and she’s settled in a calmer space a decade after I met her. Her current relationship with sex includes having it. It just happens when she’s settled into a relationship and feels comfortable enough to try. I don’t think she ever achieved her goal of slutting it out whenever she pleased (like me), and I think that was better for her personhood.
I recently had a semi-date at my place with a lovely man I’d been texting (and sexting). He was good with boundaries and a very good conversationalist. The physical match was also present: We found each other really hot. I knew sex was a possibility when I invited him over. I did the requisite prep and everything. Once we began talking, I enjoyed our conversation far more than any sexual prospects. My prior sexual interests were supplanted by something calmer and more platonic.
I settled on telling him that light touching was fine but sex was off the table. We enjoyed a comfortable evening. He got acquainted with one of my large cat plushies while telling me teaching stories from overseas. We learned that a kid he taught who was really into guns got convicted for a firearm offence and were jointly horrified. I fed him a margherita calzone (with fries!) and nobody got laid.
Afterward, I was definitely a little miffed at my lack of performance or interest. Upon reflection, I now see all of this as the preferable outcome. A past version of me would have nudged myself to have sex even though it wasn’t my first choice of activity. Make no mistake — if I initiated sex with him, my consent would have been enthusiastic. I’m glad I’ve grown past the point of pushing my boundaries to the imaginary Good Bisexual I’ve placed on a pedestal. I’m also glad he didn’t sleep with someone who was disconnected and trying to press the issue on themselves.
All of my committed relationships have been with bisexual women. Most of my sexual partners have been bi. I called myself bi long before I figured out the transgender part of me. I love my bisexuality because it was the first queer thing I discovered in me. My frustration over not being a specific kind of bisexual is sensible to me. In light of how important bisexuality is in my life, my goals-oriented brain can’t fathom being not good enough at something so personal. That goals-oriented brain will have to take a backseat and accept that bisexuality is another ongoing project of self. I’ve got projects to recover and preserve myself from trauma, eating disorders, grief, and now… internalized biphobia.
I haven’t been idle in my numerous encounters with bisexuality — I hear and observe every bi person I’ve met to get understanding into my psyche. I don’t have the results yet, but bisexuality isn’t a cut-and-dry concept. It has a good spot beside other dynamic sexualities like pansexuality and demisexuality. It also goes wider than attraction to ‘men’ and ‘women’, and there are definitely people who are bi in ways only explicable to themselves.
Previously, the only certain fact about my sexuality was a strong attraction to women. I can confidently add another fact to my sexuality fact sheet: I’m happier when I can be gentle about it.
