When I first came out, I said I was bisexual. I didn’t believe it, but it was always easier to say bisexual than gay. Bisexual alluded to some great hope that there was still a “chance” for me.
It didn’t take long before I recanted and labeled myself gay. Though it still took me quite some time to say it out loud (I recall a friend asking me why I kept referring to myself as being “not straight”) and accept it, I knew that bisexuality was something far from my grasp. I didn’t have interest in any guy save for the roommate down the hall, and that was only because he taught me how to pick up chicks. I was stuck with it. I was gay.
I’ve often wondered whether or not all people are innately bisexual, born with the ability to love both men and women. I’ve often heard people voice this theory. So how do some people go from being innately bisexual to never experimenting beyond heterosexuality? If we were all innately bisexual, are some of us more evolved or in tune with our inner being and, thus, able to discover our sexuality beyond a relationship between man and woman? I have so many questions and, sadly, so few answers. Not even watching a marathon of A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila has helped me figure this one out.
What I’ve been thinking about lately with regards to bisexuality is why so many of the bisexual women I have known end up settling down into a comfortable heterosexual relationship. Is this because they are only experimenting and are really straight? Do they feel the pressures of society and opt for the less controversial of the two options? If you could choose between being straight or gay, which would you choose? Are all bisexuals simply too confused to afraid to admit they are gay? I know these questions are all generalizations and that the beauty of the human spirit is that we are all different, but that never seems to help when I am looking for good, solid answers.
I know that I described myself as bisexual at first because it was easier than admitting I was gay. It was as if I was saying I still had a chance of a normal life. Was I saying it for my own benefit or for the benefit of others? Was I only saying it because I wanted my parents to have something to hang on to? I am pretty sure that it was the latter. I wanted them to love me; I wanted to have parents who were still supportive of me regardless. It was easier to maintain I was bisexual and pretend I liked guys, too. I don’t pretend now, because I know that bisexual is something I am most definitely not. I don’t feel like I can have a relationship with men or women. When I think about all the facets of who I am, I know I am a lesbian. I am not going to have a relationship with a man. I do not have any attraction to men. So for me, the bisexual label was a mask, to hide my true self from others.
I would think that being bisexual could be harder than being either gay or lesbian. You’re caught between the straight or gay labels that society so eagerly sticks on each of us. It’s almost as if society expects bisexuals to make a decision. So, what is it? Men or women? Gay or straight? What are you? In the end, does it really matter? We love who we love, male or female, it shouldn’t matter. Would I love a man? Would I take the chance if I found my self suddenly attracted to one? I can’t say no, because part of me wants to believe that I could love anyone, that I am open to that. Another part of me believes that I am just a lesbian and there is no changing that. If I professed that I could love a man or a woman, would that give the faction of society that believes homosexuality is a choice an opportunity to call me out.
It saddens me that bisexuality is so often looked down upon in the gay community. People think that bisexuals give the rest of us a bad name; they make us look bad because they can’t make a decision. They suggest that there is such a things as choice which so many people believe plays right into the hands of the anti-gay movement. I say, in a world and society like the one we live in today, we can’t afford to hate, we can’t afford to point fingers and call names. We can’t rely on societal labels to identify who and what we are.