By T. L. Camelia
You—my heterosexual husband, whom I committed my life to well before I even considered the potential of exploring my sexuality—are the reason that I truly, actually, fully believe that I’m bi.
You were the first person that I told. “I think I might be bi.” You hugged me and said, “Whoa,” and then, “That’s really cool.”
You waited until later to ask me if I still felt monogamous, and you made it clear that it would be okay either way.
We watched Atomic Blonde a few nights later, and I had the incredible realization that we could both find Charlize Theron hot. It was so much fun.
You started sending me GIFs from movies of two women kissing, because you thought I might find them sexy. (I did.)
And then, just as I was falling into that awful trap of “Well, maybe I’m not actually bi, because I’ve only ever had sex with one gender, and I probably won’t ever change that,”—because, regardless of my sexuality, you complete me, and you have for sixteen years, I don’t want anyone else—just as I was questioning everything, you sent me another GIF. I thought the actresses looked familiar, but it took me a second to place them.
Because they weren’t actresses from a movie. One of them was me.
You made a GIF out of a series of photos you had taken that I’d forgotten about, back when I was 21 and we went to visit one of my high school besties. It was the only night in my entire life where I’ve had what could be called a late-night, alcohol-fueled, one-thing-led-to-another thing, which culminated in she and I chasing each other around the kitchen throwing champagne corks at each other…
… And then kissing.
(This was a full seven years before I started to even think “Hey wait, am I actually straight?”)
I remembered that had happened.
I remembered you’d taken pictures.
I remembered telling you afterward that yes, it was okay to keep them, you didn’t have to delete them.
What I hadn’t remembered—or hadn’t seen, or hadn’t even thought about looking for—was the fact that I was really enjoying myself. Visibly ecstatic. Pretty turned on, actually.
What a GIF.
So, as it turns out, I have actually kissed a girl. (And I liked it!) It was a great memory. But more than that, it was the solid proof that my poor struggling brain needed that yes, I am actually bi. Incontrovertible evidence, in living color.
I’ve looked at that GIF so many times. Mostly whenever I doubt anything about myself, when my brain is tired and spiraling back down into imposter syndrome. Whenever that happens, I pull out that animated series of photos. Because looking at that, there’s no way I can deny it.
Essentially, you help convince me that I’m me.
This whole bi journey has, weirdly (or maybe perfectly naturally), dovetailed pretty nicely with my journey of self-exploration, too.
Sexually, I mean: Somehow, I ended up reaching my thirties having never learned to masturbate. (I thought it was just something for other people, and I didn’t need to do it. Spoiler alert: I was wrong, obviously. But it can take a while to unpack and unlearn the toxic baggage that your environment and upbringing have foisted upon you.) And along the way, I’ve been taking a lot of time to gradually narrow down what kind of porn I actually like.
But I have been learning, slowly but surely. I’ve learned that, for me, it’s usually not video or any visual medium. Audio stories can be great, but words are the best. Well-written stories are guaranteed to get my blood pumping.
I had been trying some romance novels, but I realized that all of my favorite parts were the sex scenes. I tried the volume of erotica you’d bought well before we ever met, but it felt more sensual than spicy.
And so, this Christmas, you gave me both volumes of The Best Bi Erotica of the Year. BOTH.
You, my cishet husband. Who has tried kissing guys, but as you put it, “It just doesn’t do anything for me”. Far from ever having felt threatened by my sexuality, instead you are my loudest cheerleader, my biggest enabler, actively encouraging me to explore even more, in any and all the ways that I feel comfortable.
This is what it means to feel seen and supported. This is what it means to have every part of you be celebrated. This is what it means to have someone say, “Every part of you matters. Every single part.” All the parts that I’m still unsure of, still testing out, still wading tentatively into, you remind me of their worth. You remind me of my worth. My inherent, unequivocal worth.
You cherish me. You love me, all of me, unconditionally. And it’s the greatest thing that I could ever have in the whole wide world.
Thank you.
Love, Pea
P.S. I haven’t felt the need to pull out that GIF in a very long time. (Although I still do, sometimes. It’s really hot.)
T.L. Camelia (they/them) is a bi artist and writer in the northeastern U.S.