By A. Rutter
Though I have identified as bisexual for ten years, I still find myself sitting and wondering if I’m not actually heterosexual after all. I sit and think in my room, or on the train, or in a long shower, “What if I’m just keeping this label because I’ve had it so long, and not because it actually applies to me anymore?” After all, I’ve only ever dated one woman seriously. “But my anxiety disorder makes it difficult to approach other ladies even for friendship, let alone asking if they’re interested romantically in women,” I reason. Yes, but. There’s always some “but” lingering. There’s always a small amount of doubt festering in the back of my mind that sometimes surfaces in uncomfortable ways. Especially since there are many in the community who don’t want different-gender bisexual couples to be included in safe spaces, or who categorize those relationships as “heterosexual” despite one or both individuals identifying as bisexual.
So it feels as though if I am allowed in the community, I must be dating women; otherwise, I’m a traitor for dating men, or I’m not “allowed” to utilize the label for myself, and will be exiled from the community for the duration of my undesirable different-gender relationship. The complex nature of bisexual relationships is sometimes overlooked by others in the wider LGBT* community, and certainly by those outside of it. I see arguments that it’s inappropriate to label bisexuals as either “straight” or “gay” depending on their current relationship — as though it’s Schrödinger’s Sexuality — but still there is that discomfort at allowing someone whose relationship appears straight to come to an LGBT* event or venue, because it is flaunting a passing privilege (or coercive closeting, in some opinions) over those who have no interest in pairing outside of their own gender, which would make them feel unsafe in what should be a safe space.
“Is this right? Do I have to take into account the fact that I might be privileged over bisexual women in same-sex relationships because I’m dating a man?” I ask myself. Well, in some ways, yes, but I need to remind myself that this attitude turns my relationships into political battle fields that I have no interest in navigating. I don’t choose my partners based on how political it makes me seem; I choose them based on mutual attraction, shared interests, and availability. I don’t want to date women only because I want to be revolutionary enough for the bisexual community, or visibly queer to the rest of the LGBT* groups. It puts just as much emphasis on what I am doing romantically (and especially sexually) with any partner I choose as the bigoted heterosexuals who hone in on our activities in the bedroom to demonize the LGBT* community as a whole.
Thus, I am constantly re-evaluating my sexual history, my fantasies, judging how interested I am in pinups featuring women versus fashion shoots of shirtless men in increments of whatever unit arousal is measured in, and weighing the consequences of exactly what everything means. Was it just a phase? I wonder. Is this just some cliche high school and college experimentation? I cling onto examples of homo- and biphobia I have faced as an anchor, proving to myself and to others that I deserve to use this label, and that I have felt the stomach-clenching horror of facing those judgments from friends, family, and strangers alike. However, I convince myself that feeling — that tight, icy punch to the gut — at hearing some casual biphobic comment means that my claim to this sexuality is real and valid, I still struggle with accepting that it doesn’t matter who I have slept with or who I haven’t; there’s no punch card to give my partners as proof: once you get ten stamps, you get a free admission to the Queer Club. But even if that were true, if I looked at a man within that safe space, would I be kicked out and have my membership revoked? Would I have to stick with women, even if there’s a guy over there I’m really interested in more than any of the women in the place?
It feels sometimes like I must calculate my partnerships to create a performance, to please both my heterosexual skeptics and members of my own community equally. My sexuality is not performance art; it’s not political because I choose not to make it so — except for when I do. At times it seems like it would just be simpler to adopt celibacy or shuck off the label and all of its connotations altogether.
Despite all of this, however, “bisexual” is my label; it describes my affinity for genders same and other, regardless of how loudly others may gnash their teeth and try to strip it from me. It’s mine, and however I sculpt it to suit me through the doubts and the pressures, it’s staying.
A. Rutter is a recent graduate from Temple University with a degree in English. She plans to spend her adulthood singing pop songs to her cats and writing novels.