Sophomore year: we’re all standing in a loose circle in front of the school, waiting for the first bell to ring. Truth or dare has never been my favorite game, and especially not in a place where I can get detention.
Someone rolls their eyes. Bo-ring.
“Okay,” my friend says, “if you could have a threesome with any of the couples in band, which one would it be?”
I pretend to think about it, but I don’t have to. My choice has nothing to do with the boy—he’s actually kind of the worst. But to my fourteen-year-old brain, that’s the only way I could ever get my hands on that girl.
My friends are waiting, so I answer them, my hands shaking. But it’s okay. Nothing awful happens; no one seeks the two out to tell them. No one asks me if I have a crush on the boy; no one asks me if I have a crush on the girl.
My junior year, my sister’s friend Jenny* dumped her boyfriend and started dating one of my friends. One of my girl friends.
Don’t get me wrong: I grew up in the third largest city in South Carolina, in the largest school district in the state. We had four universities and a boarding school for the arts. My high school had over 1200 students, and I graduated in a class of over 300.
What we didn’t have? Homosexual teenage couples. I mean, maybe they had them at the art school—because art students, right?—but no, never in my public high school in the suburbs.
Did I like girls? I mean, I’d always noticed which girls were prettiest, who had nice legs, who was developing breasts—but girls noticed this stuff, right? I had a boyfriend, so I wasn’t a lesbian; I just admired girls. I wanted to be pretty like they were. That cheerleader in all my Honors classes, with hair like corn silk and a smile that lit up the room? I admired her. That was all. And a girl so gorgeous I’d tolerate her jerk boyfriend just to touch her.
But I didn’t like girls. I wasn’t a lesbian.
Even Jenny and Lauren becoming a public item wasn’t the splash of cold water that it should have been. I was proud of them for going all out so quickly and so fearlessly. I was… I don’t know. Jealous? But what did I have to be jealous about?
Nothing. I just admired that girl on the mellophone line. Especially when she was standing in front of me.
No problem. This was me. No problem.
Kendall was an Army brat, brand-new to my AP English class. Kendall was gorgeous and funny and liked the same music I did.
Kendall was also bisexual.
Was that… was that a thing?
The Bible had come between Jenny and Lauren, and the newly single Lauren suddenly had more free time. We were friends already: we hung out, got drunk sometimes. Did I like her? If I was this shiny new thing—bisexual—did that mean I had a crush on her? Did I have a crush on all my female friends? No. Absurd. But did I want to hook up with her? Was it inevitable?
Because I definitely had a crush on Kendall. A desperate, aching thing. I needed her smile like oxygen. When I spent the night at her house, we shared a bed, and I spent hours staring at the dark ceiling feeling my skin strain towards hers. Sleepy limbs brushing tense ones, this sharp stone in my chest and twist in my gut. What would she do if I kissed her?
God, what would I do if she kissed me?
“Bisexual” has always been the easiest word for me. The most basic, brass-tacks explanation of my libido. But I don’t think it’s right anymore.
Sexuality is not static. Despite all evidence, I had considered myself heterosexual. But the moment Kendall came out to me, when she said, “I’m bisexual,” everything changed. Not necessarily because I thought it gave me a chance with her, but because she gave me a gift no one else could have: language.
College changed me, too. My best friend was super happy to let everyone know how much he loved men. He was funny and fearless; he took me to gay bars, where I danced with women who liked women. My world cracked open like fired rock. I came out to my closest friends back home, my sister. No one laughed; no one disowned me.
But sexuality is not static. Between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, I had very little sexual contact, and no romantic contact at all—which was how I wanted it. At twenty-three, I called it a dry spell, but at thirty-one, I have language that I didn’t a decade ago. Was it a dry spell if I didn’t want anyone? Or was it aromanticism?
The definition of bisexuality has become amorphous in the last few years. In my mind, at sixteen, there were two genders, and I liked both of them. Easy. But neither gender nor sexuality is a binary—so does bisexual mean “my gender and not my gender”? Or is it just “male and female”? Pansexuality is more clear-cut, but it’s never felt like the right word for me. My sexuality isn’t just about gender—it’s about gender roles, power dynamics. Jillian Keenan, the author of Sex with Shakespeare, has said more than once that her kink is part of her sexuality.
So if I’m not bisexual (though technically I am), and if I’m not pansexual (I’m technically this, too), what am I? If gender is a social construct, do I even have a gender? I’ve always been a tomboy, but what does that mean? What if my gender identity changes? How much does gender—mine, or anyone else’s, or someone’s lack thereof—play into my sexuality?
“Bisexual” has always been the easiest word, the most comfortable, but I’ve outgrown it. The truth is, I don’t know how to define myself anymore. I don’t know if the specific vocabulary exists; if it does, I haven’t found it yet.
Sexuality is not static, so my identifier needs to be broad, elastic, forgiving. I need a word that allows room for error. Room for evolution.
I’m queer. How’s that for brass-tacks basic?
