Fence-sitting Cake-eater
It’s more difficult than you would think to be a bisexual woman.

It sounds like we’re all lined up at the sexual buffet just piling up our plates, eh? Not quite. My bisexuality means that I’m attracted to both “genders”. Gender is a social construct, but there are others more equipped than I to unpack that properly. Back to the sexual buffet. There isn’t one. There is only the world, and the people with whom we share it. I’m attracted to a whole lot of them, too. Theoretically, one might think that being bisexual would somehow make it easier to date. For me, it does not.

I tend to find myself in relationships. I like being with one person with whom I connect on all those squishy, stimulating parts of a coupled, romantic relationship, but I never feel satiated. I never truly feel full. That does sound like I’m the “greediest of the greedy. Fence-sitter. Flip-flopper. Can’t commit to a team. Cake-eater.” When I’m with a woman, I feel as if a whole side of my being is being starved. When I’m with a man, there’s a void that he can never fill. Not even with a penis…because it’s not about sex. Okay. It’s a little bit about sex. It’s a lot about the sex. OKAY! It’s about sex. What I mean is, it’s about to whom you’re attracted. I wish I could get everything I needed from a man. We already pass as a straight couple.
I feel like I have a sexual tapeworm. I put everything I can into cultivating my personal relationships. I feed it until I have nothing else to give. It really never seems to be enough. I’m not giving it what it wants, I guess? Look, I’m not googling anything about tapeworms to make this analogy continue. I guess Audrey II is a better name for the insatiable sexual beast.

In relationships, there are some things I can get from being with women that just doesn’t happen with men.
- I’ve never had a woman describe to me in painful detail how difficult it must be to be a woman in Hollywood, how tough it is for women in the workplace, and GOSH! stay-at-home moms sure get a raw deal.
- Men always ask me if they’re dressed well. For some reason, this is not reciprocal. Every straight man I’ve ever dated has said, “I dunno. You look fine.” Stop asking me to dress you like I’m Stacy London. I am not your manic-pixie dream girl. I am not your gay style icon fashion accessory thing (all one word). Especially, if you can’t even notice if I tucked my skirt into my nylons. #NotAllCisMen

3. Being with a lesbian/bi woman tends to have less drama for me. There’s a lack of competition for male attention. Why was anyone chasing after that spotlight anyway? The woman on woman hating ceases when exposed to vulnerability. #NotAllWomen
The queer community at large is very welcoming. They are also very inclusive. Heterosexual bachelorette parties need to stop using gay bars as their “sassy hangout”. It’s obnoxious. You have the entire rest of the fucking globe to dance around your purses while wearing a necklace of pink penises (seriously, why are they always pink?) like some kind of Mad Max/Walking Dead characters.

I don’t know what the next step is after, “stop using gay bars as a quirky hangout”. I wish I knew if I were gay or straight. It makes me feel guilty and wrong for being attracted to men and women. I don’t feel accepted by the queer community, and the straight community just thinks “it’s sexy when it’s two hot chicks” otherwise, “you’re going to hell, fag.” I just don’t feel as if the queer community will ever truly accept bisexuals. I can understand that. Right now, I’m denying my desire to connect physically and mentally with a woman. I am passing as straight all the time. It almost makes me sad that I have to be some hyper-feminine woman to pass for a woman. I don’t want the world to read me so easily. When I was in high school blaring Ani DiFranco acoustic sets in my smiley face painted Pontiac, I was footloose and fancy free, baby. I cut off all my hair and got tattoos and my nose pierced after using a hand mirror to see my vagina properly for the first time. I didn’t know what it all means. Maybe it means nothing. After being told I was gay (I was still VERY MUCH a virgin until college), I started growing my hair back. My aggro-feminism was drawing more attention than I wanted. I felt like a colorblind person wearing pink when the whole crowd is wearing red, but no one told me I wasn’t doing it right.
I wish I were as brilliant of a writer as I am sexually confused. I would have won a few awards already.
