Diced up, any way you slice it. Yeah, that’s the ticket: show me that flank, those corsetted tits. Lady Gaga and Tila Tequila. Katy Perry singing, “I kissed a girl, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.” This is the public face of female bisexuality in the good ol’ U S of A… and I hate it.
It’s all a show. That’s what they suspected all along, isn’t it? That all women are somehow for sale, and if bisexual women really do exist, they’re in for an angel’s three-way because they showed up with a cock?
Fuck you, America. Fuck you, world. I did not spend my teenage years in a panic flipping out that I might be a lesbian just to satisfy your desire for female-on-female flesh. A youth in hiding: jumping from boy crush to boy crush to keep my feelings for women at bay, to deny that the erotic dreams I’d wake from sweating were as often about my female peers as the males. To take that anguish and turn it on me with a lecherous grin and a “ur so hawt!” is to equate me with a steak. Or a basketball. Or a cum towel. Fair warning: I have a mean elbow strike, and the last time I checked, towels didn’t hit back.
Conversely, I’m tired, bone-weary of being told that I’m less pure in my feminism for dating men. That if I were really into women, I’d be giving up the dick just like that. That if I really want to date a woman for who she is, this bisexual phase is something I’ll “grow out of.” Condescending correction of the poor misguided young girls isn’t feminism anyway.
No, this is not a thing I’ll “grow out of.” I grew into my sexuality. I grew up and had to unlearn all the tropes—that bisexuals were bad, greedy, dangerous, wrong. I had to stopper my ears to the insults shot from both sides, screaming “dyke” and “liar” and “play thing.” I had to ignore the self-righteous “pity” over my “confusion.” And I have to still the quaver in my voice every time I speak of my orientation, for fear that my mother might hear… because she still doesn’t know. The rest of the world does, but she still doesn’t know.
So I kiss girls. You can’t watch and I don’t tell. I kiss boys. You didn’t ask that time, but the answer’s the same. My sex drive is mine, and it’s not for sale. Go watch a Katy Perry video, perv.