Big Beautiful Bisexual


Cross-posted from my Facebook.

As most of you probably know, I’m bisexual, and if you didn’t know that up to this point, well, congratulations, you know now. Bisexuality doesn’t often get covered in LGBT issues, which is probably why I don’t bring it up much, most likely because bisexual people don’t get the same sort of oppression as the LGT slices of the pie – we have the unique advantage of being the fox in the henhouse. Until I decide to marry a woman, my constitutional rights really aren’t infringed upon.

However, I feel the need to point out that this doesn’t mean being bisexual means being free and clear of any sort of scrutiny, whether intentional or otherwise. I know no one actively goes out to insult someone who is bi, but there is some stuff I’d like people to be aware of that has happened to me, for educational purposes, mind.

NUMBER 1: My being bisexual is not “a phase.” I’ve known I’ve liked girls since I was 7 years old, but it was confusing because I also liked boys. I actually thought something was wrong with me until a former friend of mine came out as bi in high school. I practically cried knowing that there was a name to what it was I was experiencing, but it took me eight years to get there, and it’s thirteen years since then, so it is definitely not a phase. I still like girls and boys. Thanks.

NUMBER 2: Bisexuality is not “fake.” I got this a lot primarily from my friends who are gay, surprisingly enough. I understand the stigma because it’s hard to relate to someone who can switch over to what is considered “normal” by society seemingly on a whim, and there are plenty of girls who pretend to like other girls just so guys will want to fuck them, but that does not mean bisexuality isn’t a thing. It is just likely a thing that you cannot understand. Besides, I can’t get guys or girls, so if I’m bi just to get laid, I must be doing it wrong. WHICH BRINGS ME TO THIS NEXT POINT:

NUMBER 3: Being bisexual does not make you a whore. Believe it or not, people of both genders are statistically less likely to date bisexuals out of fear that they’ll be left for someone else of the other gender. Um, no. That’s not limited to bisexuals. Those are just shitty human beings. And this ties into 2 because you kind of can’t expect to think that bisexuality means all these dating doors are open for you, because in reality, being bi is less likely to get you a date. So there’s that. Regardless, my morality and my sexuality are not dependent on each other – I’m not a shitty person, nor am I a whore, so no, I actually wouldn’t ditch a person I was dating for someone else because that’s just a shitty thing to do that has nothing to do with sexual preference.

I will, however, admit that threesomes are fine by me. I like the FMF kind.

Also, my dad and my aunt can’t see this because no one on my dad’s side knows I’m bi. It’s fantastic having conservative Republican family members, and people who tell them shit.

This has been an educational announcement for the day.

A Tale of Four Keys


Ladies and gentlemen, a story.

I’m not a fan of purses. They’re cumbersome and uncomfortable and a magnet for things I don’t even really need. I use them for the practical reason of they hold my wallet, and my phone on days when I’m not wearing jeans (which is like…twice a month on a good month). But since I walk to the store from home here, I’ve gotten into the habit of wearing my hooded sweatshirts in lieu of my peacoats so I can stick my wallet and any other accouterments in the big front pocket. I needed to go down to Wilko today for some householdy goods, so I loaded up with my wallet, my phone, my iPod, and my keys, and set out on my way.

It’s a beautiful day in Headingley, cold, but not rainy, clear, crisp, and blue. With my iPod blissfully filling my ears with the sweet sounds of Satriani, Sublime, and Santana, I made my way down to Wilko without issue and stopped off at the Superdrug afterwards to treat myself to a bottle of my favorite perfume (Obsession, by Calvin Klein, btw. Just for future reference). I made my way back home, wallet lighter, hands fuller, head clearer, when it occurred to me once I got to the neighborhood to check my big pocket for my keys.

They weren’t there.

I dug around in that pocket in a panic, with a modicum of conscious acceptance right away that my keys weren’t there, and there was no use in fretting, but now I had to come up with a solution. My landlord would charge me 25 pounds for a new set of keys, since they’re an unusual make and I have four of them. My flatmates upstairs would have to let me inside since Sara is at work. I left the door to the flat itself unlocked as if I had made some sort of unconscious effort to abate the more detrimental effects of my future blunder. I knew going back to look for the keys would likely be fruitless, since the area was busy. I’d only just resigned myself to the inevitable headache of all of this when something else occurs to me.

How stupid would you have to be to keep your keys in that pocket? Along with your wallet and phone, no less, two things you’d have to extract more than once. That’s just asking for it. Could I have been that dumb??

The answer was no. Keys were in my back pocket. Duh.

The moral of the story, my friends, is that I am not always an idiot. Only sometimes.