I was 37 years old when I started to call myself bisexual. In hindsight, it’s pretty clear I was always bisexual, but it took a very long time for me to put a concrete name to it.
At least early on, it had a lot to do with where and when I grew up. Calling someone a “fag” was virtually a daily insult among my peers. HIV/AIDS was still very recent, very scary, and very much a “gay” disease. And, most importantly, none of the recent acceptance of homosexuality had even begun to surface in my world. Life was super, super hard for gay people back then, and if you had those impulses you sure as hell didn’t act on them if you could manage not to. Plus, I was definitely interested in women, so I couldn’t be gay, right?
The second reason it took so long is my wife, and for all the very best reasons. She is the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met: of any gender. She is the most joyful, nurturing, and loving person I’ve ever met. She’s wonderfully smart and dedicated. Most of all, she’s honest, calm, patient, and rational. I cannot even imagine finding another person I’d be more completely content to share my life with. It’s been over 20 years so far, and, happily, I see no change in sight. And, of course, being a male who is throughly in love with a female means you’re straight, right?
What does it mean to be bi?
I can only really answer for myself, but I think of it this way. When my physical / emotional gut reaction considers whether a person is attractive or not, their gender simply doesn’t matter very much. To me, seeing a person who is confident, cheerful, well-groomed, and reasonably fit immediately puts them in the “attractive” category. If you and I were just sitting in a coffee shop people-watching together, I’d find more women attractive than men—just by the numbers—but I suspect that’s because women tend to look after their appearance more carefully. Naturally, the exact physical traits I find attractive for each gender are different, but so long as the general traits I mentioned are present, the gender isn’t especially important.
When it comes to having sex, the same indifference to gender applies. I find the prospect of being with a man and finding mutual pleasure as appealing, exciting, and arousing as being with a woman. I also find the idea of being the passive partner in sex as appealing, exciting, and arousing as being the active one: regardless of the gender of my partner. To use the term from gay circles, I just consider myself to be a little extra versatile.
What doesn’t it mean to be bi?
Most importantly, being bisexual does not mean that I want to have multiple sexual partners (polyamorous). The interest / capability / potentiality of having a male partner is certainly there, and if I weren’t already in a relationship, I would be very much open to it. However, I am extremely happy in my current relationship, and I have no desire to change it.
Being bisexual also does not mean that I don’t think of myself as male. I definitely think of myself as male, and am not at all personally attracted by the idea of being transgender, transsexual, transvestite, etc. To be clear, I don’t have a strong opinion on those things, and to be perfectly honest, I know very little about them. I just know they don’t appeal to me, personally.
What difference does it make?
It… doesn’t? I think? I’m a man in a happy, life-long, monogamous relationship with a woman. Therefore, it’s easy to say: “Are you even bisexual? What difference does it make, anyway?” Believe me, I’ve been asking myself those questions over and over for years now. As I’ve pondered, I’ve arrived at a few important answers.
Even though I’ve found joy in a traditionally straight relationship, the way I react sexually has always been a part of me, and is still an undeniable part of how I experience other people. I very definitely find both men and women sexually attractive, and I definitely could be quite happy in a serious long-term relationship with either.
There’s a deep satisfaction in being truly honest with oneself, and in understanding the genesis of one’s emotions. Understanding, accepting, and talking about being bisexual releases uncertainty, anxiety, and tension I didn’t even notice I’d been carrying my whole life.
Relating to others
Identifying myself as bisexual, and coming out to other people changes how those relationships work. Fortunately for me, I haven’t yet had a negative reaction, but I also haven’t come out to very many people. In those cases where I have come out to someone, the experience has generally deepened the connection and helped the other person be more sincere, honest, and open with me (especially with other LGBT folks).
Freedom to explore
The last big difference this has made to me is that it removes a whole set of inhibitions about sex, sexuality, and attraction to other people. It’s a relief to feel like I can think, write, and talk about these experiences. And, within the context of my existing relationship, I feel empowered to explore possibilities I wouldn’t have been open to before.
Why tell anyone about it?
Every single person I’ve talked to about this blog post has asked this question, so I want to try to explain why I don’t just do the easy thing and keep it to myself.
It has been over two years since I first “came out” to my wife, my son, my parents, and—most importantly—to myself. Since then, I’ve been slowly coming out to family and close friends. It’s been an astonishing sense of relief. My whole life, I’ve known this truth about myself was there, but I’ve pushed it away. At every hint, and with every impulse, I’ve felt confused, embarrassed, or ashamed, and then promptly buried those feelings. Again, and again, and again. It felt way easier to just ignore that side of my sexuality, and why not? I’m a guy in love with a gal; why make things complicated?
Why? Because it’s a lie to say that I’m straight, and because it’s deeply distressing to continually lie to yourself. The really hard part for people in my situation is that our sexuality is, for all practical purposes, invisible. To me at least, that makes this life-long journey to understand and accept myself feel incomplete. Knowing that I’m bisexual and doing nothing feels exactly the same as the hiding and repressing I’ve always lived with—and I’m done with that.
So, first and foremost, this essay is me permanently rejecting the closet in the only way I can. Being frankly, openly, explicitly bisexual rejects the seemingly easy path of hiding in plain sight, and forever shatters any possibility of continuing to repress that side of myself.
Second, I’m seeking to find community with others who have shared this or similar experiences. I am grateful to have amazingly supportive friends and family—straight and gay. But they, nevertheless, can’t entirely relate to my experiences. I would love to connect with other people who can.
Third, I’m hoping that sharing my experience of coming out to myself will prove useful to others. Specifically, I hope this helps people who, like me, have struggled with their sexuality for many years before figuring things out: most especially to other bisexuals (closeted or not) who have struggled as I have.
Finally, I also hope this helps everyone else who doesn’t really know what bisexuality is, and who thinks they don’t know someone who is. You probably do, and didn’t even know it.