Does Marrying a Man Negate My Bisexuality?

Heteronormativity makes me feel invisible

My bisexuality is obvious to me. It’s not a question. Even if it was, I’d just have to consult my sexual fantasies, the way I look at women, and my standing opinion that sister wives are missing out by not getting romantic with each other.

To others, though, my sexual identity isn’t obvious at all.

People I see out in the wild tend to assume I’m straight. That’s how heteronormativity works - we’re all straight until proven otherwise.

But since I married a man and had children with him, my sexual identity feels almost invisible.

I didn’t think too much about it at first. I was too busy settling into my new roles as wife and mother to worry about the way others perceived me.

Lately, though, it’s been making me a lot more uncomfortable

First, my bisexuality used to be invisible to me

I know there are people who say they always knew their sexuality.

My romantic and sexual interests transcend gender. But I didn’t really know that about myself at a young age. I had to discover it gradually - and accept it even more slowly.

Getting horny and hormonal once I hit puberty didn’t clear things up for me, either.

In my defense, I came of age during some sexually confusing times.

I always assumed I was heterosexual - in large part because my family and everyone else around me implied I was (no one around me was woke enough to say, “Someday, when you have a husband or a wife…”)

I found women attractive - and some women really attractive. I liked seeing women undress in movies (first in softcore scenes when my parents rented an R-rated film, and then later in hardcore porn). But that just felt normal and perfectly straight to me. Women were sexualized everywhere I looked. Ads, movies, and magazines sent me the message that women were meant to be looked at and that they should be admired for being ravishing or sexy. So, I figured that enjoying a good gander at a pair of tits was in keeping with being 100% heterosexual.

Then, I started going to parties. This was a few years before Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” was practically on loop at the mall and gave every straight girl permission to lock lips with their BFFs just for the hell of it. But with plenty of alcohol and very little supervision, we didn’t need a pop song to encourage us to push a few boundaries. So, after a few cheap beers and sickly sweet coolers, we’d often end up making out with each other – always in clear view of the guys we were hoping to impress.

Only, sometimes I’d sort of forget about the guys.

Making out with other girls was fun for its own sake. I would’ve done it behind closed doors, with no one to show off to (other than the girl I’m kissing). I think I enjoyed it more than most of my friends did. It was tender and hot all at the same time, and I always wanted it to last longer than they did. 

But I still thought I was straight. This was just what girls did - it didn’t mean anything.

Looking back, it’s kind of weird that it took me until my late teens to figure out that I might be into girls in a very serious way. All the evidence was there. But I always managed to come up with some way to rationalize my feelings and my attraction so I didn’t have to ditch the heterosexual identity I’d been given.

If I was a lesbian, I’m sure it would’ve been obvious. There’d be no rationalizing then. But because I liked guys (a lot), it took a lot more work to break out of the hetero mold and gain some self-awareness.

Once I knew, I hid it from everyone else

I couldn’t deny my bisexuality any longer.

I wasn’t just mildly attracted to women. I could seriously picture myself having relationships with them.

I moved in with my boyfriend as soon as I was done high school. He worked the late shift at a factory and I’d kill some of my lonely time at home by watching porn. I watched the lesbian scene in Vivid Alt’s Skater Girl Fever quite a few times, and I got off to the Couples Seduce Teens series - not just because of the daddies, but also because of the hot MILFs eating out girls who were about my age.

I also ate pussy and I liked it. (Top that, Katy Perry.)

But I still felt uneasy about broadcasting my bisexuality. I hid it from most of my friends. I only told the few who had the most progressive attitudes – and then only in whispers.

I hid it entirely from my family. They wouldn’t have disowned me or done anything dramatic. I just knew they’d be weird about it, and I really wanted to avoid all of that (they were weird enough as it was).

Going to college didn’t help me come out of my sexual shell, either. I was a homebody in a committed relationship. While other students were experimenting with and freely expressing their identities, I kept mine on the down low. And when a classmate complained that bisexuals are “greedy because they can’t just pick a side” (whatever that means), I spoke up and said that wasn’t fair characterization of bisexuals. But when another colleague countered with “Why? Do you know one?” I just said “Yeah” and decided not to out myself.

I know how to read a room, and that one didn’t exactly have a welcoming vibe.

 

Coming out to my daughters

I didn’t give much though to how invisible my bisexuality was until a few months ago when I was speaking to my daughters.

They’re both of the age now where they talk about getting married, but still young enough that they don’t understand why they can’t marry their baby brother.

I’ve always made sure to let them know that they can marry someone of any gender (just not their sibling). But when they said “Mommy likes only boys, that’s why she married daddy,” it made me feel a little bit erased.

It’s not their fault. They’re young and they only know what they see. Just a few months ago, my youngest daughter believed that grown-ups don’t sleep – because we go to bed after her and wake up before her, she had no evidence to the contrary.

But having to come out to my daughters made me realize just how few people I’ve come out to.

My husband knows. A handful of my friends know. The women I tried to sleep with (both successfully and unsuccessfully) know, too.

But that’s it. To most other people, I register as heterosexual because I decided to settle down with a man.

I married a man, but my bisexuality still matters

It might seem silly for me to make such a fuss over this. I’ve decided to settle down and spend my life married to a man, so should my bisexuality matter at all?

I think it does.

First of all, my views on monogamy are on the looser side. I’m a committed and faithful wife, but I’m also polyamorous and open to the idea of group sex. If I ever met the right woman, I might just make a move.

But even if I was fully monogamous, being bisexual isn’t just about sex.

Being bisexual is also about attraction, love, and romance. It’s about the kind of person you can see yourself decorating a Christmas tree with. It’s about who gets you flustered, even if they’re just being friendly. It’s about all the “what ifs” you go over in your head when you’re thinking about what life would be like if you had never met your husband.

But more importantly, it’s about community. It’s about having a shared experience and outlook with others. It’s about being able to identify immediately over this one important little characteristic you share. It’s about feeling like there’s a category of people out there that you consider your people.

And that’s why it feels isolating to have almost no one see this part of me.

But unless I become really vocal about it or get a pink triangle tattooed on my shoulder, people will continue to assume I’m straight.

Boxed in

I know that, really, I give everyone too little evidence to nail down exactly where my sexual orientation lies. I’m married to a man, so that means I could either be straight or bisexual (or a lesbian who is really committed to her beard).

It doesn’t bother me that people don’t know I’m bisexual. What bothers me is that they assume I’m not.

I’d much rather be a question mark than have people put me in the wrong category.

I wish I could brush this off and just feel like my authentic self – to just live my truth and not give a damn what anyone assumes about me.

But being boxed in feels uncomfortable. So, I’m making a promise to myself. I’m going to be more open and honest to myself and others, and I’m not going to let the box I’ve been put in define who I am.