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I haven’t studied Bisexual Culture or Analyses of Bisexual Paradigms in the Greaterless Framework in Contemporary Whoopee, but I am bisexual. I feel bisexual. Since third grade, I’ve spent my life running from the man-ness of me, pretending to feel girly, which I do sometimes. I have often felt ashamed that the cut of my hair was a bit androgynous, and I always loved boots. And I always loved skirts with ruffles. When I’m not with a man, I love to cook. When I get in the pickup I like to drive, and I like to fix flats (tires, way out in the sand).
I explore both rock and honey.
Why publicize? After all, I’ve suffered from a weird malady for 34 years now, and don’t have much chance of marriage anymore, and I’d never want a kid. And I’d never want to come out to anyone who pretends to know me. I’ve decided to tell Grandma. She is 94 years old. She kinda raised me; she washed my hair and set it in a bow. She taught me to cook Pineapple Upside Down Cake and Venison Burgers. She taught me the fog of war of sitting down. Sometimes high beams in a storm of snowflakes are more dangerous than no light at all.
Why empty petrol into an orange seething burn? What does it matter, the little religion of DON’T versus my little thought to THINK? Why speak up? What does it matter, if I love men and I love women? Sometimes I hate all of them. A bisexual, I guess, is somebody who hasn’t the morals to know when not to sleep with anything on two legs. Why advertise? I’m not sexy. I’m not wise. I’m not rich. What does it matter if sometimes the gel of a beautiful wifi quivers: she’s feminine and precious, she’s represented by the scent of mangos and peach; she loves the minor key because it moves so easy rising in a hymn. She’s got biceps and fingernails, there is a design along her shoulder, and when a child is present, the woman honors me with her own careful presence.
Or what does it matter if the apple box is wood, full of black and reddish cranks and wheels and handles and pounders and things? And when he looks up, he smiles. His eyes are the gray of an April day sleet, and when he again looks around at windows doodling in silver gel, he pauses to ponder and he frowns at all that is written. What does it matter that he has heavy denim workpants, that his hands could crush an apple, touch-brushing along the hem of silk, along my face, my lips?
I have a boring set of genitals, all female, not even pretty as a lily. If I’d known things before, I’d never gone through the forty three years of menstruation, never intending my body for kids, barely attending my mind for anyone. But I went through the cramps and the sticky blood and the mess, taking it when I might have done much less. I ran for president. I ran for wife. I ran for academic. I ran for my life.
Why discuss it? Why display yourself like the petals of a purple National Geographic movie? Why not go about, in a town in the west – hauling the burden or the basket from the WalMart to the anniversary event, keeping to myself – and let those who have nothing to do with me, to do what they do, quiet, unassuming, untended and unaware there could be anyone like me there?
Because you don’t stay inside your godless cities. You’re mowing down my picket fence. You take your rough hand off your son to slap me. You allow no admittance to the polls of what I am. But do not counsel me about sexuality if you are using gender to snatch a privilege for speaking fees or book deals or the righteous following of your infallible word. Do not refuse me my agony of uncertainty if you are preaching with your back to the choir, fucking them full on in the afternoon, including the younger ones. If you are judging me–for being single, for needing porn, that I am the bad bisexual–don’t you judge me if you don’t know which bed your three year old is lying in or if it is your own, or if you have been refusing your partner for weeks because you opted for purity to leave him cold and dry to just deal with it. You’re going to have to step up the fight for that level of distraction.
When I was married, I was married, but I was only married to the man, an etiolated fabric, figment in a light net of somebody else’s direction. Being driven around is not the bad; being buried hurts, buried by anybody, deep in the caves where I most need to breathe. I am not making the declaration that I am bisexual to throw you into jail or hell. Or to defy something you hope will arrange your golden eternity from a jagged distance. It’s just that, it matters I am free to love just as I am free to think and free to speak. I love anyone who loves me; sometimes I love more. You can’t shut me up anymore. It matters. You will not rend me. You will not impale me. You cannot grin like a pumpkin when I speak. You cannot move in front because your legs are longer, your book bigger or your titular shoulders are broad, I’ve brought my panzer, my word and my love.
Sex is such a simple thing. A flutter, a flex, the Mariana Trench, the scent of Ponderosa. It is not the body that heaves.
TwoFeet is a writer, poet, visual artist, and mental health contributor to Painted Brain.