The Tyranny of the Binary-Or How I Learned to Love My Sexuality

I recently went on a date with a man. <needle skipping across record> In the context of this blog, of my efforts to be a kind of lesbian Carrie Bradshaw, this may come as a shock. And no, I’m not turning into Jessica Stein. I’m still mostly gay. In fact, I’ve always been mostly gay. Yet, I hesitate to write about any attractions to men. This is partially due to my team player mentality. Friends of Dorothy must stick together. Rainbow solidarity aside though, I actually do not believe that my sexuality works in a binary way.

So why not identify as bi? Well, this word comes with enough baggage to sink an Olivia cruise. For one, it implies a 50/50 split—not true in my case. And to many, bisexual signals a type of promiscuity that betrays my sense of morality. (To be fair, the character of Carrie Bradshaw conflicts with this, too.) I am not judging bi, promiscuous or polyamorous peeps. First, I know a bunch of monogamous lovelies who identify as bi. Second, I’m a no harm, no foul gal. More slut power to you and what not. I have even read an interesting book called The Ethical Slut to try to understand the polyamory so prevalent in my circles around Portland, Oregon. The concept of polyamory was really foreign to my upbringing, and I wanted some insight into the beliefs of certain friends. That said, I choose a different path.

As I kick my ethical queer into gear, I am surprised at my continued reluctance to acknowledge the fluidity, however viscous, of my sexuality. I have started identifying as queer (as opposed to lesbian) this year, and as 98% gay to help round out any confusion. However, I am experiencing a reverse closet effect. I refuse to deliver any hint of this news to many people in my life, including my father. He’s an old-school Catholic. I had my dear mother come out to him on my behalf years ago. He’s a poet of a man–a strong, yet gentle soul. I never feared outright rejection from him, only disappointment. His arc of acceptance is remarkable, a wonderful story for another day, but suffice it to say I do not want to confuse him with my double closet. Or more to the point, I do not want to give him false hope that I will end up with a man, nor undo years of progress.

Queer theory talks about the paradox of the closet, how coming out of one actually creates it (Fuss, 1991). No one usually knows you are in a box unless you declare it. One is assumed straight until self-disclosed otherwise–the nested closet in the house of the binary. The closet is a poor metaphor for people who live on a continuum. Although I reside in the “Very Gay” space today, I hate to think my anthro-sexuality, my person based sense of romance is something to hide. Yes, in terms of probability, my future partner will likely be a woman, but I’ve never had much use for math outside of paying bills. Love is not a card game.

So about the date with the guy…wait, I’m actually not going to write about it, at the risk of pissing you off. Because when I mentioned it to a friend back home, she freaked out in a comical way, faux screaming about how I don’t like dick. (I am paraphrasing.) At first I was a little annoyed, but then I thought about how I would respond if she came over to my house and tried to make out with me. I would laugh my ass off. She doesn’t dig chicks. (I am paraphrasing myself.) In other words, I am just as certain about her as she thought she was about me and men.

I could plow forward, and tell you anyway, shielded somewhat by the screen, the two-way blogging mirror. But you might be watching. I suspect I might turn the date recap into a proving game—let me use the right adjectives about him to convince you I’m not self-deluded. Parts of my sexuality engender more self-surveillance. However, I feel no such pressure as a lesbian raconteur. A bigger closet would be nice though.