It feels dishonest writing a pride-themed post, because the facade I choose to wear has been “straight” for some time now. It makes answering questions easier. Especially when it comes to the question of why all of my relationships have been with women.
I don’t struggle with my sexuality. I know who I like. And what I like. And how I like it.
For all intents and purpose, I called myself bisexual in my youth. Except that’s a sweater that never quite fit. Not to mention the unfavorable itch that came along with it. The idea that at some point I would have to make decision. The idea that my “bisexuality” was a gateway drug to full-blown gay was tossed around by one girlfriend.
In college, the idea of pansexuality became popular vernacular so I tried it on. The idea of loving someone despite – perhaps in spite – of what lay between their legs seemed to make sense. In the end, however, the label left as sour taste in my mouth. Not to mention the mockery that came with the term pan.
Post college, the term pomosexual – pomo meaning postmodern – became part of my vocabulary. The idea that sexuality didn’t need labels seemed favorable. In the end, though, it was just another category.
In a meeting with an old counselor, I brought up the topic of my sexuality. I started rambling by that point. I scratched the armrest of the sofa chair she had in her office.
“I have a girlfriend,” I said. “But I wouldn’t call myself straight. I feel sexuality – my sexuality – is a little more complicated than that. Or less complicated.”
“How would you describe yourself then?” Veronica once asked me during a session. “If not straight, then what?”
I took a deep breath and searched my brain, “Open to suggestion.”
This post became something else entirely. The essay I wanted to share went off the rails and I’ll post it much later. Bear with me. There’s been stress at work, personal life, and with all the shit going on in the world, my mind has been elsewhere.
Chapin City Blues 