I said I was bisexual and that is all. Why there are so many negative connotations with calling yourself a bisexual eludes me.
I shouldn’t have taken you home because I bought you tequila shots from bills I’d stashed in my bra and because we had to hitch a ride double-buckled in my friend’s haggard Volvo. I was looking for a night on the town, not romance.
“Don’t be afraid of who you are. It’s the people who bully or ridicule you who are the freaks.”
“Vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, vaginas, and then maybe the occasional penis if I’m drunk enough.”
If the connection was right, gender and physical presentation became much less relevant.
“One key difference: BOOBS.”
Yes, it’s a parody.
Yesterday in the hospital, Vito asked me, “Is it manly to cry?” “Of course,” I said quietly. “Then I think I’m about to be very manly,” he said.
Girls are judged by their looks and they’re treated as oddballs if they don’t marry and go for a career instead. Being a girl certainly isn’t as good as I thought. And I definitely am happy having a penis rather than a vagina.
Bisexuality is not a choice. It is not unnatural, greedy, or slutty, and it’s definitely not a myth.