Bisexuality, even today, is still somehow frowned up. And I, for the majority of my twenties, was one of the people doing the frowning.
‘I’m kind of gay.’ I whispered. It was the first time I said that sentence, which would become my default sentence for coming out to anyone from complete strangers to my best friends, out loud.
I was in the closet for too long I was almost sure I was in Narnia already (and the closet is suffocating).
“When I was about 13-14 I had a wet dream that I came inside Al Gore.”
“Two words: oral sex. Love to give it, love to get it. And it’s completely different depending on who I’m with.”
Ronna told John she was in love with him and he asked her if I would consider sleeping with him, too. (I told her to tell him I might.)
As if to reassure me, Ronna said, “I’m not jealous, you know, of the young men who partake of your body while I’m typing away at my thesis.” I just smiled.
I have this terrible fear of hurting Ronna. It scares me, her feelings for me. I do love her, but this afternoon, I was in Washington Square Park, reliving 1969, and looking at boys.
I want to dive head first into the Gay Box, lock myself into it, make a little nest of it, cuddle up in the restrictive warmth of Category.
What if it is just a phase? What if I change my mind? What if my mother’s right?