It's Not Easy Being Bi by Amber Hipple I’ve always known I was bisexual. My mother was hetero, but butch. Her daughters, too, are the same. Even though I have such a love for makeup and nail polish and ruffles, I still walk with a heavy gait, loping, like a man. I don’t shave or pluck or tweeze. I smoke, I drink, I cuss; I don’t dance. I’m a young version of my mother. I’m "just one of the guys." I'm a woman, but a tough woman who adopts the stereotypical behaviors of both sexes, because it feels right. I straddle the line, identifying with male and female, mentally claiming neither, only being fully female biologically. I’ve always known. From the first moment my tits became more than just nipples and the first red hair sprouted on my mound of Venus I knew that men and women were beautiful, wonderful human beings. When I fall in love or take a lover, I see more than just their body. I like sex with both men and women both for different reasons, but what I really want, is rapport. I want to pick their brains and then fuck them.

Growing up, I felt there was no distinction between the sexes. Well, there are of course the obvious physical differences, but mentally my mother never let it be hinted there was any difference in our minds or abilities based on gender. Men and women were equal, and thanks to women’s lib I grew up knowing I could do whatever the hell I wanted to do. I was taught to judge a person by their mind and not their body.

I’m not like those in the gay community who say it loud and proud. I'm not like the heteros who simply accept the role they’ve been given. I don’t tell every Tom, Dick, and Harry the color of my favorite dildo, just as I don’t go around announcing my sexuality. I am not closeted, however. To me, telling someone about my sexuality is a gift. I am trusting them with something that's intensely personal, yet inherent in my personality. I won’t deny it if someone asks a direct question regarding my sexual preferences. I won’t lie about it. Why should I? I accept myself, yet often I don't volunteer the information. I’m the quiet type, I suppose.

On Being Labeled as "A Bisexual"

I was thirteen when I came out. Suddenly, to all these people I had known for years, I was no longer "Amber" but I was "a bisexual." I felt resentful and irritated being treated as though I was something new and odd, someone to be exploited. Initially there was a shock for my mother and other relatives, but it didn’t last long, and they've been supportive since. Unfortunately, and shockingly for me, my newfound sexuality created anger in some people. For all, however, there were endless, tiring questions. 

For all these reasons and more, I began to guard my sexuality, treating it as a secret. I decided, after much soul-searching and agonizing, who I would and would not tell. I didn’t want to deal with all the tiresome nonsense anymore. I became close-mouthed and less open. Sometimes I regret it. Other times I don’t, because sometimes I still misjudge and I get the shock, the anger and the questions again, often a mix of all three. It is the anger though, that I faced at thirteen, that first time, that decided it all in the end.

Suspicious Anger Arises

For privacy I’ll call her Jane. Her name is Jane, and she is like my mirror twin, I her shadow. We are opposites in all things, and I think that is why we have been friends for so long. When I first told Jane I was bisexual, she was angry. Jane, who fucked like a rabbit, and had no religious bone in her body, was suddenly the zealot preaching to me from her pulpit on the immorality and disgusting character of my announcement.  An endless barrage of hostile questions followed. Did I like to lick pussy? Did I want to suck a woman’s breasts? Did I want pubic hair in my teeth? Did I want to stick my finger up a woman’s twat? Did I want to smell her pussy juice? It went on for what seemed like hours. 

Thirteen years old, and still half a child-- mostly a child-- I was confused, at least outwardly. I didn’t know how to respond, not to those kind of questions. The answer to each of those questions was categorically a resounding, "YES" which I could see in neon letters in my head, blinking over and over. Agitated and hurt at her outburst, which implied that all of those actions were wrong, disgusting, and immoral, I simply kept quiet. How else could I have responded to Jane's anger, for Jane was the girl that I wanted more than anyone else in the world.

The Delusion of Denial

My silence seemed to imply to Jane that my answers were "no." Maybe Jane sensed some of my confusion. She tapered off her tirade, apparently convincing herself that my announcement had been a failed and rather awful attempt at a practical joke. We didn’t speak of it again until much later. Then, Jane just shook her head and told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, as if she knew better than I what I was and how I felt.

Jane still feels this way today. Each time I mention my sexuality, she either denies it, or refuses to hear anything about it. Jane is the one in denial. While we don’t speak of it, her feelings about my sexuality remain, heavy and pregnant, bloated-- a silent behemoth that separates us, and puts up a breach I can’t span. 

Still, I managed to fall in love with Jane, and each day it grows stronger. I would never violate her privacy, or force myself on her. I hold complete respect for her heterosexuality, yet there is no time when I don’t think of us falling, weeping and lovingly into one another’s arms. I cannot look at her too long, sit too close to her, or hug her too tightly, before she begins to cast suspicious looks my way, as if she knows my truth.

Jane's anger, I think I could have lived with. It would have passed, and we would have dealt with it, or simply gone our separate ways. It’s her denial that hurts me. It’s her refusal to accept that part of me then and now that stings my heart. So often I wonder if telling her was such a good idea. Some days, I think if I could replay that moment I would say nothing. I would go on loving her, and being near her, but never telling her, just so I could have an easy, full friendship with no distance or distrust. Other days I’m glad I did tell her, if only to be honest with the woman that I love.

I can admit my sexuality to perfect strangers with a stunning simplicity. For me, there is no shame. For me there has never been any hesitation in admitting who I am. This is not because of any amount of courage on my part. After all, I’m in love with my friend, but I’m too cowardly to admit it. Jane taught me to guard my secret closer, not to be so free with it. I don’t thank her for that. She taught me I am confused. I don’t thank her for that, either. I'm not confused in the way Jane believes I am. I know what I am. I have no qualms about what I am. I am bisexual, but sometimes it‘s not easy being bi.

To tell or not to tell? If I keep it mostly a secret from strangers and acquaintances, am I traitor to all those others who have worked so hard for our acceptance? If I regret the telling, am I a traitor? So no, my sexual identity is not the source of my puzzlement. Its all the other things that muddle me up.

You can visit Amber Hipple to read more at her Web site.

Copyright © 2004 Amber Hipple. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post in whole or in part. 

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