In the words of the esteemed rap group Flatbush Zombies: “Always into weird, feared, dark-type girls. Independent, don’t-need-no-[man], keep-on-they-light girls. Don’t mean to be cliché but I like girls, that like girls, that like girls…”
A pink-haired pessimist straddling the divide between feminism and misandry, and sometimes trying to emit a soft goth girl glow (really just my glamorized rendition of mental unhealth) — I think I see why boys so commonly suspect bisexuality of me. I’ll sense his suspicion as he steers the post-fuck conversation (pre-fuck if he’s ambitious) towards that one foursome he had last year, in which he was the only male participant, he makes sure to note. Tossing the topic back my way (“Have you ever had a threesome?”), he goes on to reveal his true concern: “Was it with another girl?” “Do you hook up with girls?” “So you like girls too?”
No, actually, I’m not into girls. I’ve kissed a girl or two, and I liked it, no doubt. But I haven’t caught romantic feelings for a girl before, and my instances of physical attraction to girls have been few and far between. As of this moment in time, I have ample reason to believe that I’m not categorically bisexual. And also that I have just about no right to claim membership in a marginalized community which I’ve made no constructive contribution to and which faces a plethora of burdens I’ve never encountered a single one of.
Alas, he seems only to hear what he’d like to hear — that I’ve got the hots for every classically attractive female in the cosmos. And that his DMing me pictures of a scantily clad Kehlani (“She’s kinda gay too!” he said) or pointing out pretty female passersby in public (I nod smilingly to avoid sparking a full blown feud in the Ithaca mall food court), or asking me if I’ve got a secret crush on every Carhartt-clothed female friend I introduce him to, are more than justified. That they’re actually demonstrations of progressivism and his attentiveness to my “circumstances.” And that maybe, just maybe, I’ll grant him the gift of group sex.
Sure, if I instead was what he thought I was, which I am not, maybe I wouldn’t be so bothered — maybe I wouldn’t be bothered at all. But I doubt it. Of course I don’t know how I’d feel if I was bisexual, but I don’t imagine I’d be all that more amused by his bizarre attempts at bonding with me over somebody else’s tits than I already am. I’ve been with few bisexual men in my lifetime, but it still seems worthwhile to note that not once have I thought to connect with any of them over drinks and jolly discourse about our collective appreciation of John Mayer’s jawline. It just doesn’t seem entirely appropriate to do that sort of thing or to assume that the other person would be pleased by it.
Supremely irritating is the dichotomy between the discontent he’d suffer if I tried to converse with him about my physical attraction to some other guy, and the absolute pleasure he’d enjoy if I were to do the same but in regards to another girl. Imagine the fits he’d throw if I tabled the turns for just one moment and airdropped him an image of ASAP Rocky’s abdomen, or if I drew him into a slightly more thoughtful dialogue regarding Dev Patel’s cutie-to-hottie metamorphosis over the course of his illustrious career. But if I were to explicitly communicate to him my attraction to or sexual experiences with another female, he’d be unbothered. In fact, he’d be delighted. Straight men’s sexual fetishization of intimacy between females is certainly nothing new. Common to dudes everywhere is the self-serving inclination to regard intimate or romantic relationships between women as performances choreographed exclusively for male entertainment, rather than as being of equivalent (if not greater) complexity, sincerity, severity and potentiality as any heterosexual relationship. Aside from their disturbing fixation on bi girls is their ridiculous concept of the sort of creature that is “the bi girl.” They dream of an immaculately feminine, fairy-like nonhuman whose carefree open-mindedness gives way to a playful hobby of kissing her conventionally attractive lady friends from time to time, but who then immediately turns around to find herself drawn to the most masculine of men. Her “bisexuality” serves only to decorate her with an aura of individuality (“She’s not like other girls.”), complexity and seductive ambiguity, while she nevertheless remains staunchly anchored in heteronormativity. Hiding their weird strain of homophobia behind veils of self-proclaimed wokeness and “love and respect for all women,” the radical Berniebros of our generation seek a real life Aphrodite ready to fuck everyone and everything, but whose true interests lie towards men. From constructing abortion policy to searching for their ideal pussy, incessant insertion of self into women’s affairs and uninvited reimagination of these affairs to maximize their own profit has got to be among mankind’s manliest activities.
Brat Baby is a student at Cornell University. Pillow Princess Diaries runs alternate Sex on Thursdays this semester. Sex on Thursday runs every Thursday this semester.