I’ll tell you I’m bi so you can begin to understand.
I could list a million things that I’m not, but it would all be in vain. I could also try to conjure up the words to describe my most intimate moments—my experiences of love and rapture—but it would only uncover the futility of labels when it comes to my love, sex, and sexuality.
Very early on, I remember feeling out of place with my sexuality and sexual desires. I didn’t understand gender roles; I was never able to comprehend a love of cock coupled with a disdain towards vagina, or vice versa. I happened to be, from very early on, inundated with a love and admiration of both. Not equally, and not all the time; some days more than others, and others not at all.
My first “boyfriend” was in Kindergarten. He was new to Canada. I held his hand and helped him learn English. He made me a necklace with two beads on it. But Grade 1 found me in love with a pretty girl. I left a secret admirer note, that my mom helped me write, in the girl’s cubby box.
There have been times where I’ve found myself asking for an easier solution. Life would be simpler if I could define my preference: if I could tell people I was just straight, or simply gay, without feeling like I was lying about it. Sometimes I trick myself into believing that I am only attracted to masculinity, but then I am instantly reminded of my love affair with effeminate gay men and femme queer women.
My love is more complex than a label and a checkmark. My attraction to people has always been without set criteria. I have been told that I’m a “whateversexual,” in that I do whom and whatever I like. Even still, the label of “whatever” or “anythingsexual” leaves me feeling uncomfortable, caged, and most of all: defined.
My sexuality and love cannot be confined in this way. My sexuality has moved, changed shape, crossed mountains and bridges, stayed at home on cold nights, and above all, survived.
Love has left me mobile. Sex, without words. And sexuality, without a desire to define.