bisexuality

Before coming to Berkeley , I had kissed more girls than guys, and if we’re being honest, that ratio hasn’t changed much since. Kissing your friends is normal, or so 17-year-old me thought. Kisses are silly and meaningless, which has allowed my closeted self to kiss basically every single girl I’m close to, from dorm friends to sorority sisters. 

Still, despite these positive aspects of labels, they can lead to limitations, enforce stereotypes and create difficulties when coming out to loved ones. 

Yet, here at the poster child for liberal higher education, Greek life persists as a bastion of aging understandings of gender and sexuality.

In my mind, I had been and would always be the world’s best chameleon: I knew what people expected of me, and that’s exactly what I showed them.

I don’t ever want to be reduced to how I look — sex just an excuse to see me with my top off, feelings nonexistent and dependent on how often I put out.

I walk a thin line between approval and being tokenized: the feminine “bi” girl, an ideal threesome candidate and sexual experiment.

Unfortunately, there isn’t enough room for two alphas in bed, and men always seem to be on top — their only exception being the cowgirl position.

I did, in fact, find myself vulnerably confronting my religion — with a cross dangling above my face, connected to a chain around the neck of a classmate.

The back-to-school routine was simple: It was the shift from sunscreen to lube; bathing suits to lingerie; and summer jobs to blowjobs.

I “came out of the closet” about two years ago. Coming out didn’t matter to me because it doesn’t make me any more or less queer, but it felt as though it was expected of me before I could ever date another woman. It felt as if it was one hurdle I had to pass before reaching another.