I was in 6th grade when I realized my feelings for boys were on an equal par with my feelings for girls. I liked the look of girls bodies as much as boys. Their lips, the curves and bulges. And smell. And hair. And laughter.
Heaven forbid we talked about sexuality in health class. And the only mention of “gays” were the locker room speculations of who was a “lezzy” and who was not. Sure, I understood on a superficial level that there were woman who preferred other women, and men who preferred other men.

What to do? Shit, my Mother couldn’t even talk to me about simple biological processes despite being a nurse. Couldn’t very well ask her. Wasn’t about to ask my cousin. He was a “gay” guy, I was not. What would he know about girls anyway? Too bad I never made the connection. Lots of unanswered questions. But I knew I was different.
That left my closest girlfriend, Susan. We spent many nights curled up in her bed together, dreaming of grownup life and talking about the pitiful little bits we knew about sex. We found ourselves experimenting and sharing our rapidly budding bodies. Kissing, touching, stroking, licking, exploring. What felt good. What did not. All under the guise of being more experienced for the love of our life. Mr. Right. Mr. Jock. Mr. Money.

My HS sweetheart was the only reason I moved to Colorado. I was pregnant at 23. We married. A year after the birth of the 1st, I was pregnant again. Three years later, divorced. I was lucky. I had many women friends because of the decision to birth my children at home. Believe me, there is no modesty in birthing babies. And my sex education began. But I still never really thought I was bisexual. Or didn’t want to admit it.

I soon found myself married again and eventually pregnant. And a few years later sole support for three children. Got another job, met more women. Fabulous, smart, funny women. Most lesbian. And my sex education picked up again. It was here with Trixie, that I learned the difference between lesbian and bisexual. That my preference for men in no way negated my desire for woman. It just was. And it was OK. It was here were I realized I almost always check out a woman before checking out a man. And it was here I loved other women. And I stitched my heart back up again.

Neither one of my first two husbands knew. Oh yeah, they knew I had lots woman friends. And blamed them for my liberal attitude and acceptance of other lifestyles. It just wasn’t really talked about.

My third husband knew I was bisexual. But he never really bothered to find out more. He never really bothered to know me. And he was jealous. He tolerated my dancing with other woman in the bar. He would rarely dance with me. And slow dance? Never. But he was agitated when I would slow dance with Trixie. It became ugly over the years. A constant dig. He pointedly let me know he was looking at other woman when we were out. Not out of his genuine love for women, but to remind me I was different. Less somehow. I remember telling him I had fucked better looking woman than he ever would. In anger. Mean. Shitty. I accepted myself, my bisexuality. Why couldn’t he? Why was it a threat? It wasn’t like I was going to wake up one day and trade him in for a woman. Or even trade him in for another man.

Not many know I am bisexual. Only a few close friends at work. Outside of work, only two men know. And only because I trust them enough not to use it against me. Don’t know if I will have the courage to tell anyone else.

My children? Comments from them over Christmas about the B&W nudes in the bedroom and study forced me to remind them I am bisexual. I always thought they knew. Or at least suspected. They didn’t. Or didn’t want to. My daughter is repulsed but tries her best to hide it. My sons seemed amused. But clearly, it’s too much information about Mom.

There is still fear on the part of many woman when they find out a girlfriend is bisexual. Stares of disbelief. And judgment. Most men tend to think bi women are immediately available to act out their fantasy for either FMF participation or FF voyeurism.

I’m not an experiment. I’m not a toy. I’m not an oddity. Not here for anyone to live out his or her fantasy at my expense. I’m a real, living, human being with feelings.

If sexual orientation were a choice, would I “choose” to be bisexual? Would I ask to be, beg to be?

Oh Yes. Hell Yes.

I love men, their bodies, their cocks, their smell, and their thought processes. I love women, their bodies, their pussy, their smell, and their thought prosesses. Each special, but not one more than the other. The bonds are different. The touch is different. The love is not.