“Wait–do you like boys?”
My new friend stood dead-center in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes widened with childish delight and disbelief. We had met earlier that evening in the nightclub we now stood smoking in front of, and had exchanged comically curt greetings before proceeding to hit on each others’ friends.
I informed him through a smirk that I did, in fact, “like boys”. I was impressed and a little pleased by the reaction I’d elicited in this openly bisexual 30-odd-year-old man, simply by suggesting that I’d be interested in hooking up with a guy–giddy surprise, delivered a little more politely than most, especially handsome strangers looking to get laid. It worked out for the both of us; I went home shortly afterward, new friend in tow.
As a queer (specifically bisexual) guy who looks like a butch lesbian–in fact, as a queer guy who used to be a butch lesbian–I have mixed feelings and low expectations for the amount of attention I receive from men. Being perceived as a lesbian, unpleasant as it is in some respects, at least allows me to sidestep some of the grosser parts of heterosexual courtship. I usually don’t have to deal with straight men hitting on me, which is a definite relief, especially considering the varying levels of aggressiveness and douchery generally employed in this pursuit. For the first time, most guys my age are actually pretty genial towards me; as part of a young, ostensibly enlightened generation in which homophobia is thought of less as immoral and more as passé, many see the potential to chest-bump and ogle women with a token lesbian friend as a cool pastime. And thanks to being a young, middle-class, white urbanite at a liberal college, I rarely receive much friction on the gay front. If people are going to misread me, then a lesbian is not a bad thing to be.
The problem comes when I actually want to start dating. I’m attracted to people of all genders, but that doesn’t translate to being able to actually date them. Most women who express interest are lesbians, which is a non-starter; men generally don’t approach me, but letting them know I’m interested usually sets off a creepy, leering, “I’m so attractive even you want to fuck me” response that’s almost enough to deter me entirely. Granted, things tend to go well with non-binary-gendered people, but it’s an infrequent occurance, at best. Online dating is, for the most part, a series of false starts, due at least in part to my unwillingness to write “Warning: Vagina” in bold letters across the top of my OKcupid profile. If I wanted to try harder, I could probably attend more events geared toward gay men, hit on everyone who looks interesting, and just hope for the best, but that still requires both more social skills and more of a gaystream aesthetic than I’m really willing to muster for the occasion.
At the end of the day, I’m basically wedged between two models of gender and sexuality that don’t fit: act masculine, and people assume I’m only attracted to women; act any more feminine, and people assume I’m only attracted to men. Even if I were to be read as male on a regular basis, I’m certain this would still be true. After all, for all the people who enthusiastically brag about their gaydar, and for all the culturally norms in place for visually identifying people as gay, what metric do we have by which to identify bisexuals? What does a bisexual look like, talk like, act like?
This isn’t all to say that bisexual invisibility is the entire problem: the overarching issue here is that everybody’s sexuality is conflated with their gender expression. Feminine men and masculine women are assumed gay; masculine men and feminine women are assumed straight. Sure, these stereotypes may seem sturdy in a Will and Grace punchline, but they tend to unravel when applied to real people’s lives. When sexuality is seen as function of gender, then what place is there for people who don’t fit into either binary? At the end of the day, how many potential partners do we write off by making assumptions about what gay or straight people look or act like? And if we all learn to constantly act in fear of people judging us, how much do we limit our own gender expression?
Gay visibility, at least, is undoubtedly better now than it was for our parents’ generation. Modern Family features two gay fathers, Ellen DeGeneres has a popular network talk show, and Rachel Maddow reads us our evening news. Not only is “gay” an intelligible concept to most people, but gay marriage is varying degrees of legal in many states. So why does mainstream culture only acknowledge “gayness” as the only kind of sexual difference?
As “alternative lifestyles” slip increasingly into the mainstream, one must ask: where are the alternatives to the alternative?
Rex Baker is a 22-year-old Londoner enjoying his time in California studying maths and learning to fly planes. He’s newly trying his hand at blogging and immensely enjoys American spelling and grammar. Rex can be reached at rexbakerisaweso