"I'm not a lesbian sometimes, I'm bisexual all the time."
September 23rd is International Bisexual Visibility Day. Journalist María Sanz shares her personal experience of the prejudices faced by people with bisexuality.
Share
I'm not a lesbian sometimes. Nor am I straight in my free time. I'm bisexual all the time. I don't believe that love, sex, or affection are a matter of percentages. Even when I'm with a man, I'm bisexual. In fact, it's then that I most need to remember it, when I most need to affirm that yes, I too am part of the collective, of that LGBTQ+ community where the B is sometimes left without a voice or a symbol.
Being bisexual, for me, means being sexually attracted to men and women, cis and trans people, queer and gender-fluid people, and all the non-binary categories you can think of. It's feeling a sexual desire that isn't necessarily influenced by a particular gender. It's breaking down a lot of barriers and asking a lot of questions. And confronting—and being confronted—all the time. Facing the same lesbophobia as lesbians and the same sexist violence as heterosexuals, all at once. And also facing mistrust.
Because, for others, being bisexual is like having only half an identity. It arouses suspicion.
Like the time a friend asked you if you weren't sure that "what you had" wasn't an addiction.
Like that time a boyfriend told you he didn't like the idea of having an open relationship, but he felt less threatened if you slept with women, and not with other men.
Like the time a lesbian told you that your struggle was worth less, because you were only playing half the game.
Like that time that same lesbian told you it was better not to trust you, because "you sleep with the enemy."
Like the time your mother told you that "what you have" must be an "emotional imbalance".
Like the time she made a list of all your friends and asked you, one by one, if you had slept with them.
[READ ALSO: “Neither confused nor in transition: being bisexual is my decision]
Like that time another lesbian told you that she didn't trust bisexuals at all, that they were always "for trouble".
Like that time a coworker told you he was looking for a bisexual woman for a threesome with his girlfriend, and asked if you were interested.
Like the time another friend asked you "how you started" having sex with women, like someone who goes to the doctor and is asked how long they've had that dry cough, or how long they've been walking with a limp.
Like that time when that same friend, upon learning that your partner was a man, asked you if you hadn't "gone over it."
Like that time another friend told you to pay attention, not to fool yourself, because you were only interested in women for sex, but you always had long-term relationships with men.
Like that time you bit your tongue to avoid telling your boyfriend's family that you were going to the Pride march because you like women too.
Like that time you told that boyfriend that being in a monogamous relationship with him meant postponing an important part of your sexuality, but he got offended.
Like the time they told you in Guarani: you are 'mbatará', you are like the guinea fowl, which you don't know if it is white or black.
Like all those times they told you: make up your mind.
Because bisexuals can't be trusted: it's either black or white, you have to choose, because you can't have it all. And you wonder if that isn't the same binary—limiting, emasculating—that we were supposed to be fighting against. And you wonder if you'll be able to participate in that lesbian activity, if they'll look at you favorably or not, because you're a lesbian but you're not, and they know it well. And you wonder if it would be okay to say in a meeting that you don't see bisexuals represented. And you wonder if ignoring us, making us invisible, isn't also another form of violence. And you wonder why everyone assumes that if your last partner was a man, you're heterosexual again, cured, back in the fold, welcome back. And you wonder what would have happened if you had never asked yourself any questions.
We are Present
We are committed to a type of journalism that delves deeply into the realm of the world and offers in-depth research, combined with new technologies and narrative formats. We want the protagonists, their stories, and their struggles to be present.
SUPPORT US
FOLLOW US
Related Notes
We Are Present
This and other stories don't usually make the media's attention. Together, we can make them known.