By María Sanz . 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 have to remember it the most, when I have to affirm that yes, I too am part of the collective, of that ele-ge-te-be-i-cu where the B is sometimes left without voices or flags. Being bisexual, for me, means being sexually attracted to men and women, cis and trans, queer and gender-fluid, and all the non-binary categories that come to mind. 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 confronting oneself—all the time. Facing the same lesbophobia as lesbians and the same sexist violence as heterosexuals, all at once. And to face, in addition, 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 "what you were doing" wasn't just a vice. Like the time a boyfriend told you he didn't like the idea of ​​an open relationship, but felt less threatened if you slept with women, not other men. Like the time a lesbian told you your struggle was worth less because you were only playing half the game. Like the time that same lesbian told you it was better not to trust you because "you're sleeping with the enemy." Like the time your mother told you that "what you were doing" must be an "emotional imbalance." Like the time she made a list of all your female friends and asked you, one by one, if you had slept with them.

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Like the time another lesbian told you she didn't trust bisexuals at all, that they were always "troublemakers." Like the time a friend 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 going to the doctor and being asked how long they've had that dry cough, or how long they've been walking with a limp. Like the time that same friend, upon learning your partner was a man, asked if you weren't "over it." Like the time another friend told you to look closely, not to fool yourself, because you were only interested in women for sex, but your long-term relationships were always with men. Like the time you bit your tongue to keep from telling your boyfriend's family you were going to the Pride march because you like women too. Like the 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're 'mbatará,' you're like the guinea fowl, which no one knows if it's 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, you're cured, you're back in the fold, welcome back. And you wonder what would have happened if you had never asked yourself any questions.