Note: This post was originally written as my audition post back in early November. I’ve changed the wording slightly in a couple of place to reflect the passage of time, but have otherwise left the text unedited.
Back in October, lisala at That Gay Blog posted on the recent media (and scholarly) attention devoted to “late-blooming lesbians,” or women who appear to be straight for many years before entering their first same-sex relationship in their thirties, forties, or later. In the post, she discusses the longitudinal research being conducted (separately) by Lisa Diamond and Christan Moran on women who experience shifts in their sexual orientation, identity, and behavior over time. I responded to the post briefly in comments, on tumblr and at my own personal blog … but I find I have yet more thoughts and imagine you Harpies might be interested in hearing them (and perhaps contributing some thoughts of your own in comments!)
In this post I want to reflect on one particular aspect of our culture’s understanding of sexuality – one that is intimately related to the phenomenon of “late-blooming” same-sex desire* and the way we, as a culture, seem to find it befuddling.
I identify as someone whose sexual orientation is extremely person-centered, “fluid” in the sense that my desire is less dependent on the gender expression of the person with whom I want to be intimate than it is by the quality of our relationship and the context in which we encounter each other. I don’t have a fixed, gender-based orientation except as it relates to particular individuals.
As a teenager and throughout my early twenties, I felt tremendous pressure to know and be able to articulate the nature of my sexual desires. I was surrounded by metaphors for sexual arousal and romantic attraction that told me that — post-puberty — it should be fairly clear to me which way I swung, and what it meant to be attracted to someone as “just a friend,” Platonically, and attracted to someone as a potential sexual partner. And I felt like somehow I was broken because I didn’t know, because I couldn’t tell. There seemed to be a level of awareness among most people my age – a kinetic energy that went zing! and told them that person A was hot and person B was not — that I just wasn’t tuned into.
Me? If I thought long enough about it, and considered the right set of circumstances, I could work myself into feeling sexually-interested – or, conversely, sexually dis-interested – in most people. If I was really that in control of the on/off switch as all that, I figured, I must be doing it wrong. So I retreated in confusion and just waited it out until I got clearer signals about who, and what, I was attracted to.
And once I found someone whom I liked – and who liked me back – everything else sort of fell into place around that relationship. In other words, my sexual identity is my relational identity. I am a sexual being who, because of my committed, same-sex relationship, is pretty comfortable identifying as “lesbian,” although I use “bisexual,” “fluid,” and “queer” with equal frequency. But it took me a long, long time to get to this point. For many years, I was afraid that my tentative identifications of sexual desire (particularly same-sex desire) would be interpreted as invalid, as “experimental,” as not-lesbian-enough.
(I didn’t, given heteronormativity, worry incessantly that my similarly tentative desires for men would cause people to question the authenticity of my straight attractions. I never imagined people would challenge me to prove my hetero credentials in the same way I fretted about skepticism concerning my lesbian desires.)
The thing is – as a culture, we’re suspicious of people whose sexual attractions and identities appear to change over time, crossing gender boundaries or causing them to adopt new language to speak about themselves. There is pressure to interpret the past in light of the present — and with a strong heteronormative bent — so that women who have been in same-sex relationships but are currently partnered with men often experience the loss of lesbian fellowship and find that their families and friends are eager to understand their previous partnerships as a “phase” or “experimentation” that they have since “gotten over.”
Women who shift from straight relationships to same-sex relationships, conversely, are often expected to interpret that shift as a “coming out” experience in which they discover, acknowledge, or embrace an aspect of their sexual identity (or a more authentic identity) that has previously been kept a hidden, shameful and secret. This has, indeed, often been the case, historically, and continues to be today as people wrestle with internalized homophobia and social contexts in which being openly non-straight is hazardous to one’s health.
I don’t mean to imply that either of these scenarios if they actually happen in women’s lives, are wrong. Some women do test the strength of their same-sex attractions and decide they really truly aren’t “into” female-bodied, female-identified persons in a sexual way. And some women clearly find the “coming out” metaphor a powerful one for describing their own experience. I don’t think either of these experiences is invalid.
The problem is not with what actually happens in women’s lives. Rather, the problem lies in how those experiences get explained through the lens of our understanding about how human sexuality works: i.e., that who we are attracted to (particularly the gender of the people whom we desire) is not only fixed but knowable. And that it fits within the context of the gender binary: one is either attracted to “men” to “women” or to both women and men. And from the time you are aware of your sexual yearnings, you know which category you now and forever fit into.
That seems like an awfully limiting understanding of human relationships, sexual intimacy, and the complex layers that make up a person’s identity. And it demands a high level of self-knowledge and unwavering certainty from people about an aspect of life that is deeply intertwined with culture and interpersonal ties.
I’d be interested to know what the personal experience of Harpyness readers has been when it comes to knowing their sexual orientation: Do you remember when you first identified feelings of sexual attraction? How did you identify them? Have those feelings stayed consistent? Have they shifted over time? Has the language you’ve used to describe your sexual orientation shifted? How so? Did you feel pressure to choose a sexual orientation or identity before you were ready?
You can read lots more about sexual fluidity, person-centered attractions, and how our culture has defined women’s sexual identity and development in Lisa Diamond’s Sexual Fluidity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008).
*I talk about women throughout this post because of my personal experience and because the researchers mentioned here are exclusively studying women. This is not to imply that men do not also experience fluidity in their sexual attractions, although I think the cultural context (narratives of American masculinity and gay male culture) in which they do so is markedly different from the one in which women explore their attractions and identities.
I identify as a queer femme, and I often use the term “fluid” to describe my sexuality. I find that I also experience sexual attraction for a range of people and presentations (for example, I’m not always attracted to butches), and it’s very dependent on the person who is presenting, regardless of how that presentation looks. I do tend a bit to veer toward being attracted to masculinity, but it doesn’t matter to me if a female-bodied, male-bodied, or trans person exhibits that quality. I felt sort of shoehorned into a lesbian identity when I was in my first relationship, because that was with a woman. I’m currently partnered with a man, and I feel alienated from the lesbian community even as I try very actively to stay involved with it. I was also pressured into a wedding I didn’t want by my family, and I think that showing the world I was all fixed and liked boys again was a part of that. Your post rang true for me!
THIS. Exactly.
It wasn’t until my late teens that I had any kind of sexual attraction or dressed in a hetero-normative way. As much as my parents love and accept me, this seemed to bother them. *sigh* It was never spoken, but it was there, especially from my mother, which was shocking to me considering how open-minded she tended to be. So yes, there was pressure to “act straight” or to continue to be harassed (at school) as an uncategorized entity with an assumption of queerness. Now, I think it was my unwillingness to declare, to be defined by a sexual label, that really bothered people.
My first few relationships were hetero and thus people made assumptions. I wasn’t sure what I was, what all the mixed desire meant, and of late I’ve identified to my sexual partners as bi but the world likes to assume I’m straight (and it’s easier to take that privilege, absolutely). I absolutely fear the reactions of my close female friends if I were to identify as bi openly – I don’t want them to be uncomfortable with me because I find women attractive and therefore I might have a sexual attraction to them. Even though I don’t.
I’ve had brief lesbian relationships, but I resent the assumption that they were either an “experimental phase” or that I’m closeting my “authentic identity” of queerness. If I were to have a long-term lesbian relationship, this would all come out and so be it; I am not ashamed of it, but I honestly don’t think it’s anyone’s business but my partners’. Maybe losing my privilege would make me feel differently about it, but I hope not. I would like to think I’d accept the assumption of queerness just as easily, but perhaps that is a sort of privilege as well, something that bisexuals don’t have.
You don’t need to label my sexual identity to treat me as a human, as it’s irrelevant in 99% of my everyday interactions with the world. Fluidity may be the best way to describe it: there are many men and many women to whom I have no sexual attraction, but a self-confident, self-assured, open-minded, curious, joyful person is attractive to me no matter their gender identity.
“In itself, homosexuality is as limiting as heterosexuality: the ideal should be to be capable of loving a woman or a man; either, a human being, without feeling fear, restraint, or obligation.” ~Simone de Beauvoir
I first really recognized that I was sexually attracted to females in early high school and it didn’t actually bother me, in a sense that it profoundly disturbed my sense of self. I think I was more confused than anything, because there was no one openly queer at my high school and if there was any, if was bandied about in scandalous whispers in the hallways. I didn’t have a label for myself, aside from the fact that “I find X attractive, huh, to bad I don’t know what to do about it exactly”.
Funnily enough, by the time I got to college and really fell in love with a woman for the first time, I realized that I had a serious thing for women who had outrageous personalities–I enjoy being pulled into their loud, whirlwind lives. And I’ve remained quite static, as far as my tastes go. I finally decided in grad school that bisexual was the label I was happy to wear, and have informed my last longer-term partner (and now my fiance) about it because I feel like it is truly an unassailable aspect of myself.
The fact that I haven’t satisfactorily explored my bisexuality is the only thing that bothers me a lot. I was in a string of fail-y relationships with men for several years on and off and met what would become my fiance before I got up the nerve to date the girl who I’d been in love with due to former religious issues. So I feel pressure (from myself) because while I firmly identify as bisexual, I feel like my identity has become a little stifled in the face of marriage.
Of course, I happily embrace the straight-privilege that being in a hetero-relationship affords me because it makes my life with my family easier. I never felt pressure to identify one way or another thanks to my excellent coming-out offered by my university’s LGBT services. I feel like I don’t really fit in with the queer community where I live because I still feel a little “fake” for being in a hetero-relationship, although I’ve met one or two bisexual women who have been good acquaintances. In conclusion, satisfied with a side of alienation.
Wow. I could have written this entry. There are other people like me! This is so great, I had no idea. Thank you. I always felt like a bit of a party pooper, seeming so “resistant” to “coming out,” whenever I was seeing someone of the same sex. The label I’m most comfortable with is “bisexual,” since I learned the term in my late teens/early 20′s, and I’ve “known it” to the extent that I’ve always been this way and always been aware of my discomfort with binary ideas about sexuality because they fit so poorly what seemed to be going on in my head. I mostly try to avoid conversations with people about it.
Onset of sexual experimentation – middle school (with girls), high school/college (with boys) – but no real experience of desire until my 20s. Experimentation led to desire, that’s how I identified my wants.
I’ve definitely felt societal pressure to choose a sexual orientation or identity all my life – I was supposed to want more in high school than I did, and be less overtly experimental in college than I was. But I was experimenting! It was science! Now, thanks to the Internet, I have access to a wide variety of sexual imagery and can try stuff on in my head, so to speak, to figure out what’s desirable with less experimentation.
I often feel like I’m hiding by letting myself appear straight, and not-lesbian-enough other times. It’s frustrating, but I have a pretty strong sense that I am right and if the world has a problem with it, too bad, so I’ll get annoyed about incorrect assumptions people make about me, but not for too long.
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Seasonticket. Seasonticket said: RT @eccentricyoruba: The Pressure of Being Expected To Know: Reflections on Sexual Fluidity http://bit.ly/dKM8vk [...]
I’m so glad to learn from this discussion. One of my stepsisters, who I know better through FB than real-life, recently updated her status to “in a relationship with [Cute Girl I Don't Know].”
She’s never come out to me (not that she has to, of course), or made any political declarations, although I did wonder if she might be lesbian prior to this.
Anyway, I spent a lot of mental energy over “should I say something? What? I want to let her know I support her, and I’m not sure what her mom/my dad think or know about it, so should I ignore or comment or…?”
And reading this made me realize that I should 1) assume nothing; 2) ask nothing; and 3) just let her know that I’m happy she’s happy. So thanks for helpin’ this straight-privileged harpy be a better ally and step-sibling.
I knew I was bisexual, or pansexual, very early on – I fell in love with a boy when I was nine. Full on, totally obsessed, *pined* for him when I changed schools. Then I fell in love with a girl, at eleven, just as strong. And there were more girls, and fewer boys and men. And I was very into art as a teenager, and pawed endlessly over paintings of naked men and women, trying to tell the difference. I could, of course, see the difference, but I couldn’t see that one beauty, one attraction, was different from the other – I wrote a bit about this and my early understanding of it all here.
However, I’ve never had a sexual relationship with a woman. I’m only on my second man, and unless tragedy befalls us, this will be the last. My first partner was somewhat tittilated by my bisexuality and didn’t understand that this didn’t mean I had a pressing desire to have sex with women – any more than I had a pressing desire to have sex with different men. This lead to some really unpleasant pressure, and then the accusation that I only liked the idea of being queer – which was very upsetting given all the angst I had had about it.
I identify as queer, sometimes bisexual or pansexual, because I really do seem to lack the bit of wiring that other people have which discriminates, sexually and romantically, between men and women. Even though now I am in a very happy straight relationship and I love every facet of my man’s masculinity, and I’m not really interested in anyone else. It’s just that I imagine I’d be just as crazy about my chap if that particular soul had landed in a different kind of body.
Butchy femme here: loved climbing trees, beating the boys at foot races & ice-skating races, loved hiking and backpacking and camping, and adored the mountains, as a kid. But also loved sewing [non-traditional] clothes for my doll & loved designing & sewing/knitting/crocheting in general. Loved music & singing performance from an early age.
I was neutral toward both boys & girls as a young kid because I disliked so much of the socialization for both genders. Came from a progressive family with close lesbian and gay friends – but wasn’t aware about bisexuality back in the 1950s & 1960s when I was growing up. Ergo: no role models for what many years later was the sexuality I claimed and came out with.
Now, in my early 60s, I find that I’m tired of affectional relationships; frankly, dealing with men over the years has worn me out. The few relationships I had with women were draining as well, although the individuals involved there were more emotionally supportive of me than the males were in general. I think one inspiration for older women my age in reaching out to same-sex or other-gendered people for relationships is accumulated rage and hurt from having dealt with the insanities of a lot of what goes on in same-sex relationships imbued with stubborn societal imperatives draining at best and fatal at worst. Women who are honest with themselves at my age often need to and choose to own their anger and deal with it accordingly – by swearing off relationships with men. But that is NOT the only reason to choose another gender relationship and I would be the last person to categorize later-life affectional-life changes simply as reactive to prior negative experiences with same-sex partners. But that factor must be acknowledged.
I’m glad others have [finally?] had better luck in relationships than I have had. For the time being I’m glad to be “retired” from affectional/sexual relationships – and not having to deal with other people’s affectional/sexual/relationship needs close at hand.
Mainly I choose to use my energies to give support and affirmation to LGBTQ youth so that they have a chance to have a better affectional life than I have had.
It is a joy to see the mentoring and supportive endeavors going on such as The Trevor Project, and our local MN organization District 202. I also love seeing *good* celebrities who are out-LGBTQ people such as Tim Gunn and Ellen Degeneres, who are making such a difference – and putting their money and time and heart where all are needed.
Good article – thanks.
OOPS – major typo!!
Meant to type: “I would be the last person to categorize later-life affectional-life changes simply as reactive to prior negative experiences with opposite-sex partners.
The cultural context is different for men than for women. In a private friend circle, I’ve seen women ask other women if they’d like to engage in sexual play with them, but I’ve never seen a man ask another man that same question. It’s not even that all the women are magically bisexual and all the men are straight (half are gay, in fact). It’s the idea that sexual exploration is simply what women do. I for one wish we could stop acting like the gender difference is just a coincidence and start analyzing the hetero-androcentric implications.
Finally getting back online after snowstorm-induced power outages in my neighborhood all day. It’s lovely to read all of your personal stories and I’m glad that my post resonated with some of you!
You are not alone! This is just like me. I’ve been calling myself bisexual or queer, but I like the idea of relational or fluid better.
I fall in love – or lust – with a person, not their gender.
PhDork: I am smiling today for your sister, that she has one less awkward conversation ahead.
I am smiling today for you, and your willingness to listen, learn, and apply that learning to your life (and those you love).
And I’m smiling today for annajcook, who has her power back and has brought a few of us together to share a common experience that otherwise may never have felt common.
This is one of my all-time favorite Harpyness posts, and I’m glad to be among those for whom it resonates so strongly. You’ve articulated thoughts and feelings I’ve tried to sort out for years ~ I usually settle for a queer self-identification with little elaboration, as if to foreclose against trying to justify or dissect my sexuality beyond “I’m more attracted to persons than to genders” (which is nevertheless true). And, as MontglaneChess described above, I feel a certain disingenuousness about continuing to call myself queer now that I’m married to a man, and do sometimes regret how few sexual encounters I’ve had with women. But hetero marriage and inexperience do *not* negate what continues to be a very fluid expression of desire.
To insist upon, or even admit to, a less-than-fixed sexuality is very destabilizing for some other people’s constructs of desire, but I’m not sure why. It seems too simplistic to assume that discomfort necessarily their reflects repression or hostility. I think it speaks to a larger need to cast concepts in binary terms, to compose a figurative fence around the messiness of actual experience. In any event, I’m really glad to be in the company of people who invest such considered and nuanced thought in matters of sexuality.
Sorry, that should be: “…that their discomfort necessarily reflects repression or hostility.” Underslept writing fail. Hope the rest is coherent…
ritualtheory wrote: “I think it speaks to a larger need to cast concepts in binary terms, to compose a figurative fence around the messiness of actual experience.”
I think you’ve articulated a key, here, ritualtheory, to why folks are so reluctant to accept fluid sexuality as valid in and of itself, rather than as a journey toward some sort of fixed, innate, “final” identity or form of sexual expression.
I also think that for folks who are arguing for queer legitimacy, grounding their argument in the idea of innate, fixed, homosexuality sometimes seems like a really strong position to take. From my perspective, I think 1) it’s wrong to see “fluidity” as any less “innate” than any other form of sexual expression (just because it evolves over time does not preclude genetic/biological components) and 2) because it ultimately puts queer advocates in a very weak position vis a vis those who wish to alter folks’ sexual orientation to be heteronormative.
I wrote more extensively about this last year over at my personal blog.
@annajcook – it was in a gender studies class I took that I discovered fluidities. I have found the concept helpful, especially when I was dealing with a couple of deeply personal issues (Donna Haraway and her Cyborg manifesto in particular was revelatory for me, and I shared it with my mum).
I was also lucky to have been grown up by a mother who seemed to be more interested in growing up her children to be happy, healthy, and loved than being bogged down by gender dualism and sexual binary.
For example one sister continually dressed in a brother’s clothes. If she was in a dress she would get redressed in shirts and pants. Not once did my mum make her feel like she was doing something wrong, and us kids followed my mum’s lead and example.
When another sibling brought home a same sexed person to meet the family – once again there was no issue, from mum or the rest of us kids.
When we were younger, mum spent time with us letting us know that whoever we were in an intimate relationship with, so long as we were happy, there was no issue; love is the issue not the gender of that person.
Besides, when it comes down to it, I want to see my brother and sisters happy, healthy and well-loved, regardless of who they are with and what gender presentation they have.
[...] jhameia we have The Pursuit of Harpyness ruminating on: The Pressure of being expected to know: Reflections on sexual fluidity The thing is – as a culture, we’re suspicious of people whose sexual attractions and identities [...]
THIS! So much this!
I typically identify as fluid or pansexual, but I used to joke to people who asked that I’m “friendsexual,” simply because while I’m perfectly capable of finding someone’s looks aesthetically pleasing, and recognizing specific looks as being attractive to others, I have a really hard time wanting to jump in the sack with someone unless I’ve been friends with them a good long time.
I’m so glad I’m not alone!!
[...] in our cultural concepts of sexual identity and how it relates to behavior. And, as I wrote in a post last week, I’m particularly interested in the concept of sexual fluidity and the personal experience of [...]
Hmmm…this article is very interesting and resonates with my experience. However, I do have a question to pose to the readers of this article and those posting comments. I believe that we often identify with labels (both liberating and constricting) for what it means politically. In other words, the benefit of naming ourselves and our experiences as queer, relational, lesbian, etc. is too be recognized as a group in a larger discourse that has political ramifications. My only worry with “fluidity” is that (aside from the personal benefits) it is does not make a visible political statement that can lead to (and has led to) increased rights for those in same sex relationships, women in general, and trans communities…especially when considering issues like poverty. Is this discussion just theoretical (even if it is the experience of many)? What is the function of such labeling in actually bringing about tangible justice in the world- economic justice which links to all forms of discrimination especially those gender/sexuality based. The history of movements for racial justice and LGBT rights has informed our perceptions of ourselves and our greater purpose in the larger community beyond just what we choose or don’t choose to label ourselves. Isn’t this important context to consider when deciding how we make something private, publicly just?
just some thoughts. not sure how clear i was.
@jane,
As the author of the OP I wanted to affirm what you’ve said about the importance of language and naming things for political purposes (i.e. visibility, activism, articulating the needs of minority groups). I want to clarify that even though my personal sexual journey was contextual, I do not use “fluidity” as a way to escape the politics of queerness. I’m out as a woman who is partnered with a same-sex lover, and I use “lesbian” and “bisexual” and “queer” as identity labels for myself.
It isn’t that I object to the fact that the labels exist, or that they are useful politically, or that they feel comfortable for some folks. Hell, they even feel comfortable to ME. What I object to is the fixity of those labels. The idea that you must settle on one label in our culture that somehow defines your “true” sexual orientation. And that, once discovered, that orientation is constant throughout your life. Emerging research into human sexuality shows a remarkable variety of behaviors and self-conceptions over the life-span. What I dislike is the cultural narrative that posits that human beings are each born with a sexual orientation that is (upon puberty) somehow knowable to that person. Knowable and fixed forever. Because real peoples’ experience seems to belie that narrative.
I’m late getting to this post, but if anyone’s still reading comments, I have a question for the group. My experience lines up with Annajcook’s (and the many in comments who’ve agreed) pretty well in terms of discovering a sexuality that’s person-centered and seems independent of gender. For me, it’s difficult to imagine being any other way, and I’m curious what it’s like to be straight or gay. Anyone out there willing to share their experiences? For instance, it’s hard for me to imagine knowing solely on the basis of someone’s gender before I even meet the person that I definitely would never be attracted to them or want a relationship with them. I’m not making the argument “everyone’s a little bit bisexual”- I believe people when they identify themselves as straight or gay, I’m just curious to understand what it’s like.
p.s. to the moderators- if this is too far off topic, feel free to delete.
[...] Jess left an intriguing question on the comment thread of my sexual fluidity post last week. Since the thread is several weeks old [...]
[...] written on my own blog and previously here at Harpyness about some of the limitations of these narratives from my own personal perspective. This report [...]
Your case sounds like demisexuality – just mentioning the term here.
I’m not demi, because I can be sexually attracted to people I don’t know that well, or at all, but who I’m attracted to seems almost arbitrary. I usually call myself bisexual or bi/pan, but the only description that I’m wholly comfortable with is that my orientation is non-gender-specific. I may be pansexual, I don’t know! I’ve never crushed on a non-binary person, as far as I know, so how can I tell? But I doubt it would make a difference to my spinning bottle type orientation.
I’ve always had crushes on boys and girls since kindergarten. I accepted my attraction to girls was sexual around the age of 14, and it was rather liberating. It was the end of any confusion I might have felt. Just admitting it was real and valid meant a lot, and I think it’s the reason why I don’t try to censor my attractions. I accept them when they show up, and don’t try to force them in expected directions either.
It’s not just gender. I don’t seem to have a type, either. Women, men, butches, femmes, long, tall, short, fat, thin, early 20s, late 50s, symmetrical faces, non-symmetrical faces, resonant voices, soft voices, dark, fair, music nerds, potheads, gaming geeks, goths, hippies, Republicans, anarchists, queens of frump, I could go on. I’m not attracted to everybody – in fact, it’s a tiny teeny percentage of people. Who they happen to be is just something I can’t predict at all. Not even my stated turn-offs are absolute.
It doesn’t confuse me, because I already know and accept that this is how it works for me, and I know when I’m attracted to someone, when I’m not, and when I wouldn’t mind hanky-panky despite there being little or no preliminary attraction. It’s clear as day, same as the difference between a crush and a not-crush (which are independent of attraction). I guess I should be grateful that this is so easily distinguishable for me, because I wouldn’t want to have to work it out with diagrams and descriptions!
I am rather happy that I ended up with a woman, though, because I’m much more comfortable being identified as queer than I would be being assumed straight. Being straight comes with a lot of heteronormative assumptions that frankly appall me, and that might cast a shadow on any straight relationship, at least unless my beau was also queer and out. I did have a serious boyfriend once. I loved him to bits (still do, differently and more awkwardly) and even he had to endure some of my iffiness about the idea of being a “girlfriend”. It seems too much like being fitted into a cookie cutter mold with all the expectations of couplehood and grandchildren and normalcy attached to it. Nobody’s asked me about grandchildren since I’ve been with my girl, despite the fact that we’re vaguely planning on having a sprog someday.
I guess it’s odd that I’m also monogamous, but there you have it. That, too, makes sense to me, and seems removed from the world of attractions.
[...] constructed don’t seem to fit our personal experience or allow people to suggest that we should know our desires and stick with them consistently. I realize there are important realities about structural power [...]
This article and the subsequent comments really speak to my experience as a “questioning” individual, particularly the last comment made by Kivitasku. I too am attracted to all kinds of different people and there seems to be no real rhyme or rhythm to it, but I feel uncomfortable identifying with pan-sexuality or person-based sexuality because I have and continue to be attracted to a range of people without knowing anything about them. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m not straight, and I too feel more comfortable embracing a queer identity than a heteronormative one. Still, the constraints placed on labels such as “lesbian” and “bisexual” do not seem to wholly apply to my sexuality, and I’ve come out to different people as different things because I don’t feel comfortable attaching any label to myself. Still, I feel unsatisfied without a word or phrase to describe my sexuality in relation to that of others. Perhaps this is a tendency towards simplification and categorization that society and imprinted in me, but it makes me feel very insecure and often I avoid the topic of my sexuality altogether so as not to engage these conflicting feelings. I continue to remain uncomfortable with my sexuality, and I’ve tried every label to describe myself without success. Perhaps I need to stop striving for such a defined perspective of sexuality, but it’s so damn hard not to.