The Queer Flow

the queer flow

written by izzie claudio

photographed by emma bowen

In middle school, I started filling a journal with ideas of my future girlfriend. Giddy with the thought of my first queer love, I scribbled down every scenario I could think of. Some of them came true. Some of them didn’t. Two queer relationships and a college-hookup-bonanza later, I’m dating a man. After six years of declared lesbianism, this revelation of bisexuality felt like a step back. I’m still queer, right? Yes, I know I am. Yet, being in a straight-presenting relationship makes me feel like I don’t belong in queer spaces anymore. Even saying “straight-presenting relationship” makes my skin itch. I know I’m not a fake, but why do I feel like I need to prove my bisexuality to feel validated in my queerness? 

Bisexuality is a spectrum. Still, many harmful stereotypes ignore bisexuality as a long-standing queer identity. Two glaring ones come to mind. First, the notion that bisexuality in men is just a stepping stone to complete homosexuality. Second, that many bisexual women are using the label to seem cool to attract men. It all circles back to centering men—but that’s an issue for another day. 

Since reevaluating my sexuality in college, I haven’t been to any Pride events. It’s not for lack of want, I simply don’t feel the same pride I harbored in middle and high school. I miss it. Nothing beats the fearlessness of showing up to summer camp at age twelve with rainbow swim trunks and a giant rainbow towel to match; the joy of wearing my giant rainbow flag as a cape to my first Pride parade. I was bold. I was proud. I felt it dissipate once I started to tell people: “I have a boyfriend.” Words I didn’t think I would ever utter. 

Queer spaces, specifically WLW spaces, often aim to decenter men. After seeking out these spaces for most of my life, bisexuality felt like a slap in the face. In the spaces I felt most comfortable, I was used to dismissing straight men, so discovering my attraction to them was mortifying! I felt like an impostor for introducing them into my love life. I treated my attraction to men as an act of treason. It felt necessary to beef up my still remaining love for women. However, as months passed and I settled into my new relationship, my romantic and sexual experiences with women drifted further into memory. I lost the heart and energy to keep proving myself in WLW spaces. It felt like my membership card had lost its validity. The feeling had a lingering resemblance to when my ex-girlfriend and I broke up, and I experienced a stint of internalized homophobia. 

I rejected all things queer. I sank into an abyss of self-hatred fueled by deep hurt and regret. I could only focus on the negatives: the arguments, the expectations not met, the accusations. Mistakes made became intertwined with my queerness. I believed the reason it fell apart wasn’t because of poor communication, distance, or fundamental differences; I convinced myself—for a time—that I simply didn’t thrive in queer relationships. I couldn’t do it anymore. I denied my being and pushed away my queer truth. 

 I laughed at the beautiful specificities of my past lesbian relationships: the emotional understanding that is immediately established, the thoughtfulness in each letter and drawing, the intimate and gentle knowledge of each other’s bodies. I ridiculed myself for relishing in such niceties. I looked back at my younger self, jotting down her ideal queer love with an open heart, and belittled her. My insecurity in my queerness was a harsh sting brought on by my own hand.

Eventually, I remembered the queer beauty that I had rejected for months. It shifted into a longing. I missed when my ex-girlfriend would pass me doodles in class. I saw a curly-haired figure scribbled on a piece of notebook paper, hearts surrounded my head both literally and figuratively in those moments. I missed their delicate hands lingering on my waist while making coffee on a slow Sunday. I missed having a consistent space devoid of men. This longing broke the spiral of self-oppression. But, now, I am dating a man. And I’m spiraling in uncertainty. In my queerness, I stood naked before myself, grasping for some fabric to cover my glaring fear—grasping for the pride I once savored. I felt like I didn’t deserve to take up space in the queer community anymore. I hesitated to rejoice in my love for women for fear of receiving confused looks.

Bisexuality is not clearly visible, especially when it’s hidden by a straight-presenting relationship. It can also be hidden by a queer relationship. From the outside, one is interpreted as either straight or gay, and this quick judgment leaves me in a state of unrest. Society perceives me as straight because I’m dating a man, but I have a fire of queerness inside of me, begging to be released. 

Emerson student, Riley Miles, puts it plainly: “No matter how much we say it’s not, [our world] is very binary.” The binary that rules society permeates into our most private spaces. It permeates my brain, leading me to constantly second-guess my bisexuality. Do I really like women? Do I really like men? I miss lying next to a body that mirrors mine. And I like the different body that lies next to me now. Having lived in both relationship experiences, I find myself missing aspects of the queer relationship, but preferring other aspects of the straight-presenting relationship I am currently in. There’s a certain understanding in queer relationships that is difficult to explain. An understanding of what we experience as feminine-presenting in this world: the joys, the hardships. When dating a man, that lack of understanding is hard, but I’ve found intrigue in the differences. I’m learning about the contrasting textures of intimacy that exist; the unique colors and shapes that form. Through experience, I’m breaking down my harmful generalizations. Dating a woman isn’t better than dating a man, or vice versa. Each experience simply takes a different form. 

My bisexuality puts me in a state of constant motion: a never-ending current. I ebb and flow every single day, and that’s just the reality of bisexuality. I am but a dot, moving across the spectrum as I live my life.