Just a year ago, I went on my first date with a woman. As we sat on a patio drinking tropical cocktails, our conversation about theater, art, and social justice quickly soothed my nerves. I felt beautiful and fascinating under her focused gaze, her hand gently brushing my thigh under the table. For a moment, I began to concentrate more on our connection, and less on what this date might mean about my identity, or how I was or wasn’t conforming to expectations. However, it quickly veered when my date felt the need to ask, “So, have you ever been with a woman before?”

The short answer was no. The longer answer involved my most intense high school crush on my one of my friends, a girl, a three-year relationship with a long-distance boyfriend that had defined my dating life, and what many viewed as a straight-passing aesthetic. Yet my date’s snap judgment, evident in her raised, expectant eyebrows and the caution that had crept into her voice, confirmed a pattern that had followed me since I first learned what the rainbow flag represented.

Not Being Seen as Bisexual

In college, I’d been vice president of the LGBTQIA organization on campus. But before I could even introduce myself at meetings, other members would proclaim I was “the best ally ever.” Similarly, when I discussed intersectionality with other students in my feminist theory class, they rattled off that I was a “white, cisgender, straight woman.” When I volunteered at my city’s pride festival, I stared at the bisexual buttons spread out on the table, but questioned if I even deserved to pin one to my shirt — in other words, if I counted as a bisexual woman.

When I arrived home from my date, I felt a familiar exhaustion spread through me: the realization of how hard I had to work to convince others of my orientation’s legitimacy, even within my own community.  I slumped into the couch and sighed. My roommate greeted the sound, and my tear-smudged eye makeup, with a casual, “So, what was wrong with the guy?”

According to a 2019 survey from Pew Research Center, bisexuals are far less likely to be open about their identity than their lesbian and gay peers, by as much as an estimated 56 percent. More than 80 percent of surveyed bisexuals reported they were in a relationship or marriage with someone of the opposite gender. As a woman who has not disclosed my bisexuality to my parents, other relatives, coworkers, or most of my close friends, mostly due to the double standard that no one has ever had to “come out” as straight, I fall in line with these statistics.

Fictional Characters as a Stand-In

My erotica writing alter ego, however,  defies heteronormative perceptions and categorization. When I first started writing for Bellesa, a feminist erotica and porn collective, I surprised myself with the story that first came to mind and flew from my fingertips.

The story, titled “A Second First Time,” narrated the rekindling of a romance between Ava, a podcast host vocal about her lesbian identity, and Viv, an up-and-coming actress who has only publicly dated men. On one hand, they were totally different from me. I love to sink into the wish fulfillment aspect of writing, crafting characters far more glamorous and accomplished than I feel.

But despite Viv’s magazine appearances and high-profile acting credits, she unintentionally served as a stand-in for myself. The story begins with Viv’s acknowledgment that her model boyfriend is out of town, as well as her publicist’s dismay that Viv didn’t travel with him and secure “natural,” swoon-worthy photo ops. My friends, family, and coworkers occupy a similar role in my life with their assumptions, as well as their obsessions and constant questions about my previous heterosexual relationships. Meanwhile, like Viv, I reinforce straight-passing ideas about myself, either intentionally or unintentionally — with photos of my boyfriend and I on social media, with the language I use in everyday life, and in all the moments where I don’t challenge others.

Viv recognizes that there might still be something worth exploring with Ava when the two masturbate together over Skype. At first, I wondered why I felt drawn to this scene, rather than beginning in-person and in-the-moment. I soon saw that the act contrasts private and public spheres, separating Viv’s most inner desires from the ones she outwardly claims. It also conveys not only the distance between the two characters, but the distance between Viv and her authentic self.

“Bi Babe Brilliance”

Like Viv, I’m also navigating this unforeseen distance, one I’ve steadily compounded over time. Writing erotica brings me one step closer. When my editor called my story a piece of “bi babe brilliance” and when a reader retweeted my story with the caption, “Happy pride!,” I felt fully, unexpectedly seen.

My first story ended with Viv expressing uncertainty and fear toward coming out to a larger world. When she asks Ava, “What do I say?” Ava’s response is simple. “The truth.” Erotica possesses enough variety, nuance, and experimentation to hold my whole truth, not just part of it. When it came time to write a second story for Bellesa, I wrote about a burgeoning heterosexual relationship, employing the side of myself that adores the imagery associated with penises and the breathless, forbidden thrill of sneaking into a college boy’s bedroom.

I’d tell the woman from that first date that neither story cancels out the other. My work — and my identity — belong in the boy-girl and girl-girl sections with equal validity. In fact, I might finally be ready to say that from behind my real Twitter avatar.