Nobody told me it was wrong – #PrideMonth #Bisexual #Poetry

Image by Arthur Halucha from Pixabay

When did I consciously realize that I was bisexual? That I was attracted to women as well as to men? It wasn’t that early, though looking back, I can see I’ve have crushes on women since high school at least. Still, I was mostly consumed with desire for guys rather than gals (and consumed is an appropriate term – it seems I spent my twenties in a state of perpetual lust). The appeal some women had for me was more of a background ache than an urgent need.

My first actual lesbian experience didn’t happen until I was in graduate school, when one of my closest female friends stayed over at my apartment. It was awkward – it was exciting – it was fun. Somehow, though, it was not a huge deal. Loving C. felt as natural as getting it on with one of my male partners.

Lesbian erotica often hinges on the hesitancy of one of the characters, the sense that she’s about take an irrevocable step over some critical line between normal and not. The taboo aspect is front and center. It seems strange, but I’ve never had that sense. Bisexuality just seems to be part of who I am.

Nobody ever told me it was wrong to love a woman or to crave a woman’s flesh. As I grew up, no one ever suggested that attraction to members of your own sex was abnormal or unacceptable. I don’t think that I had many, or even any, examples of same-sex relationships in my early life. Or if I did, nobody bothered to mention it. With my head in a book as it usually was, I might have been oblivious. Still I’m certain no one tried to instill in me any sort of prejudice, fear or hostility with regard LGBTQ people. It was simply a non-issue.

The end result, though, is that I’m totally comfortable identifying as bisexual. There’s no angst, no guilt. I don’t go around broadcasting this, of course. I don’t talk about sex, in general, nearly as much as I think about it!

I’m deeply grateful for this lack of conflict. It leaves me free to savor the appeal of the entire human race, rather than just half of it.

I thought I’d close this post with a poem I wrote to a woman to whom I was powerfully attracted. This was before my encounter with C. Kathy and I were casual friends. Nothing ever came of the connection I felt for her. However, I think – I hope – you can sense the intensity of my desire from piece.

There’s some nervousness here, some hesitancy – but no shame.

November 1977

To Kathy

Shoeless priestess,
bittersweet sister,
carpenter-queen 
		of the rainy-day people—
What does this mean?
		This smile,
		this blush,
		this breathless hush
		in the space between
		our separate selves?

You draw me.
You scare me.
		What can I say?
		These awkward words cling
		to my fingers
		like clay.

Sapphire-silent,
		you sparkle for me;
cobweb silk;
		electricity.

One morning we met
		on a Monday bridge,
you sporting your bowler
		and me in my green
		(green is for freedom).
I sang all day.

Candlelight curves
		and spring-wound tension—
your honesty
		lures
		and alarms.

You drench me (so thirsty)
in feeling
that’s dizzying,
gather me
		shivering,
		shining,
		transparent,
into your sphere,
invite me to share
		in the sense and enchantment.

How do you know
the other me
so thoroughly?
		I struggle to keep
		you from hardening into
		a myth or a symbol;
		maybe I dreamed you.

Daughter, teacher,
hardly I dare
to look in your eyes.
Your body is there,
behind my eyelids;
		I scare
		easily.

This is too much
like being in love
for comfort.