Sexploitations: (Still) Can’t Bi Me Love

Part Two of a sample of weird and infuriating and wonderful things I have encountered as a bisexual woman.

This is the second part of this story. See Part I here.

I try online dating. I check the box that says “bisexual.” Over the next several months, I receive two to three threesome propositions every week — sometimes from couples, sometimes from single men — and almost no actual dates.

I express my frustration with these propositions to a friend over Gchat.

She asks me if I would like to have a threesome with her and a married man she is having an affair with.

A lesbian friend introduces me to a gay man at a bar.

“This is Anna,” she says. “She’s bi.”

I don’t know why she introduces me this way, but she does. The man looks not at me but at my friend and says, “Ugh, bisexuals. They can never make up their minds.”

I laugh awkwardly and say nothing, but spend the next several years crafting a comeback to this man’s words as I try to fall asleep at night.

“I don’t have a problem making up my mind,” I say to the ceiling. “You’re an asshole.”

I eventually meet another bisexual girl on OkCupid. We become girlfriends. A man writes to my girlfriend on OkCupid around the time we become an item. She tells him about me and says she isn’t available to date.

He sends her this message back: “I’d love to be in an LTR with 2 beautiful bi-women, who wanted a guy around to spoil and be spoiled by, and to help have and raise kids. However, all my bi-women friends have chosen male partner/kids OR career/female partner paradigms.”

I think, “There’s also option three: the not-wanting-to-be-with-you paradigm.”

His message continues: “No one I’ve met wants to try a triad; at least not anyone who I feel could handle that responsibility. And perhaps my triad dream is not sane; so, for the most part, I’m now prioritizing women who want to someday have kids. Anyway, any love or referrals from you or your partner are appreciated.”

We’re not accepting applications at this time. However, we’ll keep your resume on file for the next time our hot bisexual female friends request to procreate with strangers on the internet.

“Meanwhile, lonely or not, I have work to do.”

Oh, so sorry to have interrupted you!

The message concludes: “If you’re interested in giving it a try for 4 hours, I have some data entry and filing that I could pay you $10/hr to do on a Saturday. After that, if you’re still interested, and I’m still interested, I would increase hourly pay to $11 or $12/hour. Boring stuff, but it needs to get done. I can provide references from other women who have worked for me (and might again — depending on scheduling, it’s possible you’ll meet). Let me know if you want to give it a try by regular email.”

My girlfriend and I glance at each other, baffled. Is this a proposition or a part-time data-entry job?

Bereft, broken, and recently dumped by my fiancee, I attend a co-ed play party at Kinky Salon in the Mission. In a plot twist even I couldn’t have predicted, I go with my friend Kara’s ex-boyfriend, Seth, who has become my friend and occasional lover. We often joke about the night we met.

Toward the end of the party, I see two beautiful blonde people with tattoos and accents that sound faintly Russian standing in a narrow doorway. I try to walk past the male half of the couple. He doesn’t move. I look at the woman behind him. She doesn’t move, either.

“Are you blocking my way on purpose?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says and shoves me playfully onto a nearby bed.

The woman rides my face so hard I briefly wonder if I will suffocate. I imagine my tombstone: “She died the way she lived.”

After we fuck, they are so sweet to me it almost breaks my heart. The man holds me. The woman strokes my hair and asks me if I come here often.

“I do now,” I say.

Her laughter is as bright as a struck match. My life is a river of grief with no shore, but in this moment I am happy. I feel cared for in a way I never knew was possible.

I hold the memory of these strangers in my palm like a planet that is small and warm and impossibly turning and creating me endlessly from the marrow of dreams.

Some days, I wish I could thank them, but I never did learn their names.

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