When I came out as bisexual, aged 14, it was a total non-event. From my lesbian mothers, I received a vague “that’s nice, dear”, and from my school friends – girls raised in predominantly non-traditional families in Sydney’s leftie inner west – a resounding chorus of, “oh, me too”.
For many LGBTQI+ people, coming out is a time of trauma or celebration, but having been raised within the community, my sexuality was neither a revelation nor a shock.
For the next eight years, I used the “bisexual” label proudly. It was a gentle rebellion, a way to mark my sexuality as something different from my mothers’, and – as a young woman who didn’t think she’d be desired – a way to keep the playing field as wide as possible.
Sure, my crushes on girls saw me making mixtapes and writing terrible teenage poetry. And the first time a boy asked me on a date, I cancelled to catch the train home with a girl I was utterly obsessed with. But bisexuality doesn’t have to be equal desire for all genders, so I didn’t think too deeply about it.
At university, any forays into relationships, or even hook-ups, with men were waylaid by my first love. Amy was a cute, nerdy lesbian about campus; our on-again, off-again relationship was tumultuous and tormented; a decade later I would be the maid of honour at her wedding. So far, so lesbian.
Our relationship officially ended when I was 20. A couple of equally gay flings later, at 22 years old, I decided it was time to take my bisexuality for a spin.
The opportunity arose at a deeply mid-00s Sydney locale – Purple Sneakers, an indie-music night at the Abercrombie hotel. I pranced around the joint, Bacardi Breezer in each paw, then set my sights on a target.
Sure, I could have tried to sleep with one of the sweet queer boys I pashed for fun at parties, but instead I decided to have a meaningless one-night stand with the straightest man I could find.
His name was Ben or Steve, I truly cannot recall, and he was a commerce student, dressed like he could be heading to work at an accounting firm, not dancing badly in a sticky-floored pub.
As we left the venue, I thought I’d better warn him. I grabbed his arm and slurred: “So! I haven’t done this before, but don’t you dare get excited. I’m not a virgin, I’m just bisexual and I’ve only ever slept with women.” If he’d ever had any lesbian-adjacent fantasies, I doubt they played out like that.
Undeterred, he climbed into the taxi and we went to my house, where I was living with one of my mothers, Louise (months earlier, my parents had announced they were separating after 28 years together).
In bed, we tipsily stumbled through the motions. Clarity is rare after one has been consuming alcopops, but at some point between taking off our clothes and explaining to him that no, I wouldn’t go again if he didn’t have another condom, I knew I was a lesbian.
It wasn’t his body, his bits, or the sort of sex we were having. It was something about his … man-ness. I just knew in that moment that I had never loved a man, would never love a man, and probably wouldn’t ever again want to sleep with one.
The next morning I lurched out of my bedroom and found Louise making fresh orange juice in the kitchen. “There’s a man in my bed!” I blurted out. “And I need you to be the best mother you’ve ever been and drive him to the train station, then never mention it again.”
Not known usually for her tact, she pulled through that day, politely making small talk with Ben-Steve, and afterwards not batting an eyelid when I started changing the way I spoke about my identity.
Using labels to define our affections and desires is both vital and futile. They allow us to better understand ourselves and each other, but will always be limited because these feelings are so damn complex.
Since that fateful night I’ve loved and slept with wonderful women, and a few non-binary babes. To account for my politics, community and the possibilities it implies, I mostly use the term “queer” to describe myself. But I’ve never again tried to court a straight man. And I suppose I should thank Ben (or Steve) for finally giving me an eventful coming-out.
Maeve Marsden is a writer and theatre-maker. Her play Blessed Union is showing at Sydney’s Belvoir St theatre until 11 March, in association with WorldPride. Marsden will host her celebrated storytelling event Queerstories at Sydney’s Riverside theatre on 4 March.
