Hello Friends. First of all I would like you to imagine me on a children’s rocking horse, which happens to be located at the top of a ten-foot slide. The bottom of that slide is three feet from wherever you are reading this post. Imagine hearing a fun circus-type whistle and BOOM – I’m flying right at you; this is how I would like to enter your world if you will allow me to do so. The reality is that I’ll be writing this column from my apartment in Echo Park, Los Angeles, where ‘La Cucaracha’ is currently playing via car horn for the sixth time today.
Okay, so blah blah blah, my best friend’s boobs. Four short years ago I was a straight. Today, I am a bisexual lesbian. Girl, we need to talk. So much has happened. Where have you been? Why didn’t I realize sooner in life? I’m in my thirties. What took so long? Seriously.
Let’s get back to my best friend’s boobs.
It all happened so quickly. One day I was sitting on the couch with my best friend and the thought of kissing her or any other woman had never occurred to me until that moment. So I asked her if I could. She said no. She didn’t feel that way about me. She felt emotionally connected to me, but not physically. Fine. But that didn’t stop me from exploring those feelings. She and I hooked up a tiny bit and did agree that we were dating emotionally, just not physically. Truthfully, I just don’t know how she could resist me – I am quite adorable.
The good thing about all this is that it’s led me to love. What could be so wrong with that? I’m happy to say though that back then I wasn’t scared of the impulse, it was nice to like something new. (Boobs.) I didn’t judge the feeling, either. I just thought, maybe I should look into this. (Boobs.) I did and here I am: a bisexual lesbian. Ain’t no thang, baby. (I’ll stop with the boobs.)
I need to amend my ‘La Cucaracha’ comment: make that eight times today. I was just lucky enough to get a double dose. Thank you, Echo Park.
I’m excited to write this column because I think there are some people who are confused sexually and politically. But don’t worry, I’m not here to preach, sheeps. But I might be here to brag. I guess I’m proud that I’ve made sweet beautiful love to both sexes and can firmly say that I truly satisfy both. Not many people can say that. I can, baby. Jazz hands.
I’m not saying that I’ve slept with a lot of people. Calm down and go soak your tampons in some more alcohol. Drinking through your mouth is ten minutes ago. ALL I AM TRYING TO SAY IS THAT I’VE HAD A LOT OF SEX IN MY LIFE with a limited number of partners belonging to BOTH sexes. And I’m saying this because I think I deserve at least a plaque or something?
In case you’re keeping score, I can count the amount of people I’ve slept with on two hands. Which is no small feat in this post-Jersey Shore, call a taxi and run era. (I actually just stopped writing this to count the amount of people I’ve been with to make sure my testimony is accurate. The numbers are in: Look Mom, TWO HANDS!!)
I guess I feel the need to share all this because I feel like making endless love to both sexes successfully makes me a bad ass. Maybe that makes me a dork. Maybe the only place I want to be right now is at the top of a mountain wearing nothing but underwear and a leather jacket screaming, “I’m a bisexual lesbian, baby. AIN’T ANY THANG.”
I do feel like I should have figured this out at some point during my adolescence, though: I wanted to be Joe Elliot, the lead singer for Def Leppard, for God’s sake. Why didn’t that clue me in? (To be fair, I also wanted to be Bo Derek, Wembley from Fraggle Rock and Madonna – so I get the confusion.) It just didn’t occur to me, not during my four years of college on a softball scholarship, not during my time in Europe playing semi-professional soccer for Manchester United, not even when I marveled at my impressive tube sock collection did it occur to me. Maybe it just shouldn’t matter when, maybe it’s just about the who and the what. Right now I feel like I’m finally me and if it takes dating both sexes for years to figure it out then so be it. The B word isn’t such a bad thing.