What My First Girlfriend Taught Me About Being Bisexual

And my straight privilege in a gay relationship

Her name was Shae*, and I was smitten.

I’ve since gotten together with other women, but my relationships were primarily with men. I met her when we were both drunk in a bar. I got drunk a lot back then, deep into my alcoholism. I wasn’t sure I’d remember enough to write this story.

We met around 1999. I was “out” as bisexual for a few years when we found each other. I’m straight-passing, so no one would know if I didn’t announce it. She was stereotypically gay in appearance compared to me, with her baseball cap and a flannel shirt around her waist. She was adorable.

We flirted that night, and one thing led to another. I imagine we made out amongst the pitchers of beer on the sticky table, holding hands with me sitting on her lap. Bar culture is like that, and so was Santa Barbara, CA, during the time. “Girl-on-girl” was kind of a fad then. And we probably already had half a dozen drinks, so we dared to display our affection with little regard to possible consequences.

I reflect on our boldness because of her vulnerable position, not mine.

No one questioned my sexuality. I carried straight privilege around with my symbolic rainbow necklace. Do you know those chains with the little rainbow rings? It must’ve been what tipped her off to my interest in the first place. It was the rainbow chain I undoubtedly bought at Pride the year before.

Shae was plastered that night, and every night. She had booze during the day, too, which I tried to avoid. As alcoholics, neither of us could stop. But she was worse off than I was, suffering from depressive episodes and suicidal ideation. She was prone to nonsensical arguments, confused and frustrated over something of no importance to anyone else.

Frankly, I’m surprised she’s still alive. Through my own drunken haze, I noticed her struggling. But we continued to see each other for maybe a couple of months.

During our time together, she taught me what it was like for her to be gay.

She showed me her insecurities about my bisexuality. Her ex-girlfriend was bi and left her for a man. She was frequently worried I’d do the same. She suffered from low self-esteem. Now I know it’s a stereotype for bisexual women. She assumed all bi women were with a gay woman until they could get back with men. She seemed to think being with her was a novelty for me.

But I liked her. I wanted us to be together forever. I reassured her I didn’t plan on leaving her for a man. She was the one for me. Because of her mental health issues and alcohol dependence, I could never convince her. But I wasn’t well, either. So I took her stance to mean every lesbian felt this way.

I changed my style to be more like hers.

She asked why I didn’t wear dresses, the flowery, feminine ones she saw hanging in my closet. I distinctly recall wanting to look like her because she was cute. Maybe I was exploring my identity. She was indirectly telling me she liked me dressing femme. But I was clueless.

I was likely trying pretty hard to look and act gay. I wanted a definitive identity, one that said she’s my girlfriend. Again, my straight privilege kept me naïvely believing everyone would accept us.

It never occurred to me that gay men in my family might’ve run into trouble for showing public affection, even though they couldn’t get legally married until 2008. I’ve never been discriminated against for my sexuality.

Because Shae and I were perpetually drunk together, we didn’t last long. She broke up with me in the bar one night, after I gave her a handwritten letter pouring my feelings out to her. I was still very much infatuated. She got together with my work friend Samantha* and I’d see them every night, kissing at the bar.

Years later, I saw her working at a jewelry kiosk in the mall.

I was sober. I’m not sure if she was yet. She was kind of aloof. I felt put off by her casual interaction with me. She was “like a guy.” I’m not sure why I held onto the belief that only guys were emotionally unavailable. She acted like she didn’t know me. Because I was sober, I wondered if she remembered we dated each other? It was that bad.

In 2015, I saw her at a local restaurant with a group of friends. She didn’t recognize me. I passed by her, and she didn’t even glance my way. I let it go, and we left without recognition.

I saw her Facebook profile a few months ago. She accepted my friend request and proceeded to sell me something. I think she’s in real estate? I’m not as attached to her as I once was, so I ignored her sales pitch and moved on. I swear she doesn’t know who I am.

I have numerous lessons from those days.

Most of my memories are a blur, but I do recall a few key moments. I learned I have glaring straight privilege, of which I was unaware of back then. I realized I hadn’t established a bisexual identity, whatever it was supposed to be. I wasn’t confident enough to act “like myself” since I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know she was biased from being rejected.

Being in a gay relationship isn’t much different than a straight one. The only distinction was my privilege, making it easier for others to accept me. I’ve grown and matured since then. I might be ready for a girlfriend now.

*Names changes to protect anonymity

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