The Debrief: Does Embracing a Sexpositve Life Makes You Queer?
My journey
Am I bisexual? That was a question I began to ask myself, not in a frantic search for a label, but as a quiet, unfolding curiosity.
For me, this exploration has never been about finding a new box to fit into. My identity has always felt like my own, a private landscape I wander through. But after a few eye-opening experiences, I felt a pull to understand the terrain a little better, to reflect on some moments in my life and see them through a new lens.
The landscape of sexual identity is vast, complex, and deeply personal. I am by no means an expert, and this is not a guide. It’s simply my story, a map of my own questions. My hope is that in sharing my journey, it might offer a little light to someone else navigating their own beautiful, confusing, and thrilling territory.
The Spectrum and a Surprising Realization
In my mind, I’ve always, or at least from an early teen age, understood sexuality as a continuum, a vibrant spectrum of color. While some people might live happily in the bold, defined spaces of pure red or pure blue, I’ve always felt that most of us flow somewhere in between, our personal shade shifting and deepening with life and experience. My private theory, for the longest time, was that most people were essentially bisexual, even if it was a fact they kept deep in the closet, hidden from themselves and the world.
I assumed everyone could recognize and, on some level, be stirred by beauty, regardless of gender. A chiseled male jawline, the elegant curve of a woman’s waist—these are just different forms of art, aren't they? I believed that in any given situation our body simply reacted to a beautiful touch, a sensual presence, provided there was consent and attraction.
It was a genuine surprise to me to learn that this wasn't true for everyone.
Through conversations with friends, both male and female, I came to understand that some people are genuinely, profoundly monosexual. Their desire is a finely tuned instrument that only resonates with a particular gender. The thought of being with a different sex isn't just unappealing to them; it's unimaginable, a frequency they simply cannot hear.
Realizing this was fascinating. My world of closeted bisexuals suddenly dissolved, replaced by a much more complex and varied reality. It made my own feelings and experiences feel less like a universal default and more like something uniquely my own, something worth examining.
Before my journey with “Him,” my own exploration of the bisexual side of myself was minimal, confined to the blurry, playful edges of parties. There were those silly, drunken three-way kisses between friends, fueled by games and cheap alcohol—fun, fleeting, but ultimately insubstantial. They were like tiny flickers of a fire I never bothered to build, echoes of a curiosity I never took seriously.
The First Touch and a Crucial Conversation
When we had our first threesome, the experience of being with a woman felt… RIGHT. It just made sense. Her soft lips, her delicate caresses, the way she ran her hands through my hair and over the curves of my body—I enjoyed it immensely. Thinking about it now still makes a familiar heat curl low in my belly.
But the fact that I enjoyed as much it didn’t surprise me. Don't get me wrong, the experience as a whole was, of course, a revelation. But the most shocking part, the part that truly rocked my foundation, was the overwhelming sense of peace and excitement I felt watching “Him” interact with someone else. My own pleasure with a woman felt natural while my profound joy in his pleasure felt like discovering a new dimension.
It wasn't until the debrief with “Him” afterward that the real questioning began. We were lying in bed, tangled in the sheets, the scent of our adventure still lingering in the air.
“I loved watching you tonight,” he said, his voice soft in the dark. “You were so in your element, you enjoyed it so much. It made me even hotter, seeing you like that. Have you ever thought… if you might be bisexual?”
I laughed it off. “What are you talking about? Anyone would have enjoyed that. The connection was amazing.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, I think about us maybe being with another guy one day. And I honestly don't think I would feel as comfortable with him touching me as I saw you were with her. It wouldn't be the same.”
“Well,” I countered, “that’s probably because it’s less of a taboo for a woman to explore her sexuality with another woman than it is for men.”
We kept talking, reliving the highlights of the night, but his question lingered. Could he be right? Is it possible that not every woman would feel that same sense of ease? I can never know for sure, of course, as I can’t live in another person’s body. But for me, once you get past those initial, nervous moments of being with someone "new," things just… flow. The connection, the shared energy—that feels more important than the gender of the person you’re with.
Unpacking the 'Why': Admiration, Attraction, and a Woman's Touch
His words did make me think. I realized that, in my mind, it has always been far easier to imagine sexual scenarios with other women than with other men. The idea of a threesome where I am the only woman, or being with another couple, and having to navigate the energy of another man—that gives me pause. It’s difficult to fully articulate it, but it feels like it would be a different kind of negotiation, perhaps less intuitive.
Since then I've also asked myself if I could have a full, romantic relationship with a woman. For that’s a question I don't have a complete answer for yet. Primarily, this is because my mental, emotional, and sexual energy is so deeply entwined with Him. He is my partner, my teammate, my epicenter.
It’s hard to seriously imagine building that level of life-altering intimacy with anyone else. But if I let my mind wander into the realm of pure possibility, the idea of that "someone else" being a woman doesn't feel completely foreign. It’s a door I wouldn’t close. The physical attraction could certainly be there, and the spiritual connection, I believe, is always about the individual soul, regardless of their gender.
This has led me to re-evaluate my relationships with women throughout my life. I have always been intrigued by them, deeply drawn to their movements, their way of speaking, walking, touching. I used to file this feeling under the neat label of "admiration," a desire to be like them. But now, I’m looking at those memories through a new filter. Perhaps that pull I felt wasn't just admiration. Perhaps it was also, all along, a quiet, simmering attraction.
There is a unique symphony to a woman's touch. It is delicate, yet intentional. Her skin is soft, her movements flow at a different rhythm, one that feels intrinsically known to my own body. Her kisses are passionate, but they hold a different kind of sensuality, a shared language.
There is an intuitive understanding that is simply delicious. They know my map because they live in it as well. They know the kind of caresses, the exact places, and the specific movements that elicit pleasure, because they are built of the same magic. It’s an experience that captivates me, and one I know I want to keep exploring.
So, am I bisexual? I don’t know, and maybe I don’t need to. Perhaps you, my reader, can decide for yourself. But what I do know, with a newfound sense of peace and self-acceptance, is that I am not 100% heterosexual. And I am more than okay with that. My journey is far from over.