So, I was invited to write “Bi-Lines” this month, and while I’ve obviously accepted, I have to admit to feeling a bit strange about it.  I’ve been thinking about this for days, almost chickened out several times, and have come to the conclusion that I’d better just do it and get it over with!

Why the nervousness?  First of all, it’s officially Pride Month, about which I have mixed feelings.  Additionally, I’ve recently relinquished my personal claim to bisexuality.  Finally, I don’t think I can reasonably write this column without a sort of coming-out moment.  So, deep breath, and here it is in a nutshell:  I’m neither bi nor proud.  What I am is a somewhat shy, fairly androgynous, female-bodied, gender-blending, kinky, polyamorous pansexual.  In the interest of disclosure, I’m also anti-marriage, childfree and atheist, but there’s another time and place for those conversations.

In recent years, I’ve increasingly pursued my long-standing interest in queer issues through reading and conversation.  As I’ve developed my awareness and critical thinking, I’ve come to realize just how inappropriate the term “bisexual” is to describe my attractions.  To wit, over the past 5 years I can recall only 4 people I’ve been attracted to on a purely physical basis:  a long-haired, eyelinered goth boy; a 6-foot, square-jawed Amazon; a lanky, effeminate mod guy; and a delicate transwoman with some of the most intelligent eyes I’ve ever seen.  On sight alone, those who interest me are gender-bending or fluid, people who obviously and spectacularly manifest the many shades of gray that are sex and gender.

Once I get to know a person, sex and gender matter little to none.  If they’re worth having as friends, they’re potential relationship material, as the brain truly is the biggest erogenous zone.  Intelligence, self-awareness, critical thinking, and ability to laugh at anything are all qualities that know no bounds of biological or chosen anatomy, nor of the social constructs of gender.

So, “pansexual” it is.  Unfortunately, that’s a term I find is perhaps even less understood and accepted than “bisexual,” if only because it’s less common and doesn’t kowtow to the black-and-white thinking that seems to come so naturally and easily to us humans.  Even within the “alternative” communities I’ve experienced, queer and kinky, a surprising number of people seem perfectly content with the dichotomies of male/female, gay/straight, dominant/submissive.

I am also frequently caught off guard by the human tendency to judge books by covers, as they say.  I was recently at a party where a lesbian acquaintance of mine was trying to describe someone we both knew, and I was trying to figure out who she was talking about.  She said, and I quote, “She’s another girl who looks like a dyke but is actually a straight girl.”  First, her saying “another” certainly implied that I look like a dyke but am actually a straight girl.  Once I figured out who she was talking about, however, I was baffled by the whole conversation.  I have very short hair and usually wear jeans or cargo pants and t-shirts, with no jewelry or make-up, so I elicit all sorts of conclusions as to my gender and orientation.  But the girl she was talking about I still can’t believe anyone would describe as looking like a dyke.  Short hair, yes, but a bob-wedge style that’s always bouncy and in my opinion quite femme.  Sparkly accessories, always.  Clothes in a variety of interesting fabrics, often fitted, colorful, swingy or lacy.  And as if our wildly differing assumptions of appropriate lesbian presentation weren’t enough to blow my mind on a socioanalysis high, the other “straight girl” in question happens to be my girlfriend!

In a way, this conversation got me thinking again about the values of the terms “bisexual” versus “pansexual,” “omnisexual,” “queer” or other potentially obfuscatory description I might choose for myself.  In a world where GLBTIQ visibility, acceptance and basic human rights are still so tenuous, am I doing myself and my brethren a disservice by claiming a label that is technically accurate but less politically charged?  Even within the queer community, diversity is more accepted and appreciated but often distilled.  Should I call myself “bisexual” for the sake of having a pre-determined place at the table?  Or should I go for the gusto and start demanding pan-rights and pan-pride?

The trouble I have with all of this is that I’ve never been one to play identity games or politics.  Activism is simply not in my nature, and I’ve been lucky so far to have personally experienced little injustice or prejudice that would incite me to action.  In part, I’m lazy.  I’ve seen slow but steady progress in visibility and acceptance over my lifetime, and I’m content with letting human nature run its course, even if it takes a couple of generations for discrimination to be criminalized and for prejudice to die out.  I also justify inaction by insisting that I, by simply being myself and not challenging the status quo, am contributing positively to society’s comfort level with those who identify outside the mainstream.  “See?”  I feel I can say,  “Not all queer people are flamboyant or demanding.  I just want to have a nice game of pool with my boyfriend, dance with my girlfriend, relax and hang out with my big, happy, kinky family of friends and I promise nobody will molest you!  Is that too much to ask?”  Of course, if Joe Schmoe doesn’t read me as queer, or doesn’t think much about these things, then I’ve made no impression at all.

Yes, I could wear rainbows all the time and collect t-shirts that say things like “2QT2BSTR8” but that brings me to my worst problem of all with pride, identity and activism, a sad-but-truism that I struggle with daily and loathe with all my strange little being: fear.  Or insecurity.  Maybe even shame.  I’m never sure what to call it, but it stems from decades of social and familial training and informs my thinking and interactions to a disconcerting degree. 

Sure, my chosen family knows, even understands and values all my complexities.  That’s why I chose them.  But the people who are most in need of education are the least likely to know anything about me.  For example, at my last job, where I worked over 7 years, I never dreamed of coming out.  In my tenure, there was only ever one out individual in the company, and the office chatter she and other suspected queer coworkers generated was enough to put me off my lunch.  Even my boss there, by whom I felt highly respected and appreciated, was often heard to declare that she could understand being gay, but that every bisexual she knew was crazy.  Would my coming out to her have changed that opinion, or simply caused her to think, “Well, that explains some things”? 

Obviously, while I’ve never feared for my safety, I haven’t risked much with regard to my financial security or respectability in the eyes of those I’ve known to be unsympathetic.  Just writing this column has been unnerving, as I’ve never risked being this public with my opinions.  It’s a concept I’m coming to terms with, however, and my comfort level increases even as I write.  I suppose the first step to being out and proud is acknowledging and reconciling all the contradictions, fears and concerns within oneself, and on that step I’ve made a lot of headway.  It’s challenging, but liberating.  Maybe you’ll see me marching in June after all…

Tippin would love to receive your free advice, address your questions, concerns and criticisms, and recruit you for the monthly Queer Book Club in Asheville, NC!  Please drop her a line at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .