Greedy: Notes from a Bisexual Who Wants Too Much

by Jen Winston

Sure, bisexuality means said queer truth can still encompass men, but let’s be real: If you keep hooking up with dudes, no one will believe you’re queer (least of all yourself).

You’d hoped announcing your sexuality on Instagram might help you stumble into a queer relationship—maybe prospective lovers would throw themselves at you, like some multigender version of The Bachelorette.

But in your heart, you can’t deny that bisexuality has never felt queer enough. It’s never felt queer enough to talk about. It’s never felt queer enough to take up space. It’s never felt queer enough to lead you to community, or to show you who you are.

While normalization has many upsides, it can also have a silencing effect, perpetuating the assumption that being bi is “not a big deal.” Bisexuality tends to feel ubiquitous and thus irrelevant, as if the subject isn’t worth our time.

I hope fluidity becomes so ingrained within culture that it becomes “edgy” and “subversive” to be straight.

The reason people think bi women are “just experimenting” and bi men are “actually gay” is because patriarchy has manipulated us into thinking that everyone must be attracted to men.

I expanded my gender preferences on apps but struggled to gain momentum—every time I messaged a woman, I panicked and frantically switched back to guys. I felt comfortable dating men—they were my regular commute, my status quo. Flirting with other genders took effort, and so dealing with my queerness became just another item on my perpetual to-do list, sandwiched between other things I’d never accomplish: meditate, dust, fix printer, come out, pay that one bill that won’t let you do it online.

I loved MGMT and played cornhole—how could I not be straight?

Despite being lonely, I was never alone.

“She’s from Pittsburgh!” Ben exclaimed, scooting past Joey’s seat to show me his phone. Ben was also from Pittsburgh and had a tendency to overstate the city’s cultural relevance, singing high praises of its art and tech scenes. He acted as if the almost-Midwestern metropolis was the modern incarnation of Florence during the Italian Renaissance, the Terrible Towel our generation’s version of the David.

To fake it with a woman, specifically a lesbian, would require an Academy Award–winning range I had not yet demonstrated—the community-theater-grade performances that had swelled the pride of so many men would certainly not pass here.

Faking an orgasm always hurts you more than it hurts the person you fake it for—it’s a self-imposed roadblock to the bliss you deserve.

This was a dark era for my self-respect—a time when I used the MyFitnessPal app on a daily basis and still thought music festivals were fun—so

In 2018, a playlist had about 30 percent as much game as a mixtape once did, but 30 percent was enough for me. We fucked for hours, alternating between the couch and the rug.

Sure—in my heart, I wanted a partner who lived in the same city, who would prioritize me, and who didn’t legitimately like the Chainsmokers.

Now noticing his beard, I say he looks like the Bed-Stuy version of Jesus Christ.

I scolded myself, knowing I could’ve dressed much gayer—I should’ve shown less cleavage, worn my hair up, or gotten a tattoo sleeve on the way here.

“You say love is the answer. We say abolition is love.”

I knew it was real when I heard Joey call Adam by his first name (unlike his ex-hookups, whom he referred to only as phrases: “Small Guy with Huge Apartment Who Gave Me a Rim Job While I Ate Popeyes” or “Greenpoint Dad I Bottomed for Before I Knew How to Douche”).

When I say Queer Love, I mean love that makes its own rules. Love that exists without borders and thrives without clean lines. Love that creates more space than it takes up.

a twenty-eight-year-old introvert who recently lost his virginity,