Bisexual Visibility: No One has to Feel that Way Again

I knew I was bisexual when I was fifteen. I came out when I was fifty-four.

You do the math.

I don’t want to blame anyone; I lacked the tools to say, or even admit to myself, who I am for almost four decades. But I have to say the deck was stacked against me from the start. I’m the only child of a staunchly traditional Catholic couple. Growing up, I can barely remember either of my parents ever saying the word “sex.” Instead of getting the talk, I was handed a book that explained the mechanics (and, incidentally, labeled queerness as a mental illness). My parents were cool and unaffectionate with each other and with me—so I never had modeled for me what a healthy, happy, loving relationship looked like.

I know it’s hard for most people to picture their parents having sex; for me, it’s damn near impossible. I guess it must have happened at least once, although given my mom’s piety, an Immaculate Conception can’t be entirely ruled out.

Culture Gives you your Tools One Way or the Other

Add to all this the fact that I grew up in the deeply homophobic culture of rural southern Louisiana in the 1970s, and I suppose I should forgive myself for not coming out sooner. In fact, in my high school graduating class, I know of four other people who have come out as LGBTQ+—all after graduating. There was not a single out, queer, proud kid in the entire school while we were actually there.

The shame and fear (don’t forget that it’s a mental illness) stuck with me even when I moved to Seattle, a much more liberal part of the country, in 1982. By this time, I had entangled myself in a toxic relationship that was to last sixteen years—but hey, it was a straight relationship! Go me! The habit of not expressing my own needs and desires, my own self, was so ingrained that I couldn’t bear thinking about it. I was deeply secretive, continually wracked by anxiety, and feverishly tried to compensate for my “evil thoughts” by always putting everyone else’s needs first, something my narcissistic partner positively ate up.

My dad used to say, “Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” and I learned that one the hard way.

I’d add, “The trouble with lying about who you are is that after a while, you start believing it yourself.”

For Bisexuals, our Closet is Part-Egg and Part-Façade

The first cracks in the façade began when I became a teacher and saw students coming out as queer. I was unequivocally in support of them and their identities, and had a rainbow flag posted in my classroom with the caption “You Are Safe Here.” But part of me felt like a hypocrite. I could tell them, “Be loud and proud,” but still couldn’t stand up and say, “I’m queer, too.” As supportive as I was of them, my own identity remained a thing of shame—reduced to the level of coming home in the evening to look at pics of naked guys in the dark and hoping like hell no one would catch me, no one would find out.

But finally, finally, something in me shifted, and I said, “Enough.” Remarried to a wonderful
woman who is one hundred percent accepting and understanding of queer identities, I said to her one night over dinner—I still remember how my voice shook—“Honey, there’s something I need you to know. I’m bisexual.”

The People Who Love you Will Rescue you… If you Let Them

With her support and unconditional love, I started coming out to a few friends. Their responses should cheer you:

“No questions, no comments, only love.”

“Why would you think this would change our friendship? You are a beautiful person now, and you were a beautiful person before I knew. Nothing has changed.”

“Really? Huh. So am I.”

“Thank you so much for trusting me enough to tell me this. I know it must have been hard—even though in a fair world, it would never have been a secret in the first place.”

The funniest one was my dear writer friend Cly, who smiled and said in her Okie drawl, “Sweetie, you think I didn’t know that? Every single one of your novels has at least one scene with a gorgeous shirtless guy in it. You’re hiding in plain sight, dear.”

I guess that’ll teach me to take myself so damn seriously.

Note to Self: Sometimes People are Worth It

Eventually, with the support of my wife and friends, I came out publicly—and following the “Go Big Or Go Home” model of behavior, I came out on my blog Skeptophilia, which gets around five thousand hits a day. Once again, the outpouring of love, kindness, and acceptance was overwhelming.

We live, thank whatever deity you favor, in a different world than the one I grew up in fifty-some-odd years ago. We’re not done with the work of bringing acceptance to queer people like myself, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it was when I was a kid. I have about a million regrets over the experiences I never got to have, caged by shame and fear and self-loathing, but I will never stop working to make sure that no other scared, shy fifteen-year-old ever—ever—has to feel that way again.