The word ‘bi-curious’ makes me feel even more like heaving. Just because I was in love with a girl for six months two decades ago, a swath of unappealing ‘straight’ females for quite a while saw fit to try it on with me after a few Babychams. ‘But I want to experiment with my sexuality!’ they would wail as I ejected them into the night. ‘Then buy a Bunsen burner and a Petri dish, and stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine!’ I would squeal indignantly. And the current Special Snowflake simper of ‘sexual fluidity’ makes me feel like burning a rainbow flag – it sounds like something you’d ask the pharmacist for a cure for in a hushed voice, all the while itching madly.
But the act of being bisexual – I prefer to call it ‘sexually flexible’ or even better ‘spontaneous’ – is truly to have drawn the golden ticket in the tombola of dirty joy. Yes, some bisexuals are miseries – my ex-girlfriend once sniggered to me that at every Freshers’ Week at the universities she attended, there was inevitably a Bisexual Stall bearing the legend ‘Twice the fun’ and manned by a creature whose misery was so tangible that he made Morrissey look like Little Mary Sunshine. With certain women, you get the feeling that having had mutually dismaying relationships with as many men as they could physically manage, they decided to bat for both sides sheerly in order to double the number of potential partners they can make as miserable as they are.
Julie Burchill, “In praise of bisexuality”, The Spectator, 2016-08-20.
April 24, 2018
QotD: Bisexuality
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