I’ve been hiding this secret from everyone except a few on Twitter and my husband. It’s been difficult to find an actual name for it.  Some people call it bisexuality, others polyamory.  I don’t know how to label it.

I first realized I had a physical attraction to another girl I met at Baptist church camp of all places.  Her name was Joni, and was quite the eccentric, nerdy, dry-witted gal.  We lived in the same state, and I’d taken a long bus ride to spend a few days with her.  I cared a great deal for her, and I even went with her to school a few days since her winter break differed from my school’s break.  No amazing fireworks or chemistry seemed apparent between us, but I had this gnawing feeling that I couldn’t explain.  She introduced me to Dr. Demento, and after spending 3 summers with her at bible camp, I considered her more than just a pen pal.

The week before my 16th birthday, I invited her to stay with me to help celebrate.  I had a full sized canopy bed, and I always shared the bed with anyone who came to my sleepovers.  I saw nothing of it. It’s just something we did in rural Michigan.  She and I were into playing practical jokes on people and in my juvenile mind, I thought it would be a great idea to have her give me a hickey.  I figured it’d really jack my boyfriend around and he’d think I had cheated with another guy.  I didn’t really think that part of the plan through very well.  Giggling in my room, I blushed at the fact I was going to have to cover a hickey and keep it from my parents, but that she was going to give it to me.  What I didn’t expect was how it would make me feel.

As she pulled the shirt across my collarbone and lightly kissed my neck, chills shot through my body. I was enjoying it.  Baptists said this was wrong. I was torn. As all of these thoughts shot through my mind, I’d realized it was over as quickly as it had started.  She laughed and said that was going to really be a bitch when my boyfriend saw it.  What I hadn’t expected was what would happen that night.

I don’t recall what the hell we were talking about in the quiet pitch blackness of my room.  I knew she was laying next to me, and for the life of me I wish I knew what started this conversation.  Was it a dare?  Was it a conversation about kissing another girl?  I honestly can’t remember.  What I do remember is a nervous laugh escaping and then she was on top of me.  She kissed me.  This wasn’t your ordinary kiss either.  Whoa!  My body was saying yes.  My brain was saying WHOA WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!!  When her lips traveled to my breasts, my brain caught up with what my body was feeling.  I had to struggle to sit up and say “Whoa, stop. Wait a minute.”  My heart was racing.  Embarrassed, she asked if she had done something wrong.  I told her that it wasn’t her fault.  She asked if I liked it.  I told her I did, but that I didn’t feel comfortable continuing.

Fact of the matter was, my religion got in my way.  That was considered a sin.  My mom had a gay step brother, and she welcomed him with open arms.  Men being gay was ok to her.  Women were not.  That fact mixed with what was pounded into my head by the Baptist church, I was horribly conflicted and confused.  Did this make me gay?  I was attracted to men, but what the hell just happened?

I never saw Joni after that.  I wrote a few times and tried to keep in touch, but that whole experience changed how I saw her.  I thought she was gay.  That was my black and white thinking back then. Later, I heard she was engaged to a man while I was in college.  I haven’t spoken to her and have since lost track of her.  I’m using her real first name in case she ever reads this and recognizes who I am.

I spent my remaining years in high school dating guys who treated me like shit (all except one).  I loved my best friend like best friends do.  I never felt romantically attached to her.  It wasn’t until college when I had the oddest experience.  I was in a sorority, and met my future husband.  I was physically attracted to women, and it became more intense when I was drinking.  I became engaged, and was too afraid to tell R my sexual confusion.  I figured if I told him, the marriage would be off.

One night, while partying in my fiance’s fraternity house, I met a beautiful woman.  She had dark brown hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes.  She really made me laugh, and it wasn’t the alcohol.  She kept putting her hand on my leg, and this wasn’t just a drunken move.  She was sizing me up.  She asked about my engagement ring, and I told her whom I was engaged to.  She said, “Too bad, because I really like you.”  Before I could even process what she’d said, I blurted out,

“Don’t let that ring stop you.”

Holy shit, I don’t know why I said it, but we wound up locked in my fiance’s room, and she had me pinned against a wall kissing me.  Here I was, the pursuer, the more dominant one with men, and she’s got me pinned to a wall driving me sexually insane.  Just as things were starting to progress to where I may actually experience action below the waist for the first time with a woman, a knock at the door.  I thought it was R.  I managed to squeak out the proverbial, “just a minute” phrase as I put myself back together.  I had her slip out of the bedroom while I was trying to get my bra back on.  Once dressed, I realized R was nowhere to be found. Whew.  My secret was safe.  Suddenly, I realized I was sober and the worst part?  I never got the woman’s name.  I searched for her all throughout the house and she was gone.  I never did learn who she was.  

I chalked it up to college experimentation.  I eventually told R before we got married that I suspected I was bisexual.  He said it was fine with him as long as I was monogamous.  That I did promise.  Any action I had was at strip clubs with him being present.

Then a few years ago when I went to SAFE Alternatives, I met a woman who was also there for the same reasons I was.  She was a beautiful, intelligent, college professor and author.  She had dark hair and beautiful blue eyes.  I could tell she was struggling with anorexia, but I didn’t see her for just her looks.  KB was witty, talented, and intelligent.  The more time I spent with her, the more I started to realize I was falling in love with her.  She, too, was married with children.  She said if she wasn’t married, she’d also most likely be bisexual.  We laughed together, and I loved her company.  KB was the first person I trusted to hug me.  I could feel she was genuine when she hugged me.  She saw beyond my weight to the real me.  When it came time to leave after 30 days, I was a crying fool in my hotel room.  I didn’t want to leave her.  My heart was aching because I didn’t want to go and never see her again.  She promised she would remain my friend.  Since she lived in Pennsylvania and had friends in the Chicago area we discussed meeting that fall.  The whole train ride home, I had mixed feelings.  I knew realistically she would eventually lose touch with me.  I hoped that it wouldn’t be true, but I knew better.

The first couple of months (before she went to Greece and then on to Romania), she and I would call regularly.  When she left, we agreed to email each other.  I started as soon as she left Greece.  At first she returned the emails.  Eventually, she stopped writing.  My texts went unanswered a month later.  I sent a Christmas card to her, and heard nothing back.  It was clear.  KB was done with me.  I was  and still am devastated.  

What I took away was the fact that friends you meet for a short time eventually leave and change priorities.  Was it Stockholm Syndrome?  I can’t say for sure.  I don’t know why KB quit responding to my emails.  I wasn’t even crazy stalkerish and I know she had no idea I was falling in love with her.

So, I’m still sexually attracted to women (and men), but I chose monogamy in my marriage.  Is my love for KB that makes me bisexual?  Or is it that I’m polyamorous?  Either way, no one else knows about this but my husband.  Now you all do too.  I’m releasing this skeleton, because I don’t see bisexuality as a sin anymore.  I’m not ashamed of it.  I’m ready to deal with the fallout of this confession, because in actuality, no one defines me but me.