A Dissertation of Sorts

I had this theory on Bisexuality that suited me and couldn’t be disproven, so it stood. In short, I believed it was mostly an act (and before the subject gets too old, let me say that this argument stood because it mostly wasn’t argued (and therefore not disproven)). When I first came into porn everyone asked me if I liked girls or boys or both and I said boys boys boys until I was dry in the throat, and also until they stopped booking me with girls entirely. I’d had a threesome at 18. We sucked at it. The girl kicked the boy out and then I didn’t know what to do with her so I just kinda poked around down there and lent her some spit, marveled at the taste a little. She was pretty though. I can super appreciate pretty.

Do you ever snap your neck back or react with a spontaneously bloody nose when you’re out in the world and a pretty chick floats by unannounced like she’s just any other person and totally not conspicuously different from the rest of the human race? Do they forget that they stand out, perhaps believe that it is unnoticeable the way gravity makes small exceptions for them and the light reflects in a manner so simple it has become cliché, so easily pegged by words like glowing or shimmering, the combined effects creating a package that elicits reactions reminiscent of a closed fist to the face? They must. They are always so involved with the wired expressions of their small dogs or their personalized phones or hidden behind the back of the ink-black lens of their supersized sunglasses. So unaware. These stereotypical trinkets seem to occupy them completely while the rest of the world hemorrhages in their wake.

I learned early on that I can stare at these girls without detection or scorn. I have an annual pass called a Vagina. The outside world has deemed it not to be creepy. I am harmless. Dickless. So I stare. It’s not essential to the deal but I can be sly. I catch them in window reflections or from the other side of my sunglasses, maneuver a compact mirror, innocuously appear to check myself, straighten stray hairs, keep up whatever conversation I have involved myself in, tally up the pro and con columns on the mental pad with which I keep track of their physical attributes. But this doesn’t make me Bisexual. Wanting to have sex with them for no ones enjoyment but my own would make me Bisexual (according to the tenets of the aforementioned non-argued and therefore non-disproven theory on bisexuality).

And that’s my problem with the word these days. Bisexuality. The sound has such a posh-counterculture-next-big-thing-underground-meme to it. Especially when shortened to it’s call sign, Bi. Very Studio 54. And like any underground thing that has floated to the mainstream it has become mass produced, misused, sloppily packaged and spread too thin (by the way we are getting heavily into the explanation of my non-argued and therefore non-disproven theory right now (hereinafter referred to as NAATNDT)). Take the rising incidence of female Bisexuality, for example. All of these freshly sexual girls saying they like girls. They say it big and loud, especially at party-type places, public park and private residence type places, three day weekend type places, top 40 hits blasting across the surface of the respective water sources around which they’ve gathered, wet t-shirt contests and BBQ plates transitioning into mixed drinks in red plastic cups as the sun goes down. They say it for Girls Gone Wild cams with a far off stare that is often mistaken for something more vacant than what it actually is, I.e. a general scan of the crowd to see who’s watching. They mostly say it drunk, or worse, and then, when they have scanned to be sure that the maximum viewership is properly engaged (and egging them on, ideally), when they are peripherally aware that things are at peak attendance, that the time is now, they brush up suggestively against the other girls who are saying these things drunk, the other ones who have migrated to center, who have scanned and feigned nervousness, giggled, being, as they are, suggestible sweet things who have somehow allowed the crowd to convince them to act on their most closeted urge. And then they kiss. Heavily and dramatically, hands on breasts and in hair. A shirt is torn off, maybe. Hot chick points spike all around. Someone gets them a drink. Not just a cup but a vodka bottle. It is off brand and Costco sized. They take it from the spout. More cheers. Then they hook up with the guy (guys?) they had in mind, or at least the one(s) hitting on them, and maybe they bring their chick partner in crime along, and they have a threesome, and they become infinitely more awesome. Then they refer to this story forever and always as proof of how wild they can be. I adamantly rebuked a small gathering of these girls once (did I mention NAATNDT only applies to girls? It does). In a strangled and exasperated (drunken) speech I informed them they are the failed Bicurious at best.

And then there are the successful Bicurious. These are girls who maybe thought that the tripping and hot chick nosebleeds meant that they liked girls. Like, like-liked girls. Then they tried it. Probably in college, probably drunk in a dorm room decorated with brightly patterned Target curtains hanging stiffly off the rods and personal-sized whiteboards askew on scratched up but otherwise whitewashed walls, quick cute-sy notes written in bubble letters to their roommates in dry erase, empty beer bottles tipped over on the floor and the box spring squeaking when they put pressure on the left, clothes everywhere, bras straps still warm and tangled in the long thin sleeves of their shirts and wound through the legs of their jeans-that-look-best-with-heels, also kicked off by the door. There were probably hair ties on the nightstand, phone chargers, a stack of textbooks with spiral bound notebooks shoved between the covers and bending back the spines. A token stuffed animal pushed up against the wall. One probably needed the lights off and the other didn’t care. But lets not limit ourselves in the details.

Or perhaps they opted to try vagina in a threesome. But this threesome is unlike the attention grabbing threesomes, what with their hearts being in the right place and all. Then, after the poking and the spit swapping, some hot-but-only-because-of-the-amateurish-reserve experimentation, and an awkward point where the cuddling question maybe arose, these Bicurious girls will finally be able to say they have satisfied their curiosity. Now they know that they appreciate beautiful women as an art form and not as something to be finger-conquered. But for the same reasons I think Agnostic should only be a temporary status, so should Bicurious (under NAATNDT). Eventually you need to just make up your fucking mind and get on with life.

Or maybe the true Bicurious in question instead discovers that she wants to finger-conquer beautiful women left and right. She has satiated the Bicuriosity and moved on to the more concrete realm of Bisexuality. It’s not done for bragging rights, or for stories that she may hope will worm their way back to the guy(s) she wants to impress, guys like the congregate of the school football team or a boy named Tor in her Monday/Wednesday biology class who wears his socks funny but somehow always gets his hair just right and who she really thinks has a natural dorky balance, except for the puka shells, which have to be at least thirteen years out of date and make no statement whatsoever but overall she deems him pretty salvageable as a package, for example. True Bicuriousity must happen outside of male feedback.

And then there are the truest bisexuals, who according to NAATNDT have proven themselves through a rigorous and detailed history involving actual relationships with both girls and boys, Relationship being defined as a public agreement and recognition between the involved parties and the joint attendance of at least one family gathering, maybe even with both names signed on the Hallmark card in question, if there are Hallmark cards involved. There’s no faking that. I don’t care how much street cred you want. No girl will put up with the emotional taking of ones own medicine from another girl if she doesn’t really mean it. That is all.

So I considered myself a failed Bicurious for years. This stemmed from the incident with the threesome that got shortchanged back to a twosome where I left feeling like all I really wanted by the end of the night was a dick and maybe another shot of Jack. But I was a stripper, and guys like that kind of shit, so I did the bisexual posing and drunken making out stuff and it would get all of us super-laid by the attractive selection of the male viewership and it was good because that’s what we’d all had in mind. I did not stop with the eye stalking of the pretty girls on the street though. I just knew in my head that any interest I had in them would not go beyond a little public tonsil boxing. After all, they are quite fun to kiss, male attention aside.

But then came porn. I resisted the automatic labeling of Bisexual that girls like to don the same day they don their fake names (assumption under NAATNDT). I’m pretty sure I said something to the effect of “There is no way statistically that all of these girls are real bisexuals. The incidence in the general population can’t be more than 10%.” At the time it sounded exactly as douchey as it sounds now. And I’m not just pretty sure I said it; I know for a fact that I said it, verbatim, on multiple times, to anyone who would listen. And once in a class presentation. The subject was statistics.

But then, in time, something happened. It went much like this:

I would send a certain chick a text.

The chick would not respond immediately.

I would be crushed for hours until she would.

She would.

I would be elated for hours after.

I would send her another text.

Rinse and repeat.

She has very strong male qualities. Still nosebleed beautiful, but not quite a girl in the head. Some time passed. I met another girl like this. The cycle started again. The biggest problem with these girls? Probably the super solid and fully engaged heterosexual relationships they were carrying on with their boyfriends.

Then I got a thing for Rosario Dawson. Then Michelle Rodriguez. Then it occurred to me way too late in the game (if we’re judging the speed of my conclusion drawing abilities) that I’m the girl. I thought I didn’t like girls because my only experience with them had been either staged or with girls who were girlier than me. Usually both. But officially, I’m going on record as The Girl (this may or may not be the same thing as being The Bottom among the official gay culture that actually knows what its talking about. This is a porn blog, if you haven’t noticed. It’s not exactly a peer reviewed quarterly journal. Not that my porn peers care to review my blog. Why just yesterday I was applauded for knowing the geographical difference between Washington state and Washington DC, so I’m used to low bars and lack of fact checking, and also to not being challenged (peer review is so much less confrontational than the word challenge. I see now why they do that. What a euphemism!) on things I say, such as NAATNDT, which is why I’m finally taking the time to break it apart myself (which leaves plenty of its own room for bias (and I do see the irony in taking two opposing sides of my same argument and still managing to be wrong, if it comes to that.))).

Here’s another angle though: Rewind back to the time before I got boyish-girl crushes but after the time I thought a poorly executed threesome had sealed my fate and let’s focus on the interim, the middle porn years if you will, during which I really liked (still do) getting down and dirty with some pretty things for the camera. But in these cases they’re still the girlier ones. Maybe that’s not entirely accurate—the mass labeling of girly. I’m just saying I like being the dominant one with other girls on film. Then again it would be wholly ass backwards of me to go around interchanging the words girly and submissive, as if we were back to the simple and fucktarded notions that masculine must mean dominant, that women are meant to be fucked and men to fuck, that somehow, rightfully and naturally, we are the weaker sex, the prey, the taken, the ones to be convinced. What I am saying is that in the case of sex with girls, there are times when I am and times when I am not the dominant one. But I like to be (the dominant one). And sometimes the questions of who is (the dominant one) can only be solved by letting the sex take its course. I.e., we must duke it out. And we do. We get slaphappy and throw the spit around and finger fuck each other determinedly and without logical reserve as if we believe that with enough skin-to-skin friction we might spur a chemical reaction, preferably something highly visible, something like a low-heat flame, sparks at least, forever searing the legacy of our names into the memories and late night barstool narrations of the shocked and finally expression-filled faces of the crew who literally up until the expressionless moments before had seen it all. Sometimes we hang off of things that may or may not support our weight and usually we bruise. We break sets. We fall. We pull at things—hair, bra straps, lips. We slip in each other’s sweat. We moan and come and do the things one might do in good and notable (award winning!) sex. The director yells cut. We high five. We walk away with a certain twisted serenity and strength of character in knowing who took the Dom crown but keeping it to ourselves while quietly vowing to exceed the already outdated performance next time.

And I genuinely enjoy the process. There is a thrill that can’t be imitated that stems specifically from the sheer number of girls I can balance on four fingers. The problem (under NAATNDT) is it only happens on camera, this girls-in-compromising-positions-in-great-numbers desire. You leave us alone or turn it off (the camera) and we’re back to talking about boys again. Unless there is alcohol. In which case we’re making out. On a scale of one to Bisexual, it’s rather low.

So I looked this shit up all over again (consider this the beginning of me arguing with myself and therefore working towards the eventual dissolution of NAATNDT). Sure enough it’s the same handful of theories going in and out of style, statistics, ideas on why we do what we do and whom we do it with. Regardless of the theory, the general incidence in the population seems to rest around 10% not being perfectly 100% Heterosexual. At one end of the spectrum some of the evolutionary guys believe Bisexuality doesn’t exist. They can explain how Homosexuality would be a perk via kin selection, and obviously the evolutionary benefits of Heterosexuality, but Bisexuality just throws a wrench in the whole theory. So they deny it, call it a confusion or a fraud. Then at the other end there’s Freud. He says we’re all Bisexual—some of us are just dealing with more latency than others. And then there’s Skinner. But seriously, fuck Skinner.

Latent or not I know this much: I really like giving head. Let’s make a quick left turn while I talk about this for a moment. You may have heard me mention this before, or maybe you’ve seen some of those fun videos I make, in which the biggest problem I have with dick sucking is that the smile from ear to ear really inhibits the vacuum effect I’m going for. I like the little changes I can feel when it builds. And the way he thrusts a little right at the end. How it pops down the throat. Super fun. I have other theories. Tons of them in fact. A few apply to blowjobs. One goes like this: Dicks are too big. This is not ever actually true ever no matter what. Ever. (Being female I can hold opposing positions with equal and radical conviction. You may have witnessed this phenomenon before with one of our kind.)

But a more logical approach to defining the problem might not be so much that dicks are too big (seriously impossible) but that my mouth is too small. There are plenty of instances I can think of, documented ones even, in which I can’t fit it in my mouth past the head (ahem, Manuel), much less start on all the fine nuances I had in mind. And I have a lot of fine nuances in mind. Even small dicks are too big for some of the awesome things I want to be doing to them. These things involve gentle brushes with different surface areas on my front teeth coupled with a miniature vacuum effect and a cupping of the very tip of my tongue up against the pinpoint where the nerve endings are exactly best, and then a small sucking/fluttering of the cupped tongue while the teeth rub ever so pleasantly on the anterior and posterior of the shaft while at the same time my lips wrap around the entire thing to form a sort of warmer softer secondary larger vacuum that then builds into a fine orgasm that we can both ride down a long tail.

You know what fits just right into this equation?

A clit.

And I knew this conceptually. It’s not a far jump from a clit to a dick, both developmentally (I love biology!), and as a theoretical conclusion once you take two IQ points and rub them together. But porn never really let me take this to the lab. We’re so caught up in the performance and the Dom fight (fun!) and the rolling the bruising and the bonus aerobic activity that I’m sure is in the back of all of our minds after 12 hours of set food, so worried about never staying still too long, lest we put ourselves out of the award running, lest we look boring to the fans on the chat boards, lest they say we’re not into it, not enthusiastic enough, filthy enough, noisy enough, violent enough, lest they criticize any time we might take to do itright. Not that we’re necessarily doing it wrong, mind you. There are almost as many right ways as there are ways. We just never slow down on film long enough to let me have my way with the mouth manipulation that I’ve always believed would be just perfectly spot on albeit positively invisible to the camera once I had my face happily wrapped around the entire performance.

Insert Tucky Williams (and did you notice how seamlessly I put my blow job tangent back on track?). I met Tucky last year at The Dinah. For those of you unfamiliar with the sex culture of the fairer same sex pairings (my god that phrasing is terrible on so many levels (and yet I can’t bring myself to rework it)), The Dinah is Lesbian spring break. Thousands of women make the pilgrimage from around the world to Palm Springs during this week every year, where they immediately put on bikinis and get drunk and stay drunk and make their way through each others’ vaginas until Monday rolls around and their room keys stop working. There is media coverage (insert myself) and live concerts and red carpets every night. I was somewhere between day two and three and had by then definitely discovered that I like boyish girls (maybe even only solidified it all in the hours leading up to this moment (it’s so hazy and possibly gradual that I really can’t be sure)). Part of my discovery had involved the excavation of other girls’ mouths by my own, so much excavation, in fact, that the producer for Here TV (the network for which I was hosting coverage of the event) had taken to counting my numbers with a clicker. But on my breaks between making out with everything that had a good shape and a great boyish smile I was working super hard with Here TV and on this particular break, interviewing Celesbians as they walked the red carpet. And of course Tucky was walking that carpet. Now she has her own version of events surrounding her sly come-on but my memory picks up right at the spot where we met mouth first, me leaning over the velvet rope, her hands all through my hair, cameras flashing, Youtube videos uploading instantly, producers yelling at me in the background to stop violating the Celesbians.

Tucky taught me stuff. She takes a hands on approach. First she taught me that the different between a Bisexual (real or imagined) and a Lesbian in the sack is almost as great as the difference between either of them and a boy. Bisexuals (in my humble experience) try their damdest to work their fingers like they’ve learned a man will work his dick, porno-style, except unbarred by the traditional inefficiencies re: cardiovascular dearth, the physical boundaries of waistlines, and gravity in general. Think hard and fast, like an attack of tiny fearless zero-gravity finger-penis drones on a seek-and-destroy mission. Lesbians (in my cripplingly limited and equally humble experience (she’s a Gold Star lesbian at that!)) treat things like there’s a magic combination to be found and no rules to work within. Like stealth burglars trying to spring open a safe in the night with a full bag of British Secret Agent gear and a quick wit in a pinch. The pad of each finger is deft and individual. Think genius.

There are other differences. Most of them tie back to the part where a Bisexual girl is used to the pace set by a boy and therefore mimics what she knows. There is the idea that once you get going you stay going, that you get all of yours in before he gets in his, that the mentality must be equally male on both sides in the arrangement as opposed to what might make more logical sense, maybe an approach in which the people involved behave in more of a female way, being as they are, in fact, both females. Lesbians get this. They are also infinitely awesome to kiss. But true Bisexuals kiss in infinitely awesome ways too. The failed ones kiss sloppily. Then again that may have something to do with all of my firsthand failed Bi experiences happening over massive amounts of liquor. Correlation is not causation.

Now let me tell you about my conceptual mouth manipulation trick: it was a veritable slam dunk. I know because all the over-the-top-annoying and haphazardly flung soft descriptions of a vagina responding well AKA “in bloom” AKA “reminiscent of a honeypot” a “rosebud” a “ripe peach” flowing with “sweet juices”/“nectar”/“fresh dew”/ “the sparkling syrup of the hand-pressed flesh of the choicest fruit”—let me just say these terms—while I would sacrifice free speech if it meant people could never use these terms again—these terms applied in response to my mouth manipulation trick (MMT), among other, more literary subtle signs, signs like the telltale pulsing and the swelling and the warmth.

And also, my response to her response to my MMT was the same.

So back to NAATNDT. Let’s assume by now that I’ve blown it out of the water personally and professionally and generally just have no theories whatsoever anymore on who can and cannot use the term Bisexual. I refuse to use it because of all of the convoluted things that bubble up in my thought stream when I do, mostly revolving around old issues I have re: NAATNDT. But I’m done with terms on a larger scale anyway and convinced that everything is gray and gradient and shifty and nonspecific and sometimes I want a finger-penis drone and sometimes I want a penis and sometimes I want the lesbian embodiment of a secret agent and that’s just the short list so let’s just say it’s safe to say I like just having sex with people I like.