PRIDE 2025: Part I, Sexuality
I was in elementary school the first time I had a crush on a girl. I won’t share her name here, though I do remember it. She was Latina, with beautiful long curly brown hair and dark eyes. I always wanted to hold her hand.
I was in middle school the first time I kissed a girl — high school, if it only counts when there's tongue and wandering hands. Both times, they were close friends of mine. Both times, it was “just for laughs.”
I was in college the first time I painted a nude woman. I remember my pencil lingering on the curve of her hips, thinking how much more beautiful female bodies were than male bodies. But it was normal to think like that. Everybody thought that, right?
Imagine my surprise when I was in graduate school, on vacation, hanging out in a pool with my older sister when she told me she didn't find women attractive. We'd been talking about our “types”. Her type in men had always been obvious: a spitting image of her husband.
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I could tell you women I think are attractive,” she explained. “But I’m not attracted to them. I don't feel anything for them.”
Oh my god. I thought. I'm not straight.
You'd think this would have been obvious to me, at this point. But in my defense, like many raised in the nineties, being straight was the default. Being “curious” was normal. Every girl had made out with a female friend at some point, right? I'd seen Pride parades. I'd seen the feather boas and leather chaps. I wasn't like that. Being gay was a whole thing. And yet here I was, faced with the undeniable fact that I liked women. I liked men, too. In fact, I didn't really care what chromosomes people had or what their genitalia looked like. Hot people were just hot. I desired them all the same.
It didn't take long for me to find the word that felt right: pansexual. I've never rejected the word bi, but it's not exactly accurate. (Bi means two, and there are more than two genders.) But it did take a long time for me to own a queer identity more publicly. It started with small confessions to a close circle of people. Eventually, it became something I could talk about openly with friends. It took even longer for me to march Pride as a member, not an Ally. Now — well now I could give a flying fuck who knows. I hope people know. Whether it's the first thing they learn about me, or they've only just now discovered it after years of knowing me: I’m queer, and proud of it.
But Lea, don't you mostly date guys?
You probably didn’t ask this. But if I’m being honest, it was a question I often asked myself. It’s true: I’m presently engaged to one, actually. But allow me to let you in on a little not-so-secret: it's way easier finding straight men to date than queer women. Capri Campeau, influencer and host of the Bi The Way podcast, said it best: if you want to start dating more women, you have to actively avoid dating men. They're too easy to find. They're too available. It's like trying to set aside time to do your laundry when you keep getting distracted by the thousand other household chores to complete. It's hard for me to ignore the dishes in the sink. It’s easy for me to overlook the clothes in the hamper (as my partner could tell you).
It doesn't make me any less queer. And if you're like me, it doesn't make you any less queer either. Even if you haven't touched the laundry in ages.
But Lea! You're engaged to a man! How can you be queer if you’re with a man?
I hope you didn't actually say that. That would be horribly ignorant of you. And cis-normative. And mono-normative. But we'll discuss those things later. (Spoiler alert: I am neither of those things.)
Happy Pride, everyone.
Pride 2025 is a three-part series, each exploring different aspects of my identity. Stay tuned next week for Part II: Gender.
