For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a closeted bisexual. As a little girl, I liked boys just fine— but there was always something more *magical* about girls. They mystified me with their downy skin, silky hair, and lilting voices. As I grew older and hit puberty, I watched them from afar, too ashamed and too shy to do anything about the feelings that were pulling me apart at the seams.
As a teen, I’d fantasize about my friends. I’d imagine how it would feel to kiss them, and touch them in ways I’d let highschool boys touch me. My highschool boyfriend would go down on me, and I’d picture this pretty redhead in my class doing the deed instead. One night, the redheaded girl slept over my house. I had the image of her braless breasts just visible under her white pajama top burned into my memory for a whole year. She took up space in my mind during feverish nights spent alone with my hand below the waistline of my panties.