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I Discovered I Was Bisexual At Girl Scout Camp
By heatherbarmore — Written on Apr 03, 2020
The first time I kissed a girl was at Girl Scout camp when I was 14 years old. Girl Scout camp, of all places! She was a short, red-haired girl named Bailey who I pecked on the lips in a moment of teenage experimentation.
I kissed her again in the parking lot in front of my rather prudish mother who stood by, ready to load me up into our minivan. In my periphery I could see her eyes widen and her face scrunch in disgust. “Let’s go,” she said curtly.
After kissing Bailey, I returned home and started my sophomore year of high school. I didn’t head through the doors of my small town school and proudly proclaim that I was contemplating my sexuality and possibly being a lesbian. A kiss was just a kiss, and a peck was my version of "we’ll see."
Although my parents were sexual beings by my estimations — I once found more condoms than any man could possibly need in a dish on my father’s dresser — they never spoke of the big "it" out loud. Since the Internet came of age, just as I did, instead of having "the talk" with my parents, I learned about sex via the World Wide Web. Thanks to Ask Jeeves (remember Ask Jeeves?), I learned about orgasms and the purpose of a clitoris.
From September to June, I admired (and attempted to approach) the boys in my grade and was quickly rebuffed. It seemed I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, popular enough for them. I simply wasn’t enough at all.
Come July, I officially switched to the other team, so to speak. Nothing serious, mind you, just casual flirtation and a willingness to be open and affectionate with women.
But it was Girl Scout camp where my curiosity about women, bisexuality, and sexual orientation first piqued. It wasn’t simply the place I learned to tie a rope, build a fire, kayak and sail; it was where I learned to appreciate women as leaders.
I envied these women because they were able to be themselves and — as it seemed from my teenage vantage point — had been able to forge a path of acceptance in themselves and those around them. The women I met were creative, talented, and kind. They often wore their heart on their sleeves.
These weren't the girls I was forced to be around in my high school for nine months of the year — these were women. Real women. They weren’t mean or haughty, but adventurous and clever. These were the type of women I hoped to become.
Eventually, during my junior year of high school, I moved past personality traits and truly began to notice the female form of my fellow staffers, the way a woman’s body moved with hips and curves. At the time, I was a breast girl. An enthusiast, if you will, so I admired (clandestinely) the chests of those around me to compare and contrast to what I had to offer.
I developed a lesbian crush on my friend Lindsay, but she was dating a fellow counselor. On one of our breaks, I brought Lindsay home with me before heading back to camp. My father was courteous, but later referred to her as "that dyke." It was then I realized that crushing on a woman and holding hands in the woods was as far as it could ever go.
Eleven years later, I stood in the bathroom of my apartment. My girlfriend at the time, Heidi, was taking a bath. I knew she had been dying for one, so I surprised her with a Lush bath bomb. I swirled the water around with my hand and asked how she liked it before receiving a kiss. Not a peck, not experimentation, but a full-on plant where she grabbed my face with her wet hands.
I got up from the edge of the tub and started to undress myself and prepare for bed. We had sex the night before — some of the best sex I've ever had — and she fell asleep wrapped around me so that I could feel her chest on my back.
Three years later, long after Heidi and I broke up, I was sitting on a friend’s rooftop with a group of girlfriends. While I hadn't inherited my parents’ reluctance to discuss sex, I'd been known to keep many intimate details to myself, namely the one where I openly say that I'd had sex with women and I'd probably do it again.
After a bottle of wine or two, it came up. Amid close friends, I nonchalantly mentioned an ex who happened to also have a vagina.
One friend simply said, “Oh, so you’re bisexual? How did I not know this?” and the conversation moved on. Another friend poked me in the arm, gave me a side-eye and said, “I told you no one cares.”
I'm bisexual. I'm attracted to people , full stop. For far too long, that was something I was reluctant to admit. Once upon a time, my parents sent me off to Girl Scout camp where I was imparted with a healthy dose of independence, and, more importantly, an ability to finally find women with whom I could form a bond.
Perhaps it was finding that capacity within myself, in this world full of gray areas, that made it possible for me to eventually be able to connect to women based on friendship and acceptance. Over the years, I've found a natural lust for both women and men, and eventually a confidence to go after both sexes.
In a recent conversation with my once-prudish mother, I mentioned what camp did for me: how it turned me into a woman who loves people — all people — and I told her that she raised a woman who wanted to love (and be loved) by whomever.
I broached the topic carefully, waiting for disappointment. She smiled and said, “Good.” Nothing more, nothing less. Simple acceptance, which is really all I ever wanted.
Heather Barmore is a blogger, freelance writer and policy advocate. Visit her website or follow her on Twitter .
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Pullout
Jun 21, 2001 at 4:00 am
Or, On the Annoyingness of Bisexuals
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Jack, another freshman, sat on the other side of me. He leaned over and whispered loudly in my ear, "Are you going to bed her?"
It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. "Uhm, no," I responded. "I don't think she wants to."
He leaned over again: "Well, I ' ll bed you."
At the time I was openly bisexual but had yet to do anything about it beyond a few boy-boy kisses. Mind you, I hadn't done much more with girls; my high-school years were a wasteland of hapless chastity, brought about by a mixture of self-loathing and long, unkempt hair. I looked like a stoner but didn't even drink, leaving me with no social group to call my own. Finally, in my senior year, I went "punk," or as punk as you could go in Cheney, WA, in 1984. I cut my hair, dyed it coppery red, and started dressing hip (by the standards of my time and place). Almost all my fellow "new wavers" were queer or fag hags; since I thought it would be some kind of rebellious blow to the narrow Cheney world, I decided I was bisexual. But though college opened up a whole new world of opportunities, I had yet to fuck anyone.
Abashed by my poor track record as a bisexual, I followed Jack to his dorm room, where we undressed and I put his erect penis into my mouth and sucked on it for a while, and then--he said he never came from blowjobs, but maybe he was being polite--he lay on top of me, gave me some horrendous hickeys, and masturbated until he came on my stomach, at which point he jumped up and grabbed a towel. I never got erect myself, which at the time I blamed on the mescaline.
That night, I proved I could suck cock, I wasn't afraid of his semen, and I had no particular concerns about my masculinity. Logically, I must be bisexual. So I ran around spouting the bisexual party line: "All human beings are fundamentally bisexual and it's only bad, repressive socializing that forces us to choose between het or homo." (As opposed to the insecure straight-guy party line, which goes something like this: "No hetero guy could, like, ever, ever suck cock. I mean, dude!") My ardent bisexual friends and I would point to what behavioral scientists call "situational homosexuality"--straight people placed in a single-sex environment (say, men in prison or girls at boarding school) who begin having sex with people who share their same genitals--as proof of everyone's fundamental bisexuality.
But years later, when I finally got around to putting my dick in another guy's mouth, I had to think about girls to get erect, and even then I had trouble keeping it up. I had to face it: Despite my best efforts, I was not bisexual. Of course, because I sucked cock once, insecure straight guys will no longer accept me as straight. (There's a joke that goes something like, "You make a delicious omelet, no one calls you a chef. But suck one cock....") Some insecure bisexuals refuse to accept me as straight for the same reason, so on this one issue, it seems, frat boys and switch hitters agree.
Why? Why claim me as a bisexual? Why be so annoyingly strident (as I was back in college) about bisexual identity either way--isn't the larger point about tolerance and accepting everyone's individual sexuality? "Situational homosexuality" only demonstrates that people who have no choice will make do with what's available. Human beings are adaptable. But if sexual desire is about anything, it's about what you're drawn to when you do have a choice. And I'm drawn to women.
Why can't bisexuals grow up and leave us monosexuals alone?
Bret Fetzer is a heterosexual who just happens to love theater.
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