The first time I kissed a woman, I was eighteen. While I realized that I was bisexual at a young age, conversations with my peers about sexuality had always been surrounded in judgment and disgust. Politically and religiously, I understood that same-sex relationships were seen as a moral failing in our culture. I planned to remain straight-passing for my entire life.

I didn't express interest in women until a party shortly after my high school graduation. At that age, my ideas about female bisexuality resembled an episode of Girls Gone Wild. I noticed it was never treated like a distinct sexual identity but as a costume worn by women for male consumption. This was made particularly clear within college movies, where parties existed solely against a backdrop of bisexual women making out passionately. Even an episode of Gossip Girl featured women kissing at a sleepover, though only as a dare, and while still maintaining their heterosexuality for the remainder of the series. I was ten years old when I watched Madonna, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera share a three-way kiss on television, another performative aspect of bisexuality that sought only to contribute to Oscar buzz. I saw women kissing each other for publicity, for shock value, for their boyfriend's approval, but never out of romance. From that, I concluded that if I wanted to be with a woman, I had to make it palatable for a man.

That day, my best friend turned to my boyfriend and asked, "Do you mind if I kiss her right now?" He gestured for us to go ahead and when she grabbed me, I kissed her with more enthusiasm than she probably expected. I was immediately insecure about how much I'd enjoyed it. To prove that the exchange was still in service of my boyfriend's desires, I pulled back and let him kiss her too, to which everyone at the party applauded. Later, someone patted me on the back for being such a 'good girlfriend'. My boyfriend asked if we could have a threesome with her soon.

Prior to our three-way kiss, his strong stance against homosexuality had resulted in more arguments than I could count. I observed the same disconnect in attitude and behavior in my male partners that followed him. Women who had same-sex experiences, and particularly bisexual women, represented an eroticism that wasn't real and therefore not threatening to them or their sexuality. Their disdain predominantly applied to gay men, who they saw as sexual deviants. I even saw this expressed in the antiquated concept of body count, which considers penetrative sex as "real" sex and therefore a 'body' while oral sex or sex with toys remain preliminary sex acts. By this line of thinking, men engaging in anal sex were having real sexual experiences that others could disapprove of, but women who had sex with women were not. They were hypersexual commodities. They were hot. So the men I dated were often loudly homophobic, but obsessed with participating as I explored my sexuality with other women. I saw bisexuality could be acceptable, provided it was between two women and men could watch.

I saw bisexuality could be acceptable, provided it was between two women and men could watch.

As I got older, I remained too afraid to actually pursue women independently, but I did so proudly from the safety of those relationships. I kissed them, I danced with them, and I more seriously considered the threesomes my boyfriends were interested in, but as a vehicle for expressing my own desires.

Over time, the fact that my experiences with women were solely performative caused me to question my own sexuality. I used the same language others used to attack or dismiss bisexuality. "Am I even really bisexual or do I just want attention?" I wondered silently.

I claimed a different sexuality depending on the day—sometimes I was straight, and sometimes, in a moment of vulnerability, I admitted how much I liked women and wanted to cry. I was excited for games of truth-or-dare because they inevitably led to me kissing women I had crushes on. I started to think they were my only consistent opportunities to express my sexuality.

At a guest bartending gig shortly after I'd turned twenty-one, my friends were dancing on the bar top as I stood next to them, wiggling and pouring shots into guests' mouths. My manager announced that if we all made out, he'd provide free shots for everyone. I looked nervously towards my best friend. We hadn't kissed since that party when we were eighteen but she reached for me without hesitation. We kissed as cameras flashed from beneath us.

The next morning, photos of those kisses were all over Instagram. One of my best guy friends had even posted one, posing in front of us like a tourist at the Empire State Building. As I scrolled past it, my heart sank. It was suddenly clear to me that my sexuality was being used, and although our clothes were on, it felt pornographic and dirty. The shame was so heavy, I avoided my friends for weeks.

I started to back away from my performative bisexuality. When I declined to participate in truth-or-dare, men told me that I wasn't fun anymore. They treated me like someone who was finally finished with a phase, when the reality was I didn't want my bisexuality to belong to everyone else anymore. I'd had so many crushes on women over the years but never the courage to be with them. I just wanted to be brave.

The day I finally slept with a woman, I was too drunk for fear. I was at a fraternity mixer, wasted and crying over a relationship that had just ended. A friend of mine who was gay was trying to sober me up and the members of the fraternity circled us, hoping her comfort would turn into something more. I took their stares as encouragement and kissed her on the neck. Soon I was kissing her cheek, then her lips. I was vulnerable and performing again, but a part of me was eager to finally leave the actress behind. We went home and had sex that night. In the morning, sober this time, we did it again.

That experience was merely a temporary detour in our friendship, one that we never revisited, but I shared the story with my friends because of the clarity it brought me. And while I had anticipated discrimination from the straight community, I didn't expect it from the LGBT+ community. My gay friends accused me of simply needing attention. They, too, called my bisexuality a phase, citing all of the times I'd performed my sexuality like a party trick. I felt like a fraud so I claimed straightness again. I couldn't see a place for myself in the LGBT+ community. I told all of my friends I would never actually date a woman.

I felt like a fraud so I claimed straightness again. I couldn't see a place for myself in the LGBT+ community. I told all of my friends I would never actually date a woman.

I started having threesomes with couples because these were the only same-sex experiences that I thought I deserved. I always focused on the women, even picking couples where I found the men unattractive or annoying.

There was a couple where the boyfriend simply acted as a voyeur the entire time and I relished the fact that I could explore a woman's body solo. The next couple questioned if I was actually interested in men. I was—outside of threesomes—but I was too excited to be with a woman to pay the men attention.

I had threesomes with another couple who also allowed me to sleep with each partner independently. I only ever hung out with the girlfriend and we became close friends, not just because we were sleeping together but because she was the first person to believe my sexuality. We swore that we'd remain close, even when the threesomes were over. One day, I woke up to a text message for her boyfriend saying that I was too much and needed to stay away from her.

"You're not her girlfriend," he wrote, but I wasn't trying to be.

I knew that the bias I was showing her was being perceived as romantic interest. In retrospect, that was probably frustrating within their relationship. I decided that the next time I slept with a woman, it would be without the company of a man. The same day, I met the first woman I actually fell for.

I realized how much joy there was in holding a woman's hand at dinner or meeting her family, instead of just enjoying sexual experiences in private. Being with her meant unlearning all of the lies about bisexuality that I'd allowed myself to believe. It felt like I'd finally claimed a life that was fully mine.

Finally, I understood myself: I liked women, I liked men, and those two emotions could exist separately from each other. Thankfully, now I allow them to.

Gabrielle Noel Contributor Gabrielle Alexa Noel is a writer covering topics within sexuality, culture, and identity.

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io