Stories are written by people who don’t necessarily work or study in fields related to sexology. They convey emotions, perceptions, and subjective perspectives. Opinions voiced in the stories are those of their authors, and in no way represent Les 3 sex* position.

☛ Ce témoignage est aussi disponible en français [➦].

Translated by Florence Bois-Villeneuve. 

I can’t believe I’m going to tell my story here, when even the people closest to me still don’t know. But I want to so that other people like me feel less alone and have someone to compare themselves to—which we all do, even unconsciously. 

It’s hard to say where my story begins, because sexuality has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I was always surrounded by adults, so I was forced to live a more mature lifestyle, which I really took to and instantly loved. I wanted to learn, discover, know things. 

But unfortunately, questions were not encouraged in my house. Sex was something we joked about, not something we asked real questions about. 

I’ve always felt separate from others, like I was too mature for a child’s world, but obviously too young and too naive to be taken seriously in the adult world. I had a few friends, of course, but no one I trusted enough to confide in about my erotic thoughts and ask my many burning questions.

That all changed when I started high school. I met a girl, and we clicked immediately, despite her being two years older than me. We became very close, very quickly. We spent all our lunch hours together. We talked non-stop on the bus ride, enough to realize we had a lot in common and shared a lot of the same views about life (if you can have a “view of life” as a young teenager!). Of course, like all kids, I ended up going over to her house, and vice versa. 

At the time, from my perspective as a 12-year-old girl, I saw sex as something beautiful that I couldn’t wait to experience, and that shouldn’t have any barriers once the first steps had been taken into this forbidden realm. I found people beautiful—both boys and girls. I wanted to kiss them, touch them, show them my love and affection. Together, she and I had a great time imagining a life where nothing was off-limits. 

Then came the day when we felt the urge to cross the line between imagination and experimentation. We kissed. Just like that, no questions asked, just because we felt like it. But it didn’t end there. We were always eager to see each other, on the off chance we might get some alone time. In a way, I think our closeness filled some kind of emotional void we’d both experienced in our adult world. 

One evening, things went further. At the time, I had no idea what sex between two women—or even between a man and a woman—looked like, considering my only reference was the few pornographic pictures I’d manage to catch a glimpse of here and there. 

That relationship lasted a long time—a few years. But despite all the time I spent longing for that girl, whom I watched turn into a woman, I never once considered myself a lesbian or as being specifically attracted to women. If memory serves, neither did she. It was more like a game. We had fun cuddling, kissing, touching each other, mostly for our own pleasure, but sometimes to amuse the boys and even turn them on. 

What’s strange is that we continued to see ourselves as straight, to be attracted to boys and even date them. We both had a regular string of boyfriends; some knew about our relationship, while others had no clue about our little secret.

Some guys considered it cheating, something unforgivable; with those ones, we had to be careful not to get caught. Others thought it was exciting and a turn-on. For us, it was special and oh-so much fun.

Needless to say, all good things must come to an end. For several reasons that escape me now, our relationship eventually fizzled out to just friends. I continued to date men, while still being attracted to both sexes. I found everyone beautiful, so why should I have to choose between kissing one or the other? I figured, might as well try my luck and have some fun. 

Yet, because I’d never felt anything more than friendship for a girl, I’d ruled out the possibility of being bisexual or lesbian. For me, the line between love and sex was perfectly clear, and I could never have pictured myself in a romantic relationship with a woman. 

Until that night, that fateful December 31st, to be precise. I was invited to a New Year’s Eve party at a stranger’s apartment, with a bunch of people I didn’t know. But, I had needed to drown my sorrows, so any excuse would do. We started playing a drinking game, and one of the girls caught my eye. She was gorgeous—hands down the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life—but also smiley, bubbly and funny. I had the urge to grab her and kiss her. Within seconds, my mind was filled with a dozen different images and scenarios. 

Just before the countdown, I found her alone in one of the bedrooms. I told her to come celebrate with us. She said: “I can’t start the new year off without kissing someone.” Somewhat jokingly, but mostly emboldened by her stunning looks, I suggested she kiss me. We rang in the new year with one of the most intense, passionate kisses I’ve ever experienced. When our lips met, all my problems melted away, my sorrow forgotten. I could have spent the entire night like that, in her arms, kissing her. I wished the moment would never end.

In case you’re wondering, I never saw that girl again, at least not in person. But she haunted my thoughts and dreams for several months after that. And she stirred up doubts in me that I’d never even thought existed. Doubts about my sexuality, my orientation, my identity. The kinds of things that seem so clearcut in a structured society that operates on rules established since the dawn of time, but that can alter the entire course of a life. 

From that moment on, I started reading about sexual orientation and identity, and the many ways relationships can be perceived and nurtured.

And after taking a course on relationship models and sexual health for my bachelor’s degree in sexology, I finally admitted something to myself—very painfully and at the cost of the person I thought I’d known for 21 years. I am bisexual! And I always have been. And it’s a label that I’m now giving myself permission to wear. 

But this label doesn’t define me, because sexuality, love and relationships mean different things to different people. And those definitions evolve over the course of a lifetime; we change, question, explore and adjust them. 

Instead, this label lets me be a little better understood by people who have never questioned the matter. People who embrace and live by our social models. These people include my parents, family members and close friends, who are trying their best to understand me, despite the fact it might take me a lifetime of exploration to fully understand myself. 

My goal in sharing my story is hopefully to open up your mind to this (still too taboo) realm that deserves to be explored. The amazing realm of sexuality and all its facets, from sexual orientation to gender identity and beyond.