Why I am OVER the Hollywood Hotties Claiming the Bisexual Label [Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered]
Here I am trying to use my lunch hour (procrastinate) to stock up on important world news (blogs) that I, a responsible citizen (unemployed writer) should completely know and understand (fake) and thus be able to converse about intelligently: war, oil, and policy.
So, it irks me when my ADHD eyes land on a pop-up for this “breaking entertainment news!” – the headline, scrolled over the glossy image a nubile starlet proclaims, “I’m bisexual!”
To which I proclaim, “Whoopee.”
All this who’s-who in bisexual Hollywood hubbub calls for is a clear, loud “big whoop” in the manner of Mike Meyers channeling Barbra Streisand. It just reeks more of a look-at-me! publicity maneuver than a serious, fervent avowal of a lifestyle.
Don’t get me wrong. I am very happy for this person. Yay, you! You get down with your bi-self! I am terribly sorry if my being over your bisexuality comes off as unfeeling, but little everyday, non-events like this take up precious space in my brain. (I occasionally have look up my own home telephone number, but I can tell you for sure that Evan Rachel Woods likes the ladies.)
Besides, every time one of these coming out stories…er, comes out, I hear about it from all sides. Lesbian friends sneer, “She’s not gay. She’s slumming.” Other friends/gay advocates cheer, thrilled to add another media-bright celebrity to the cause, which would be “so much stronger if only Anderson Cooper would come out already!” (Because when he does, surely, wing-ed birds bearing rainbow flag banners will spontaneously fly over the Pentagon, and all will be right with the world.)
And, really, regarding the latest claimant of swinging the sexual pendulum, Evan Rachel Wood: is it a big shocker that the girl who dated Marilyn Manson just might think outside the box when it comes to sexuality? They say the way you do anything is the way you do everything, so why the big surprise? That Katy Perry, who married offbeat, eccentric Russell Brand might lean a little left of center?
Add to the mix Megan Fox, Anna Paquin, Lindsay Lohan, and you’ve got a gaggle of under-30s who not only have it all, but feel compelled to exuberantly blazon their sexual druthers. I’m thrilled for you. Really.
Maybe it’s sour grapes. After all, no one wrote a story about me entitled “aspiring/tortured artist divulges recent circus-themed sex dream featuring Julie Andrew, Gene Wilder, and a very tiny but talented animated Cheshire cat.” No one furiously wrote about my awkward collegiate encounter with my tall, blonde friend, Cara (except me: 11 illegible, unlined pages of a Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairies-covered journal, rife with sweeping inquiries like ‘WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!” And other hysterical modes of self-reflection).
Nope. That’s not it. So, why do these entertainment news/sexual preference updates stick in my craw? I go back and view the entire pictorial bisexual Hollywood slideshow (sideshow?) There, the answer stands before me.
All these women – beautiful, stylish, gorgeous women. They gaze at me from their online perch, taunting, “I, with my perfectly lit legs, in my size 2 mini, my perfectly lasered upper lip…I (echo) could have any man (echo echo ) that I want (echo echo echo).
Fine. I’ll give ‘em that. But now, these airbrushed starlets add insult to injury…now they’re telling me they can have all of the rest of the people, too?
How can I possibly compare to their media-savvy lustiness? Me, in my holey, crumb-laden yoga pants and oversized old college sweatshirt. Damn, it smarts: their sweltry sex lives are so exciting someone is not only writing about it, but here I’ve sucked into reading about it!
Is my chagrin based on envy? Would my eyeball rolling reaction be different if someone less young, hip, and glamorous came out of her bisexual closet? Say, Katie Couric, Mary Steenburgen, or Laura Bush?
I open another window, to NPR.com and start afresh. 10 minutes left on my lunch. I can still make this time count. I’ll catch up on gold prices. Book reviews! Educational policy! But, try as I might, my mind’s eye keeps rubbernecking back to that damn story, and I can’t help comparing their enthusiastic, surplus sex lives to my own which, at the moment, consists of a half-hearted, unfinished hand job given to my husband, and a careful, albeit tender, application of yeast infection cream to my own vagina. The only oral action anyone has seen around here comes in two varieties: whitening and extra minty.
This is just what I need – more fodder for my hetero husband to imagine these ladies comingling together in a writhing olio of orgasmic rapture. As if I there aren’t enough provocations everywhere. Even in the short line at my local Starbucks: the girl in front of me giggles, leans over to pick up a dropped penny, and- thanks to the current trends in denim, plain as day, there it is – a dark Chinese dragon dancing above her $18 Hanky lace thong. She reaches for her sparkly cell phone, and as she bends over right in front of me, I think – good thing hubby’s not here right now. Boy, he’d be really turned on. But, when she turns around and smiles at me, I can feel my face flush. Am I getting hit on? Maybe. I don’t mind. It’s a nice ego boost on this lackluster Los Angeles day.
So, no – my irritation with all of these seemingly up-to-the-minute bisexuality bulletins does not stem from some kind of homofearful self-disgust. Why then?
Maybe it’s because I already think of all of humankind existing within a wide continuum of sexuality, and I foolishly expect others to do the same. In an age where it’s as easy to update your sexual preference as your Facebook status, proclaiming your bisexuality feels a bit obvious, like announcing, “I am human” or “I have skin!”
Now if you’ll excuse me, all this food-for-thought has forced me to become aware of my latent desire for serious oral attention. So, I’m off to floss myself. Mmmm….waxed…cinnamon… there! In that hard to reach spot! Whoo…hhh..Whoo..hhhhh….WHOOPEE!