In 2019, sexual orientations (who you go to bed with) and gender identities (who you go to bed as) that have long been relegated to the margins are becoming more accepted and understood. We’re gettin’ there. But one term still remains a mystery to many: "heteroflexible.” That is what I am.
As I became sexually active, I went about my life as a heterosexual woman. I crushed on, dated, (and even fell in love with a few) cis men. I didn’t feel like anything was missing. I was happy and living a life 100 percent true to who I am. But then, last year, while road tripping across the country and back, I landed in Austin for two months and kept running into dudes who said they’d never been tested for STIs before (ah, the Bible Belt). With the dating pool shrinking to a puddle, but still stupid horny, I decided to explore the teeny, tiny curiosity that had been living in a small corner of my brain since I was thirteen. I didn’t have any reason to explore my possible interest in sex with someone else with a vulva before then and now I did. (And they were great about being on top of their sexual health.)
I foolishly thought it would be a simple copy + paste job. Sex is sex, I thought. It didn’t matter who I was having it with. But after my first sexual experience with a fellow chick (who had a vulva that looked exactly like mine, which was trippy. I swear, if one of our pussies committed a crime and there were a police lineup, there’s a 50/50 chance the correct one would go to jail), I realized sex with women is a completely different experience.
My experience was more sensual, slower-paced, and mentally stimulating. (You have to concentrate while eating pussy, while I can practically compose my grocery list in my head while suckin’ dick.) Though I’m a hardcore submissive with people who identify as men, I found myself in a more dominant role with folks who don’t. It was new and different and fun. I enjoyed myself so much more than I thought I would.
I foolishly thought it would be a simple copy + paste job. Sex is sex, I thought. It didn’t matter who I was having it with.
But, of course, after I confided in a few friends that I had slept with a woman for the first time, they all insisted I was officially bi. And while I’d have zero problem calling myself “queer” or “bi” it just… didn’t feel 100 percent right. Was it because of some internalized phobia? I really sat with that question for a while, but in my gut, I knew the answer was no. The term heteroflexible simply felt like the perfect fit. It made me feel understood even though most of my friends insisted I had made it up. Just like all the terms that we use to describe our sexual identity, the most correct labeling comes from the person who’s using it to self-identify, not the person who’s taken it upon themselves to place a label upon someone else.
The most correct labeling comes from the person who’s using it to self-identify, not the person who’s taken it upon themselves to place a label upon someone else.