On a March 2024 podcast episode, comedian Caleb Hearon takes a call from a listener who jokingly asks to know "the truth about bisexual women and why they are the way they are." In response, Hearon says, "Bisexual women, I have the utmost respect for. I think they and their boyfriends– " he then pauses for effect and the uproarious laughter of his guest, Brittany Broski, before continuing. He doubles down on the idea that while he thinks "their love is beautiful", it's simply true that "they all have" male partners. 

Though some of the podcast's comments accused Hearon of casual bi erasure, the first time I listened, I just laughed. I told myself the others were overreacting, and that it was just a silly joke, funny because it's (somewhat) true. I told myself everyone else was wrong for their reactions because I, myself, am a bisexual woman with a boyfriend, and I wasn't offended. 

No hate to Caleb Hearon, who's great – I still think the joke was funny, and certainly not ill-intended – and I hate when people overly dissect jokes as much as the next person. 

But the more I thought about it, I found myself asking why I felt so comfortable "accepting" the joke on behalf of all bi women. I'm not the only person with that identity, and I'm not the only person who decides who's allowed to be upset by what. As I ruminated some more, I realized why I was so quick to laugh, even a bit too hard, and to scoff at others for their reactions: the joke touched both my own insecurities and my own biases about my gender and sexuality. 

As a bisexual woman in a heterosexual relationship, I'm upset when people doubt my identity. Yet, I fully expect it to happen. I've convinced myself that everyone, from family to friends to casual acquaintances, thinks I'm actually straight and confused, or straight and lying to seem more interesting. I assume that no one really, completely believes me when I tell them who I am. 

Why do I do this? Probably because every time another woman mentions being bisexual, especially one in a relationship with a man, there's a tiny voice that pops into the back of my head and questions, "Hmm, but is she reeeeally bi?" Of course, I wouldn't dream of actually saying that to someone. But it's an instinct, a guilty one. 

Though it's completely unfair, my doubts somewhat dissipate if I hear that they're in, or they've had, a serious relationship with a woman. In my unconscious mind, they've passed some sort of test. Okay, so they're really queer, then. 

I hate that I do this. I am literally the problem. In these moments, I see myself as the equivalent of some sleazy man at a bar who sees two girls flirting and assumes they're doing it for male attention, and it makes me feel disgusting. After all, I am quite literally the exact type of person whose identity I question. A bi woman, in a long-term relationship with a man, who's never been in a serious relationship with a woman. 

And yet, I know myself. I know the feelings I've had; I've been absolutely crazy about girls. In the absence of a serious relationship, I've started planning weddings from within the most casual talking stages. It took me a year to get over a girl I never even kissed. My feelings have been so strong that I've convinced myself, in the past, that I'm fully gay. 

But that's always the way it goes. When I like a man, I convince myself I've been lying to myself and I'm actually straight. When I like a woman, I convince myself I've been lying to myself and I'm actually a lesbian. It's like regardless of all my lived experiences, my most deeply held beliefs, and everything I stand for regarding sexuality and acceptance, there's still some part of me that has internalized the idea that bisexuality just isn't real.

Is that the fault of basically all mainstream media – before about 2015 – depicting bisexuality as a meaningless label for attention-seeking straight women and gay men in denial? At least partially. Is it the fault of passing comments I've heard, for years, from family, friends, and strangers, casually claiming the same thing? Somewhat, sure. 

Is it the fault of Caleb Hearon's five-second throwaway joke on a podcast? No, but that doesn't mean the joke wasn't part of a larger pattern of many, many throwaway jokes and comments, platformed and amplified by social media, which have helped to shape both individual biases and society's larger understanding of bisexuality in women. When I nodded along to that joke, said by a gay man to a straight woman, I was no different to anyone outside of my community looking in, who assumes that all so-called bi women aren't actually willing to date within their sex. Hearon's joke gave others and I an opportunity to laugh at bi women for not being bisexual "enough", and it revealed to me, for a second, my brain's most shameful assumptions.

The thing is, when I first heard the joke, I did feel called out. I felt a surge of the same deep shame I always feel when my identity is questioned. But I chose to laugh anyway, brushing it off as if it didn't apply to me, because I told myself I wasn't like the women he was talking about. The thing is, I am.

It's as if I thought getting offended would have been an admission of something, and laughing along just showed how cool and actually queer I was; I didn't take it seriously because I'm so secure in my identity. But am I really so secure if I feel the need to draw lines between myself and others in my own community? And what about everyone who did take it seriously? Were they offended because they had been called out for not liking women, or were they just tired of their identity constantly being discounted just as I am? What do I gain from trying to set myself apart from them? We're the same. 

Some part of me feels guilty for contributing to stereotypes about my community by existing in a happy heterosexual relationship. My boyfriend is wonderful, and I love to brag about him, but I sometimes dread telling other queer people about my relationship because I assume they'll make the exact same assumptions about me that I do about others. Hypocritical. 

It's hard to feel like I belong in queer spaces when my love life, for the last three years, has been indistinguishable from a straight woman's, with all the privileges that come with it. And it's hard not to feel the disagreeable, deep-buried instinct to "prove" my bisexuality; even though I have a boyfriend, I swear I'm one of you guys! I'm not one of those fakers. One of those attention-seekers. But do those fakers and attention seekers even exist? I've never met one. More likely, they're nonexistent stereotypes, and my desire to separate myself from them is another symptom of my own ugly unconscious misogyny and biphobia. 

As the movement to de-center men has grown traction – especially on social media – I've begun to realize just how many unhealthy ideas I've internalized regarding the male gaze. And what is arguably the biggest impact of the male gaze on society's perception of bisexuality? The pervasive concept that all bisexual women are straight, and all bisexual men are gay. Essentially, if a person is at all interested in men, then they will always prefer them over women. They must want to appeal to men, perform for men, be chosen by men, at all times. Sexuality, after all, is about men's pleasure and power above all else. 

This is bullshit, obviously. But it's what we've been told. And maybe, on some deep, unconscious level, contradicted by all my conscious thoughts, feelings, and real-life experiences, it's what some small part of me still believes. 

You can hold problematic ideas about queerness while still being queer yourself. After all, there's such a broad spectrum, containing such a wide variety of identities and experiences, it's likely that almost everyone has unfair assumptions about an aspect of the community. But it's even possible, maybe it's even probable, to hold some unconscious biases about the exact identities that you yourself possess. Having the same label as someone else doesn't absolve you of blame if you're contributing to harmful ideas about your shared sexual or gender identity. 

Regardless of how they came about, my prejudices are still my responsibility. I can't shrug my shoulders and say that comedy podcasts made me think this way, so it's not my fault and I have no obligation to change. I'm incredibly privileged to live in a time, place, and community in which bisexuality, while still stereotyped and stigmatized to an extent, is overall accepted. I've gotten a few weird comments about my sexuality, but I've never been bullied for it. I haven't been kicked out of my house. I haven't faced violence or workplace discrimination. There's decent media representation now. Celebrities are coming out as bi left and right. Most of my friends are bi. It's normal. There's no excuse for me to still harbor these doubts. 

After all, even if someone else's sexuality was just a phase, why would it even matter? I wouldn't deserve a medal for predicting it, I'd just be an asshole for not believing them when they told me who they were, with the words that felt most authentic at the time. 

Labels can change, sure. There's nothing wrong with that. But there is certainly something wrong with assuming someone's label will change, thus assuming you know their sexuality, their journey, their inner self better than they do. 

I am no better than anyone else, inside my community or outside of it. Just as I'm no less valid than a bi woman who's only dated other women, I'm no more valid than a bi woman who hasn't, or a bi woman with a preference for men, or even a woman who only identifies as bi for a short period of time. If I'm ever to hope for greater acceptance of bisexuality, I need to unlearn my own prejudices and assumptions. If we can't believe each other, how do we expect anyone else to believe us?

When a woman, especially one with a boyfriend, tells me she's bisexual, that little voice in the back of my head still questions it. Though I'm certainly trying, I don't know if I'll ever be completely rid of that annoying-ass voice. But I've learned, at least, to tell it to shut up. Other people's sexualities are not mine to judge. No one needs to prove to me, or anyone else, that they're queer enough. 

Believe people when they tell you who they are. And if you don't believe them, ask yourself why that is. Most likely, it says more about you and your own insecurities than the other person. Examine your biases. Work on unlearning them and changing your thinking. And if you still don't believe them, then smile, nod, and shut the fuck up about it.