Words by Kwolanne Felix

Visual Art by Marta Gómez Hervás

As a bisexual, I often feel like I’ve “lost my virginity” several times. The variety of genders that I find attractive all informs my sex life in radically different ways.  More than once, the flush-faced, sweaty-palmed, awkward teenager in me returns, and the anxiety of inexperience comes to the surface. 

For most people, the thought of having to relive losing their virginity—and those moments of angst and novelty that come with it—seems terrifying. But I’ve learned that it comes with the territory of honoring my sexuality. Those moments allow me to be in tune with myself as a sexual being, outside of rigid societal expectations and gender norms. 

I’ve known I was bisexual since I was 15, and it’s an important part of my identity. I couldn’t stuff my sexuality on a shelf and close the closet door. But existing in a heteronormative society, I learned about sex with men first. Even though those experiences were in many cases loving and enjoyable, I struggled to break out of the societal expectations of straight sex. I took on the default woman’s role as a passive recipient of sex. I first understood sex as an act that was done to me, an act that men did for their pleasure, and that I had a duty to receive.

This wasn’t always the fault of my male partners. This is the way we are all socialized to understand sex under the patriarchy. As a young person, I didn’t feel the need to have a conversation with men about pleasure, desire, roles, and the feelings surrounding sex. I thought I’d watched enough television and read enough magazines to know what “should happen.” In fact, these assumptions that everyone knows what “should” happen stifled my sexual exploration. I was so afraid of looking naive and inexperienced that I refrained from asking, not only my male partners but myself, important questions about sex. 

I never asked myself what I wanted from sex. Instead, I performed the role of the timid submissive that I thought I had to play. This lack of insight caught up to me in my queer relationships. Even though I’d had sex before, I wasn’t used to talking about it with a partner. So when I found myself in queer spaces, I was unsure how to respond when asked about my sexual preferences. The shame of not knowing “what I should know” crept back in. It felt like the first time all over again, and I had no idea what to do, so I went with what I knew best: the performance of submission and timidity. That didn’t get me too far as I dated more women and non-binary people. The social scripts of hetero sex didn’t fit, and I struggled to answer questions about what I wanted out of sex and intimacy. 

Instead of answering such a daunting question, I tried to find out “what I should know.” I refocused on sex as a physical act. I flipped through Cosmopolitan Magazine’s lesbian sex positions articles and read up on the mechanics of queer sex. Queer relationships helped me break out of the mold of passiveness, and I became a more active participant. I worked up the courage to suggest new things while feigning confidence and experience. I just wasn’t ready for the vulnerability of admitting that I didn’t know what I thought I should.

I pushed off admitting this until I was confronted by my current partner. During our long-term queer relationship, I avoided the conversation of what exactly I wanted out of sex. I felt ashamed since they had a lot more precise language to describe their desires, and what and how they wanted me to show up. Since we’re a queer couple and they are gender non-conforming, there weren’t any gender roles for me to hide behind. With all my varied sexual experiences, I couldn’t find the words to pinpoint what I wanted out of sex.

I knew the positions I liked. I understood the mechanics of pleasure, and I even had some kinks. I discovered, however, that those things didn’t really answer how I wanted to feel during sex. Did I want to feel in control, controlled, playful, romanced? Did I want to take it slow, or be overcome by passion? My answer was usually “whatever you want.” As I became more vulnerable in admitting my uncertainty, I realized the vastly different gender experiences of a given partner and my own socialization all influenced what I enjoyed. My varied interests in people shaped my varied interests in sex. 

To even acknowledge my varied sexual interests, I had to throw out what I thought “I should know.” Instead, sex for me became an opportunity to discover desire, pleasure, intimacy, and connection, not only with another person but with myself. I’ve embraced the anxiety of not knowing exactly what to do as an opportunity for exploration and meaningful connection rather than fear and embarrassment. Instead of crawling back into societal expectations of what I should be doing in sex, I’ve started conversations on what it could be for my partner and me. 

My bisexuality has been a pivotal part of my identity as a sexual being. My attraction to a variety of genders allows me to confront the virgin flush-faced, sweaty-palmed, awkward teenager in me several times. I invite her with open arms and encourage her curiosity.

About the Author

Kwolanne Felix is a writer, student, and gender and climate advocate. She was born in Haiti, raised in Miami, and currently lives in New York City. She is a senior at Columbia University, studying history and focusing on the African Diaspora. Kwolanne writes creative nonfiction, opinion pieces, and personal essays where she reflects on issues surrounding gender, sexuality, and race from an intersectional perspective. Kwolanne's column “A sip of Intersectionali-Tea” ran for two years in the Columbia Spectator, as one of their most popular columns. Her writing has also been featured in feminist publications like Ms. Magazine, and Malala's digital publication, Assembly. Kwolanne has also been interviewed about her writing and work in the New York Times and Good Morning America.

About the Artist

Marta Gómez Hervás is a visual artist and illustrator from Seville, Andalusia. Her works evolves around the visual representation of non-material matters related to human connection and inner worlds. Through exploration of the core essence of these ideas, Hervás creates surreal allegories. Said allegories mainly consist in ethereal spaces inhabitated by captivating characters and symbols. Hervás’ medium of choice is the digital painting and drawing, allowing her work to be limitless yet preserving the rich visual qualities of their classical analogs.

‘Birthday Suit’ is a digital painting about the joy of stepping into our true selves. Displaying the relief and excitement of peeling off that dull skin with which we contain our authenticity, inviting the viewer to no longer hide or feel ashamed of what ignites our desires.