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I'm your newest friendly neighbourhood sex education blogger. Well, perhaps not so new. Up until recently, I had my own blogs: one personal, one smutty. Back a couple months ago, I shut 'em down. Frankly, I felt like I didn't have enough to say. But turns out I do, so here I am, typing at you through the ether once more…
So here’s a bit about me, to help us get acquainted.
Though I'm not always clocked as such, I identify as a queer woman. Bisexual, specifically, though I’ve just come back to embracing that term after a few years away.
Since I came out over a decade ago, I’ve spent more time single than coupled. When I was single, I dated both men and women in pretty equal measure. The only long-term relationships I’ve had were with men, but the first couple were open, so even then I kept dating women and figured that eventually I'd find a nice girl to build a life with (too).
Then I met my current partner. It was the first easy and uncomplicated relationship I’d had, and I loved that feeling. Not long after we started dating, I stopped wanting to schtup anyone else.
And I started looking at my history.
I looked at the serious relationships. I looked at the more casual relationships. I thought about the people with whom I’d most wanted a serious relationship. I discovered that men my father would describe as “light in the loafers” figured large in both those categories.
Not that the past predicts the future, of course, but it’s equally unwise to ignore your own actions. And the truth of it? I realized that although I'm attracted to people across the gender/orientation spectrum, relationship-wise I seem pulled towards a category of people I’ve come to think of as “straight boys who get called faggot.”
So here I am, 18 months into a flexibly-monogamous and solidly lovely relationship with a sweet man recently described to me as “y’know, a little queer” and faced with a problem that I am finding increasingly tiresome: sperm. Dastardly, dastardly sperm.
Which brings me to my uterus.
Hold your breath for part 2!