Half Hearted: Rumspringa

November 18, 2009 - 10:40pm | Cameron Maitland

If I’m to be the Carrie Bradshaw of Crab Town, I should shed light on one thing I failed to mention before: sexuality. If you’re one of my family members that accidentally ‘Googled’ this, now is your time to move on….

Now that it’s just us girls, I’ll define my sexuality in a way we all understand: I’m a Miranda. That is to say that my sex life is slapstick, infrequent, and often spent involved in B-plots more scatological than sexual. It also applies because I'm a bit of a Cynthia Nixon. I play a believable heterosexual; but in my private life, I could randomly fall in love with a bull dyke. Wait, strike that. Reverse it.

This isn’t a poorly articulated step out of the closet. I love women. I love the flavour of them in a way that could turn the average gay stomach. But my heterosexuality is less a closet than a pantry with ever-swinging saloon doors. God, now I’m even confusing myself.

Without mixed metaphor, I can say that my sexual experience lies with women, but my mind remains open. Guys are attractive too. I mean…muscles...have you seen those things?

As with all theorists portrayed cinematically by Liam Neeson, I agree with Professor Kinsey on the matter. People don’t exist as either homosexual or heterosexual, but rather within a spectrum—freely crushing on either sex as much as they want.

In the past, I found guys attractive, head turning, and sure Ryan Reynolds' abs haunt my dreams, but nothing huge. Recently though, my spectrum swivelled—particularly in regards to one friend—and I found myself unable to articulate my feelings and remain truly heterosexual. But, even though the conceptual mechanics of homosexual sex were intriguing, the distant realities put me in a nervous fugue state.

So, yet again, I didn’t articulate a damn thing. I let things drift into a comfortably odd ‘Brideshead Revisited’-style friendship. While it’s fun to write his name over and over in my Trapper Keeper, I don’t want to be in that position again.

Yes, unfortunately, the revelation that I get boners for other boners isn’t opening this column up to sordid tales of bathhouse gloryholes. Instead, you’re just going to get more whining, arguably of an even worse ‘Charlotte Bronte fainting couch’ variety.

But why even bring this up? Because, faced with the previous column’s romantic conundrum, I wonder if the root is a reliance on broken heterosexuality. Maybe I could ride this wave of misogynistic misunderstanding into a same-sex utopia?

If this is meant to be a sexual rumspringa for me, I ought to go whole hog. If I’m making a commitment to try new tactics with women, I’m making a commitment to try tactics at all with men. I will declare, for the anthropological purposes of this column, if I meet a man that interests me I will strive to be a bolder bisexual. Though I’ll hold off on growing a pencil thin moustache or getting a lot of facial piercings and silk robes until (maybe) I get a little action.

Next time: I put my money where my mouth is and go on a date. Female or Male? You just wait and see.

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