You ever walk into a coffee shop and feel like the barista just called out the wrong name for your order?
Like you’re standing there waiting for “Sarah,” but they yell “Jessica!” and everyone turns to look at you.
That’s how it feels when people call me “girl.”
Like, “Uh… I think you’ve got the wrong one. That’s not who I ordered.”
In high school, my friends and I once sat in a circle and tried to guess each other’s sexualities—like it was a personality quiz or a birthday party game.
And when it got to me?
Every single person said bisexual.
And I—completely in denial—was like,
“Oh. Um. Interesting guess. Wrong though.”
Then I went home, opened the family computer, and typed into Google:
“Am I gay?”
Then immediately cleared the search history.
Like Homeland Security was going to find it and call my mom.
That was the bisexual energy before I had a label.
Then 11th grade hit, I got really into thrifting, and started dressing in baggy clothes—like the exact midpoint between a teenage boy and an out-and-proud lesbian.
Let’s just say… it made things a little tricky with guys.
They’d look at me, then look around, and then point at themselves like, “Who, me?”
Like it was the biggest plot twist of their week.
We’d talk, I’d try to flirt, and they’d act like I said something shameful.
But then, late at night, I’d get the DMs:
“I’ve never told anyone this before…”
“You’re the only person I can say this to…”
And suddenly I realized:
They didn’t see a girl.
They saw a priest.
I was out here trying to flirt, and they were treating me like I was taking confession.
I’m in a thrifted hoodie, sitting in my room, like:
“Go ahead, my child. The DMs are private.”
And the stuff they told me?
It wasn’t even deep.
It was like: “Sometimes I care about how I dress.”
Or: “I think I like Frank Ocean.”
And the funniest part?
If they saw me in public—outside the sacred DMs, away from the digital confessional booth—
they’d look like they saw a ghost.
Like the sheer sight of me might expose something they whispered in private.
One guy looked at me like I was about to walk into a crowd and yell,
“This man complimented another guy’s shoes… and forgot to say no homo after!”
Like I was some kind of risk to national security.
Like knowing he liked nice shoes was enough to ruin his whole reputation.
They acted like I was carrying a megaphone and a moral obligation to out every boy who had ever cared about color coordination.
Meanwhile, I was over here just trying to exist—getting hit with lesbian allegations like it was jury duty.
Even my mom joined in.
We had never even talked about relationships. Not once.
But the second I started wearing flannels?
She raised one eyebrow so high it reached another dimension, sat me down, and said,
“Are you a lesbian?”
And I said no.
Which, technically… wasn’t a lie.
But she didn’t ask if I was bisexual.
That word never even entered the chat.
Apparently, flannel is its own sexuality.
Eventually, I came out as bisexual and thought,
“Cool. Subscription selected. Label confirmed. Done.”
But then, out of nowhere, the queer community knocks on my door like:
“Hey! Congrats—you’ve been upgraded to the premium nonbinary plan.”
And I’m like,
“Wait—I didn’t subscribe to that.”
But the signs were all there.
The way being called “girl” felt like someone yelling the wrong coffee order.
The way gendered language always felt like someone else’s coat I was being told to wear.
I’d already been wearing something that didn’t fit—like when you walk into a bra store dead set on your size, and it turns out… you’ve been wrong for years.
And once you try on the size that actually fits, it’s like:
“Oh… so this is me?”
And before I even had the words, people saw me and went,
“Lesbian.”
That was the guess.
The safe bet.
And I get it. I do.
But I’m like,
“Ohhh, so close. You’re almost there—but not quite.”
Because the men I like?
They all look like they could be gay—
Soft voices, flawless skin, hands that have never done hard labor once in their lives.
So when we’re together, we probably look like we’ve got our real partners tucked away in the guest house.
And he’s texting his boyfriend like,
“They made me watch another rom-com. Help.”
But honestly, the women I like?
They’d lead me on just as much as the men.
So maybe men and women aren’t that different after all.
Usually, the women I like are a little androgynous—hard to tell their gender, which I kind of love.
Maybe it’s because gender’s always been a question mark for me too.
So if you ever saw me and thought,
“That’s a lesbian…”
I’m just gonna ask—
“Mom, is that you?”
But really?
I’m just the deluxe, mystery edition.