Dear Straight Guys, I'm Not Your Bro

I was on Day 3 of a new job. I'd come out to my coworkers earlier that morning. But now the day was about to end and the only people left in the office were three straight men and me.

We wear headsets at work, which helps us to communicate with each other when we're not sitting side by side. While I was in the back room running some dishes under hot water, I heard the voice of one of my colleagues whispering into my right ear: "Hey, so, McKenna, what kind of girls are you into?" I looked up from the suds slowly, in the style of Jim from The Office, making an exasperated face at an invisible camera.

I've been experiencing this kind of thing ever since I first came out, at the age of 18. Often, when I come out as bi to a straight man, his first response is to ask "what kind of girls are you into?” or something equally invasive. I don't know why exactly — I can only guess it's some kind of attempt to bond with me. The conversation usually leads me down a rabbit hole into a world in which straight men feel oddly comfortable using inappropriate and misogynistic language around me.

On that particular day, I felt trapped. I was new at my job and still trying to connect with my peers. So I answered the question honestly. I told him that I'm not attracted to any specific kind of woman. I like women in general. I don't really have a type.

I didn’t ask my coworkers what kind of women they were attracted to. But nevertheless, the three straight, cisgender males started talking about what kind of "chicks" they were into, and specifically, what race(s) of "chicks" they preferred.

It was deeply horrifying — but it wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened to me. When I was at college, a man I barely knew decided that it would be OK to tell me about what he felt had been sub-par fellatio from his girlfriend. A friend-of-a-friend once asked me what it’s like to have sex with people of my own gender and what my favorite part of the female body is. A mere acquaintance once confided in me that he found one of our mutual female friends ugly.

That particular night in the work kitchen, I spend several moments just standing there at the sink, wondering what it is about me that makes so many straight men think it's OK to talk to me about this stuff — let alone to do so before I've even had time to learn their last names. But I already knew the answer. It's my sexuality. My identity as a bi woman gives them the green light. The fact that I myself am interested in women makes me seem like less of a woman to them and they therefore assume that I won't — can't — be offended by what they're saying. They assume that I would want to join in with such conversations, that I'd leap at the chance to peek behind the curtain and be "just one of the guys."

I’ve asked around among my queer lady friends to see if they have experienced the same phenomenon. It turns out that my case is far from rare. And such intrusive behavior doesn’t always stop at inquiries about our sex lives or the kinds of women we’re attracted to. I’ve often been asked to act as a "wingwoman" and so have my friends.

I’m open to the idea of being a wingwoman to a friend of mine. I have lovely friends and would enjoy setting them up with other lovely people. But it feels very different when the request comes from an almost total stranger. If I don't know you, why would I feel comfortable helping you to hook up with fellow women? I'm not going to endorse anything or anyone before I've done extensive research, and I'm certainly not going to throw my support behind some dude I barely know who's trying to get into some woman's pants. Plus, if after finding out that I’m bi, you immediately tried to talk to me about sex and/or asked which “chicks” I find hot, I’m not going to help you get close to any woman, ever.

Listen, straight guys: If you want to bond with me, try doing it the normal way. Get to know me on a human level. Let's talk about our hobbies and about our favorite TV shows. Don't treat me any differently simply because you’ve found out that we’d both leap at the opportunity to date Megan Fox (who is bi, by the way, and would almost certainly disapprove of your weird attempts to bond).

If I know you — really know you — of course, I'll talk about women with you. I talk about women with my father, my boyfriend, my brother, and my best friend all the time. But I know them. I don't know you.

You're a stranger and that means that I don't want to know what you look for in a woman. I don't want to learn about what turns you on. I don't want you to ask me about my own turn-ons and sexual experiences. And I certainly don't want to use my gender and sexuality to help you hook up.

I don't know you. And although you know I'm queer, that doesn’t mean that we’re now best friends.