Bisexual.

 I hate that word. I cringe when I say it, when I hear it, when someone uses it to confirm or deny my sexual identity. It's the equivalent to "mulatto." It's icky and outdated and strangely detached from feeling. Bi gives me the creeps.

 Bi is everything uncertain, everything in-between, everything fence-straddling. Bi is being unable to make up your mind. Bi is not committing fully. Bi is being too afraid to step all the way out of that proverbial closet, or bi is following the latest pop culture trends, clamoring for attention at the bars or having one too many shots. Bi is a hanging chad, an unsigned contract, a half-answered email.

 Never -- or, at the very least, rarely -- is a bi a legitimate, understood, accepted sexual identity.

 I am bisexual. I've known this from the moment I was ever aware of having crushes, male or female. I mostly liked boys, and like any normal kindergartener, then middle schooler, teenager and college co-ed, I crushed, flirted, dated, fucked, loved, lusted, admired and fantasized all about...  boys. Except, of course, when I'd do those things with girls, too.

At first this was my dirty little secret. It wasn't until late college when I dared even drop the tiniest hint that "bi" was a part of my make up. Liking and lusting women was only acceptable in the context of Jill Sobule, Girls Gone Wild, that classic Neve Campbell and Denise Richards movie (you know, that glorious pool scene) and later (for better or worse), Katy Perry and Lindsay and SamRon. That is, my split sexuality was okay in the context of trendy, pop culture, sassy role playing -- but that's where it ended, right? I didn't really like girls for real... except, um, I did.

In some ways, bisexual individuals are the last great sexual frontier. The vast majority of Americans can understand gay, even if they don't agree with it. We can spot it, identify it, rally after it, dedicate a cable network to it. We have the gay rights movement, gay pride parades, gay magazines, gay cruises, even a gay chamber of commerce. We have gay politicians, lawyers, doctors, teachers. We bisexuals? We're stuck with Lindsay Lohan, Cinemax after midnight and a kitschy pop song every decade or so.

Why is bi still in the shadows? Why do bisexuals still feel so alienated, even when LGBT culture is becoming so mainstream? Afterall, there we are right there in the acronym, in between the gays and the trannies.

We're a misunderstood, complicated bunch.

You mean, we want to have sex with men AND women? How do we decide whom to flirt with at a bar or take home at last call? Do we just sleep with one gender and settle down with the other? Do we want gay marriage too? Couldn't we just marry the opposite sex and avoid the whole kurfuffle? Aren't we being selfish? Isn't this a stage? Is this some kind of manifestation of third wave feminism? Are we trying to prove a point?

We raise a whole new crop of issues that people simply don't have the energy to evaluate. Pick a side and stick with it, they think.

 The truth is, I've never felt accepted even within LGBT community. I'm not a lesbian. I'm not even your stereotypical (heavy emphasis on “stereotypical”) girl that's into girls. I'm a lipstick-wearing, Sex and the City (rerun) watching, boy-crushing, stiletto wearing, half-lesbian cliché. I'm ashamed to say I haven't seen a single episode of "The L Word," the idea of wearing (or being received by) a strap-on terrifies me to no end and I'm about as attracted to butch women as a gay man is to me. In other words, I have zero street cred in the lesbian community and gay men think my mere existence is minimalizing their cause.

My particular sexuality -- my fondness of men and centerfold-resembling women makes me a joke in the LGBT -- and, in many instances, the feminist -- world. And I understand. Because of the duality of my sexual orientation, I can "pass" for straight when it’s convenient. It's true: I don't know what its like to be gay bashed. I've never had to experience the awkwardness of taking a same sex partner to the company holiday party, the fear of getting bullied in school, the ire of family members who can't accept my lifestyle. When needed, I just slip into my heterosexual identity and no one knows the difference.

But is it that easy?

Sure, I'm not the easily-spotted lesbian archetype, and therefore I don't bear the full brunt of the burden of homophobia -- but this disguise, by default, also closets me automatically. Close friends know that sometimes I'm with women and sometimes I'm with men, but my family, my coworkers, my acquaintances -- not a clue. Nothing about my outward appearance betrays my bedroom preferences, so I hide. This has its own consequences, to be sure, not the least of which is rarely being able to find another woman like myself since we've all got our heads buried in the sand. When I have stumbled upon a girl who also identifies as bi (though few used the actual term), it was merely by accident, perhaps a whispered confession after 10 too many vodka tonics. A former girlfriend, a gorgeous, feminine-to-the-max sorority girl who always dated the hottest guys on campus, wondered how many more of "us" there were out there, keeping the secret shoved so far deep down that we barely even entertained the thought ourselves. There we are, hiding in plain daylight.

Yet even those close to me don't take my sexuality seriously. Boyfriends used to laugh and wink -- did I want to put on a little girl-on-girl show for them? Girl (platonic) friends seemed titillated ("I've always been curious, too.." they'd hint after a night out drinking) or suspicious ("But we're just friends, right?"). Well-meaning pals unintentionally belittled my identity: "Well, we all fall in love with a person," they preached, trying to ignore the issue of gender. Well duh, I thought. No one falls in love with a penis or vagina, no matter what their orientation. Even market research studies, social networking profiles and most dating Web sites ignore us -- "bisexual" is very rarely an option.

It wasn't until I moved to New York that I felt I could own my sexual identity in all of its ambiguity and political incorrectness.

C started at the PR firm I worked at just a few weeks after I did -- we were going to be the new girls together, and for that I was grateful. Instantly I was drawn to her. She was gorgeous in an organic Brooklyn kind of way, and absolutely glowed. I knew immediately she too was into girls -- turns out bisexuals have a "gaydar" afterall. Months later I confirmed my hunch via office instant messaging about my hookup the night before.

"What was he like?" she asked.

"Well... it wasn't a 'he,'" I replied, daringly.

"Me too," she typed.

I think I finally exhaled then. She was, believe it or not, the fist bisexual woman I'd met, aside from the few female hookups I'd had in the past -- although none of them claimed their bisexuality. But C owned it. During a train ride back from a company retreat, we secluded ourselves in a car away from our coworkers, talking the whole time about our sexual identities. I consider it my first "coming out" moment. After 25 long years, I actually said aloud for the first time, "I'm bisexual." And someone else could relate. I was beyond thrilled to have found a confidant in her. Yet even in the excitement of realizing I wasn't alone, I found myself mired in the very bisexual discrimination I couldn’t stand. I often would resent C's boyfriend -- not because I necessarily wanted her, but because I wanted my newfound bi buddy to join the trenches with me, to fight for the cause! How could we spend two hours talking about the secret world of bi and then she could just go home to her banker boyfriend? A part of me felt betrayed, no matter how crazily unjustified it was.

That same summer I continued the bi breakthrough when I went on my first date with a woman. Sure, I'd slept with women before, but it was always under the guise of a party trick, a drunken dare, a freak occurrence, a friendship gone too far.

But N -- N and I went on a proper date. We met at the Flatiron Lounge, a perfectly dark, sexy, gorgeous little haunt. We ordered drinks. We nibbled on appetizers. We shot each other cautious but knowing looks. We giggled uncomfortably when a group of men tried to hit on us, totally unaware that we were the ones trying to pick each other up. Hours later we hailed a cab and on our way to her favorite late-night pizza joint, she kissed me, hard and fast and eager. She invited me up to her place after we gorged on slices and Cokes, but, like any good girl on a first date, I demurely declined. Nothing more ever became of N and I, but I finally felt like I'd owned my bisexuality. I'd vocalized it. I'd claimed it. I expressed it in an evolved fashion, without having to hide my desires behind a trend.

Bisexuality is still the red-headed step child of the LGBT world. We're far from united. I'm the first to admit I've been partly responsible for my own "accidental" closeting -- there were times along the way when I could have casually dropped the b word into conversation, corrected someone when they assumed the date I was discussing was a man, or spoken up when a friend said she "didn't believe" people could go both ways. I was far too cozy in my straight world, even if that wasn't the whole story.

I still don't like the word "bisexual." It's all kinds of ill-fitting ickiness. But it's me, and I'll try to get used to it, one cringe-inducing proclamation at a time. And to all of the other hundreds and millions of secretly bisexual women out there -- hi. I'm glad we had this talk.