Is it bad to be bisexual and heteroromantic? The answer is complicated.
Your authentic expression of sexuality is never wrong. But is that what this is for you?
The term bisexual has changed drastically since I first learned what it meant, back in the late ‘90s. Not so much in practice—bisexuality has always been varied, nuanced, complex—but certainly in how we talk about it.
When I came out as bisexual in middle school, Time Magazine had just announced bisexuality as “a new sexual identity” a few years earlier. Of course, bisexuality was nothing new: Bisexuals have been a part of queer community and movements from the beginning. But the way we talked about this so-called “emerging” identity in my adolescence—post-90s liberalism, but pre-marriage equality—was limited.
Opinions about queer people have shifted in the United States over the past 25 years: In 2001, only 40% of Americans said that queer relationships were “morally acceptable.” Here in 2026, that number is up to 62%. And alongside the proliferation of the Internet—and therefore, more access to information and community for queer folks—that allows conversations about queerness, and bisexuality specifically, to broaden.
When I was growing up, so much of the discussion about bisexuality was about it being evidence of confusion, being a phase of curiosity, or being related to increasing porn consumption. And those opinions still make up a significant amount of biphobia that bisexuals experience.
But the core conversation amongst bisexuals has seemed to have shifted from “I’m attracted to multiple genders—now what?” to “Is my bisexuality valid if x, y, or z?”
Here and now, so much of the ~discourse around bisexuality, particularly online, revolves around the validation of different experiences of bisexuality: “If I experience it like this, is that okay? Am I still queer enough if my bisexuality looks like x? Can I identify as bisexual if I _____?”
And biphobic backlash has shifted, too—into why certain bisexuals aren’t allowed to claim their bisexuality, let alone queerness as a culture and community.
In this essay, I want to talk about both: Which experiences of bisexuality “count?” (Spoiler alert: It’s all of them!) And why do other queers feel so protective of queer identity?
And to have this conversation, let’s look at arguably the most controversial bisexual experience that some women claim: that of being bisexual and heteroromantic.
Are you trying to sort out your queer identity among conflicting ideas on TikTok? Put the phone down. Let’s talk about your experience in a warm, inviting atmosphere, free of biphobic judgment:
Let’s start with a definition of bisexuality that casts a wide enough net that we can virtually all agree on it, courtesy of activist and advocate Robyn Ochs: “the potential to be attracted—romantically and/or sexually—to people of more than one gender, not necessarily at the same time, in the same way, or to the same degree.”
Now let’s break this down:
Potential: This means that you have the ability or capacity to. It doesn’t mean that you’ve had to have experienced it yet, nor do you need to be experiencing it at all times. It’s an acknowledgment of the possibility.
Romantically and/or sexually: We’ll talk about this more later, but romantic attraction (the desire to be in love with someone) and sexual attraction (the desire to have sex with someone) are different experiences.
More than one gender: It doesn’t have to be all genders. (The debate about whether or not this is why the term pansexuality exists is a topic for another day.) It just has to be more than one gender.
Not necessarily at the same time: You don’t have to be attracted to multiple people of differing genders at any given moment, nor do you have to experience your sexuality as static. Sexual fluidity is allowed.
Not necessarily in the same way: You might experience your attraction to different genders differently. You might want different things with different genders.
Not necessarily to the same degree: Bisexuality doesn’t have to be a 50/50 (or 25/25/25/25, etc.) split. It’s okay to be more or less attracted to certain genders.
That is, a lot of different experiences can be categorized as bisexuality.
And under this definition, with all of its glorious wiggle room, of course you can identify as bisexual (sexually attracted to multiple genders), but heteroromantic (romantically attracted only to the gender you were socialized to be attracted to).
If this is how you experience your attraction, congratulations (confetti)! You’re bisexual!
Variations on Bisexuality Are Well-Documented
As a scholar of Human Sexuality Studies, I am blown away by the misinformation spread on social media about what does and does not “count” as bisexuality.
For one thing, the idea that bisexuality is new (or “trendy”) is ahistorical. Bisexual people have always existed and have always been involved in queer culture, community, activism, and advocacy.
For another, the notion that bisexuality has to look a particular way isn’t supported by the research—at all. 1
The Heterosexual-Homosexual Rating Scale
In 1948, Alfred Kinsey published Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (its complement, Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, was published in 1953). In it, he introduced the Heterosexual-Homosexual Rating Scale, which has now become more widely known as the Kinsey Scale. The scale ranges from 0 (“exclusively heterosexual”) to 6 (“exclusively homosexual”), wherein 1-5 represent varying experiences of bisexuality.
The Kinsey Scale is not a self-report and self-identity model, as it’s often used today (e.g., “I’m a five on the Kinsey Scale!”). Rather, Kinsey used it to demonstrate his findings on sexual behavior in men and women.
Over the course of 8,000 interviews, wherein Kinsey and his colleagues explored participants’ desires for and experiences with both men and women, the researchers found that “exclusively heterosexual” (0) and “exclusively homosexual” (6) people were rare: Most people fell somewhere between 1-5 on the scale, perhaps birthing the notion that “everyone is a little bisexual.” 2
The Klein Sexual Orientation Grid
In 1978, Fritz Klein wanted to expand upon Kinsey’s research, particularly in understanding various bisexual identities. He published the Klein Sexual Orientation Grid (often shorted to KSOG or the Klein Grid) in his book The Bisexual Option. In it, he offered a multidimensional view of sexual orientation that measured not just sexual attraction, behavior, and desire, but also emotional, social, and lifestyle preferences and self-identification. Moreover, the Klein Grid looks at those seven domains across the life span: in the past, present, and idealized future.
The Klein Grid shows, among other things, that our hetero- versus homo-behavior can differ, depending on what’s being measured. Take, for instance, the fact that most people are homosocial (that is, they tend to build friendships with those of the same gender) or that most women are homo-emotional, while most men are hetero-emotional (that is, both of these genders tend to depend on women for emotional support).
Depending on the domain that you’re looking at, you may identify as more queer-attracted or more straight-attracted. And this is true for our romantic and sexual attractions as well.
The Split Attraction Model
Conversations about differences in romantic and sexual attraction, particularly in reference to bisexuals, have been documented since at least 1879, when Karl Heinrich Ulrichs offered us the terms conjuctive bisexuality (both romantic and erotic desire towards both men and women) and disjunctive bisexuality (romantic desire for the “opposite” sex, sexual desire for the “same” sex).
But the Split Attraction Model, as we tend to talk about it, can be traced back to the asexual and aromantic communities, who wanted to help explain how they can experience one type of desire without necessarily experiencing the other. (For example, a person can be asexual, but still want romantic connection.) As this was useful to others in the queer community in explaining various ways that attraction can exist outside of norms, it’s now been more expansively used to explore how romantic and sexual attraction can differ for—well—anyone.
While many of us experience romantic and sexual attraction similarly (e.g., the same genders are in both categories, or we experience romantic and sexual attraction simultaneously), many others do not. And for those who need a model to explain that difference, the Split Attraction Model can be helpful.
This is where a lot of the conversations about bisexuality, heteroromanticism start: with the idea of split attraction.
But ultimately, it’s not a new conversation. The Klein Grid shows that our desire for same- or other-gender relationships can shift, depending on both time and domain. And the Kinsey Scale shows that we can experience preferences within bisexuality.
And these are just a few of the models offered by sex researchers! 3
Socialization Always Plays a Role
Wait—this all explains why bisexuality, homoromanticism (as well as other experiences of bisexuality) is valid. But why do some people feel so dismissive of this experience—or behave so gatekeeping of queer identity?
Well, that’s because we don’t experience our sexual and romantic desire in a vacuum.
If we could come to know our authentic attractions outside of how we’re socialized, that would be beautiful. Unfortunately, we can’t. We cannot escape the context of our society. And it’s when people don’t take that fact into consideration that some folks can be judgmental.
For example, let’s look at another hot topic in the queer community: genital preference. Might you have a genital preference? Yes. Would it exist outside of a transphobic society? We don’t know. And it’s not inherently the owning of a genital preference that’s offensive—but it’s most certainly offensive to pretend that transphobic social norms have nothing to do with how you arrived at that conclusion.
That isn’t asking anyone to change their genital preferences. But it is asking us all to think about how systems of power and oppression shape our desire.
The same issue comes up when we talk about bisexuality, heteroromanticism, especially among women: We live in a patriarchal society that tells us that men are the ultimate romantic prize—that we need validation from then, that we should (and up until recently, can only) marry them—and that women are less-than and should be treated as objects of sexual fulfillment.
It’s hard not to map that over claims of bisexuality, heteroromanticism.
When your preferences just so happen to reflect the exact social norms you’ve been acculturated under, it’s important to question—and even challenge—that.
Are you bisexual, heteroromantic? Or do you struggle to access romantic desire for women in a world that has taught you only to seek out men for relationships?
Are you bisexual, heteroromantic? Or is it just easy for you to see women as sexually desirable in a culture that all but forces you to sexualize and objectify women’s bodies?
We may never know. But it is important to consider.
Compulsory Heterosexuality
Cisheteronormativity is the idea that straightness is deemed normal, expected, and desirable in society; that systems and institutions are built on the assumption of and preference for straightness; and that, that which exists outside of this norm is seen as delegitimate, deviant, or disruptive.
Compulsory heterosexuality builds upon this, by also exploring specifically the ways in which women are convinced by patriarchy that they need men to survive. Adrienne Rich, who published her essay “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence” in 1980, argues that the feminist movement has a lot to learn from how lesbians resist patriarchy—indeed, that one not need to identify romantically and/or sexually as a lesbian to practice lesbianism, namely in the rejection of female reliance on men.
Both cisheteronormativity and compulsory heterosexuality play a role in how we understand our desire. And it is hard to claim strictly romantic desire for men, but sexual desire for women and queer genders as authentic under these systems.
That doesn’t mean that bisexuality, heteroromanticism can’t exist or that it’s wrong. But it is curious that this seems to be the most common split attraction experience among women within cisheteropatriarchy.
If you want to read more on this, I highly recommend Audre Lorde’s work on what she calls “the erotic” (it will blow your mind), as well as Dr. Jane Ward’s book, The Tragedy of Heterosexuality.
Internalized Homophobia and Misogyny
Similarly, those of us who are marginalized in any given way will experience an internalized version of that oppression, wherein we turn oppressive beliefs onto ourselves and others like us.
Internalized homophobia is the enactment of cisheteronormativity on ourselves and other queer people. Internalized biphobia or lesbophobia are subsets of this that can come up for women who are attracted to marginalized genders.
Internalized misogyny is the enactment of patriarchal oppression on ourselves and other women and girls. A great example of this is how we are raised to compete against, put down, and gossip about other women—something that, as feminists, we have to unlearn.
Together, these can create thought patterns like “I could kiss a girl, but I could never go down on one” or “I sleep with women, but I won’t date them.”
Where did we learn that women are good for sex, but not for romantic commitment? Where did we learn that vulvas are ugly or otherwise gross? 4 Where did we learn that queerness is about sex (deviant, sinful), but love (pure, ideal) is tied to straightness?
These are homophobic, misogynistic beliefs.
And when we use them to describe experiences of bisexuality, heteroromanticism, it will call into question the internalized homophobia and misogyny that might be playing a role in your understanding of attraction.
For some queers, when they hear these sentiments—or perhaps unfairly conflate all bisexual, heteroromantic identity with these types of statements—they see a giant red flag.
The work for you, as someone who identifies as bisexual and heteroromantic, isn’t to change your identity. It’s to explore and question your experience of attraction. It’s to dig deep to root out internalized homophobia and misogyny (it’s ur life’s work, after all). It’s to challenge where your ideas about desire come from.
And sometimes, you won’t come up with a clear answer. That’s okay. Sitting in the ambiguity of “Which of my desires are authentic, and which are situated within my socialization?” is uncomfortable, but it’s survivable. And that internal work can only help you better understand yourself!
If you want a TL;DR version, this is it: Bisexuality is a varied experience. One of those variations is bisexuality, heteroromanticism. It’s important to explore how we come to these conclusions about our identities, especially since our desire is contexualized within our socialization. We can do both: feel solid about how we understand ourselves, but also be curious about how that understanding developed.
Your authentic expression of sexuality is never wrong. Exploring if this way of understanding ourselves is truly authentic or perhaps more influenced by our socialization than we originally thought only gets us closer to what queerness is all about: understanding ourselves outside of social norms.
Love,
Melissa
If this essay just gave you a million different thoughts that you want to process, I’m here to be a sounding board. Schedule a consultation call so we can figure out what you need and how I can help!
1 Unfortunately, most research looks at gender through a binary lens, only exploring the experiences of cis men and cis women.
2 While that could be argued to be scientifically accurate when looking at how people are oriented and behave, it is not true as to how people identify. So please stop saying this! It’s offensive to erase monosexual identities!
3 Not to mention that research, as an oppressive institution, is not the end all, be all of understanding human experience.
4 Not all women have vulvas, and not all people with vulvas are women. But as we live in a cisnormative society, the cultural distaste for vulvas is intrinsically connected to misogyny.