"You know, don't lesbians keep a bunch of carabiners?" my roommate asks me, and my stomach drops a little. Ah, a lesbian. If only one were in the room with us, because that, I am not. I roll my eyes a little and move on. I only have one carabiner and it's for my car keys, not stereotypes.

"What percentage are you?" my other friend asks me, referring to which gender I like more right now. My heart races a little as I try to think of an answer, one that will keep them from doubting how much I love boobs but confirm that I still understand their heterosexual relationships. I tell her 70/30, with a preference for women. Truthfully, I hadn't thought about anyone else in months, not since I'd met my girlfriend and everyone else, regardless of gender, stopped mattering. But that's too romantic for my straight friends to hear, so I keep it to myself.

"So, would you be down to have a threesome?" my ex boyfriend asks me. I'm fifteen when my first boyfriend asks me this, having just told him that I liked women too. Trying not to seem too sheltered, I answer maybe. But I really am that innocent, because I don't even know what a threesome would entail, much less if I would want to have one.

"How does it work?" my friend asks me in the car. Now how the hell do you explain gay sex to a straight woman who you know will squeal and say "gross" when you talk about oral? I am alone, deeply alone as I drive and try to explain and make my sex life seem as intimate, beautiful and connective as hers. I want her to understand, to talk to me like she did before. She asks questions and squeals, scandalized as I become smaller by the minute.

"Wait, you're not a lesbian?" my friend asks over the beat of the Brazilian funk. It's almost too loud for me to hear her, but the unmistakable "L" word stands out. I just returned to the group after kissing a woman, my second of our night out club hopping. I laugh in my friend's face, telling her no, I'd dated a man for years before then. She's shocked, because I only talked about kissing girls after that.

"But how did you date someone so masculine before and she is so..?" my mom asks me. My second ex boyfriend that she loved was 6'5" with a movie star smile, while my girlfriend stood a couple of inches shorter than me with a quiet smile and curves. I have no idea how to answer her, not expecting to have to prove my attraction by comparing them to each other.

I wish I could ask her, would you compare a pearl to a diamond in their beauty?

"It is your choice, does she make you happy?" my grandma asks me. My adrenaline keeps me from crying, but I still cannot look at her, the racing of my heart keeps my head stuck forward like I'm running on a treadmill. Yes, of course she makes me happy. I would not have forcibly taken on the label of lesbian if she had not, would not have told my Christian conservative grandmother if it was a fling. And if she didn't make me want to do a cartwheel and sing every time we kissed, I would've kept on being "straight" with the quiet submission of those who are invisible.

"Do you get it now?" my sister asks me. Yes, I get it now. There were two things I could be, straight or gay, and I now fell into the second. You can only be one. There is only one.

Amelie A personal essay