My first kiss was at age 11, under the bleachers at summer day camp with a girl named April. We were playing truth or dare. Everyone laughed and so did I.

“You guys should make out!”

“Eww, no, that’s so gross.” April smiled and sat back down. I didn’t think it was gross, and that grossed me out. I shoved it to the back of my head and thought of Leviticus 20:13.

I didn’t have a boyfriend in high school. My best friend was a chubby Lebanese girl named Mary. She was beautiful. Senior year I told her I had feelings for her and she was scared. She didn’t talk to me until graduation. That summer we dated, then went off to college. That was seven years ago; I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.

I had everything planned out. I pictured myself growing old in a small apartment on the north side of Chicago with a blond dyke who had a motorcycle. I pictured myself being oppressed, singled out and judged for the rest of my life. I was prepared. I wasn’t prepared for Jason. I met Jason my junior year of college at a party. Jason was a bisexual from Houston, TX and he came to Chicago hoping to be accepted. He found me. This is when I found out I wasn’t a lesbian. I fell in love with Jason and we dated for almost a year. We did a lot together, including coming out to our families. They didn’t understand.

Jason was very important to me, but both of us had to move on. After him, I dated a lot of people and had a lot of one night stands. I still don’t know if I’ll end up with a man or a woman, but I thank God every day that I live in a country where I am free to make that decision.