Not Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of Bisexual Gatekeeping Because It's Super Gross And If You Do It You’re Not The Hero You Think You Are, You’re Actually Just A Jerk

After moving cross-county to Billings, Montana, Riley is desperate to make new friends and cultivate a support system. This search leads her to find the Billings Bisexual Buddies, an activity group for local bisexuals.

Unfortunately, when Riley arrives she finds herself faced with an invasive questionnaire in order to “confirm” her bisexuality, and the skeptism only grows when Riley reveals her limited physical experience with the same gender. The group then suggests Riley pump up her numbers by heading out on a date with a beautiful sentient gate named Heather.

The rendezvous starts strong, but as Riley finds more conviction in her validity as a bisexual woman, surprising truths are reveled. Heather is not just any gate, she’s the physical manifestation of bisexual gatekeeping… and she’s the absolute worst. Ugh.

Fortunately, Riley soon finds love and encouragement from a new group of bisexual friends who support her for exactly who she is, a perfectly valid bisexual and important member of the queer community.

This tale is 4,100 words of sexless self-exploration and endorsement of all bisexual experiences not just some ridiculous measure of “validity” that’s decided by self-appointed arbiters of bisexuality.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is traditional tingler not current events tingler so usually this would only be available to TRUE BUCKAROO PATERONS (thank you true buckaroos i appreciate your kind way so much) but because subject is very important to chuck i have made readable to both tears. this will not usually be case for traditional tinglers but that is my way of proving love today thanks buds LOVE IS REAL

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NOT POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF BISEXUAL GATEKEEPING BECAUSE IT’S SUPER GROSS AND IF YOU DO IT YOU’RE NOT THE HERO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU’RE ACTUALLY JUST A JERK

By Chuck Tingle

Community is difficult to find when moving to a new town. This is something I understand in a logical sense, and I was certainly prepared for the inevitable struggle I’d face after making my cross-country relocation to Billings, Montana. However, nothing could’ve prepared me for just how rough this particular social mission would be.

I’d planned several methods of attacking this problem, but each and every one of them ended up falling to the wayside over time. The first approach is, of course, using the very job I came here for as a way of making friends. Most people naturally forge bonds with their coworkers, since these are the folks I end up spending the vast majority of my time with.

Unfortunately, this tactic only works if the people at your job are the kind of individuals you’d like to spend time with, and this isn’t exactly the case. Don’t get me wrong, my co-workers are nice enough, but they’re also much older than me and are simply functioning on a different wave length. We don’t talk politics, but something tells me it might be a disaster if we did.

Thankfully, there’s one woman at work who I do get along with, and while I’m not entirely sure if we’ll become close friends, at least we can relate as members of the queer spectrum.

The other friend-finding tactic up my sleeve is finding groups of likeminded folks who are interested in similar things, organized meet-ups with the purpose of getting to know other people over the course of a planned activity.

It’s this second option I’m focused on when Mary, my co-worker, strolls over and leans against my desk.

“You doing okay?” she questions.

I glance up from my computer screen, instinctively smiling to cover the frown that was burned across my face. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I retort.

Mary laughs. “Well, you’ve got quite the grimace going on, which is fine.”
 “Grimace sounds bad,” I admit.

Mary shrugs. “Well, sure, but it’s okay to have a hard time when moving to a new town. It’s understandable.”

My expression immediately softens as my coworker says this, accepting that a smile isn’t going to hide the glaring truth of my current frustration. I nod, then lean back in my chair to give Mary my full attention. “You’re right,” I offer. “It’s been hard.”

“You’re coming over to watch Space Raptor Butt Reunion on Monday, right?” Mary continues.

I nod. “Yeah, of course. You’ve been really kind to me and I appreciate it,” I assure her. “I just don’t want you to make up my entire social life. I need to find a big group to do things with, as well as watch Space Raptor Butt Reunion at your place.”

Mary laughs understanding completely. She glances at my computer screen, noticing now that I’m searching through the local message boards in an attempt to find one such group. “Any luck?” she probes.

I shake my head. “Honestly, not really. There are all kinds of activity groups in town, but I don’t know if I fit into any of them. This one says it’s for ‘survivors of the endless cosmic Void,’ and this one is exclusively for people who can pogo-stick.”

“You could just learn to pogo stick,” Mary retorts.

I let out a long sigh, frustrated with my options then scrolling down the page a little more.

Abruptly, my eyes light up with excitement.

“Whoa, what about this one? The Billings Bisexual Buddies,” I read aloud.

Mary’s expression immediately faulters.

“You’re bi, do you know them?” I question.

Now it’s Mary’s turn to get a little quiet. She’s still offering encouragement, but I can tell there’s a faint hit of sadness behind her eyes. “I went to one of their meetups,” my coworker explains. “It wasn’t for me.”

“Oh,” I retort, disappointed.

Mary immediately perks up, collecting herself once more. “But you should go!” she blurts. “Maybe you’ll get along better than I did. I’ve got my own bisexual meetup group now, but you might like the Buddies.”

“Really?” I question, surprised by this response.

Mary nods. “Yeah, give it a shot,” she assures me, then shifts gears. “Okay, I’m getting back to work. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

My friend heads back to her desk, leaving me to look over this exciting message board post. I read through the meetup listing, growing more and more thrilled with every passing word.

The most electrifying part, however, isn’t the content of what they’re promising from this tight knit friendship group, it’s the date of their next event: this evening.

I arrive at the park a little early, hoping to score a few points with the social club as they take note of my punctuality. Unfortunately, nobody seems to notice my arrival.

I climb out of my car and gaze out across the park, greeted by a sprawling expanse of lush green grass.

It’s here the Billings Bisexual Buddies have set up two portable goals on either side of the field. Between them, this multigendered group is kicking soccer balls about as they warm up before dividing into teams for a casual game.

One of the players notices me and waves, hustling over. “Hey there! I’m Gorga, what’s your name?”

“Riley,” I offer warmly. “It’s nice to meet you, this looks so fun.”

“Yeah it’s a great evening for a game,” Gorga replies with a nod. “Can’t wait to get started after everyone finishes warming up.”

“I guess I should do some stretches then,” I continue.

I begin to stroll past Gorga when, unexpectedly, the woman reaches out to stop me. She places her hand against my chest, halting me in my tracks. “Oh no, you can’t just join in,” she offers with utter bemusement. “The Billings Bisexual Buddies aren’t just any old bisexual meetup.”

“Oh, sorry,” I stammer.

“We have very strict standards,” Gorga explains. “Not just anyone can come in.”

The woman pulls out a clipboard and a pen, handing it over to me. “Fill this out, then we’ll talk,” she continue.

Gorba turns and heads back to the gang of soccer players, leaving me to stand in utter confusion as I stare down at the clipboard.

As I stated, making friends as an adult in a new city is hard, but jumping through these hoops just to make anintroduction is even more than I expected. It’s pretty disheartening, but there’s also something about the exclusive nature of this gathering I… kinda like.

After discovering the Billings Bisexual Buddies meetup post, there were a few other bisexual meetups that caught my eye. I’m sure each of these communities would be a great place to meet friends, but the BBB seems particularly cool.

This is the group I’ve got my eye on.

I take the clipboard and stroll over to a nearby bench, plopping down and taking my first good look at the attached paper sheet.

“Are you sure you’re not just heterosexual and trying to get attention?” I read aloud, fairly shocked by just how offensive the first question is.

Maybe this is their way of weeding out the people who can’t take a joke, I think to myself.

I put a mark in the box labeled Yes, I’m sure.

Next question: are you equally attracted to men and women?

What about non-binary people? I think to myself, growing even more suspicious of this bizarre questionnaire.

Even without this consideration, the question prompts a potent emotional weight to develop in my gut, the tension and anxiety flooding through my body. I am not, in fact, equally attracted to the variety of genders. Most of the time, my attraction is directed towards men.

My bisexuality is still valid.

I mark the sheet accordingly, suddenly wondering if I’ll be able to join this exclusive club after all.

I read the next question aloud. “Do you sit on chairs in a normal fashion?”

I furrow my brow, confused by the mention of this unexpected bisexual stereotype. The very premise of this is utterly ridiculous, as if somehow my innate sexuality would alter the way I sit in chairs.

I go to mark no, but abruptly stop when I glance down and realize my legs are awkwardly curled up below me. I’ve somehow managed to completely redefine how benches are used.

“Fine then,” I offer aloud. “One for the bisexual column.”

I continue making my way down this page, ripping through the questions with complete honesty and letting the chips fall where they may. When I’m finally finished, I stand up and carry my responses over to Gorba.

“Hey!” I call out, waving her over. “I’m done!”

Gorba extracts herself from the group and strolls over to me, curiously taking the clipboard from my hands and reading over my answers.

I watch her expression closely, captivated by the arrival of every emotional nuance as Gorba makes her way down the list. It seems ridiculous for me to care this much, but with the prospect of an entirely new social circle on the line, I can’t help but find myself quaking with anticipation.

“Uh huh,” Gorba says to herself, reacting to the line. “Hmmm.”

“Is something wrong?” I finally question, breaking my silence.

“Well, it says here you’ve only been with one other woman, and it was after a few drinks at a party in college,” Gorba continues.

“Yeah,” I confirm with a nod.

The woman just stares at me in icy silence, calculating some hidden equation within her mind. My heart is pounds hard as I wait for her reply, the tension building until it finally breaks with a devastating psychic thud.

“Yeah, I don’t think this is going to work out,” Gorba states bluntly. “At least not today.”

“Wait, what?” I stammer. “Why?”
 “This is a group for bisexuals,” Gorba continues.

“But, I’m bisexual,” I counter, still reeling.

Gorba cringes slightly. “Are you, though?”

Confused, I push onward. “Yeah,” I retort.

Gorba hesitates, then lets out a long sigh. “Listen, your numbers aren’t great. I can promise you this, today’s event is not going to work. However, we’re playing basketball tomorrow, and if you can make some changes before then you’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

“I will?” I reply.

Gorba nods, then steps a little closer, lowering her voice. She motions toward one of the players, an admittedly beautiful manifestation of a large golden gate. “That’s Heather,” Gorba informs me. “She’s single, and I know for a fact she’s not busy later. Why don’t you see if she wants to go on a date? That’s gonna make your stats look a lot better.”

I’m deeply offended by this entire thing, but it’s all presented with such blunt confidence that it’s tough to argue against Gorba without feeling crazy. Am I the one who’s off base here? Has the deep and powerful truth of my identity been a mistake this entire time?

I’ve always known I was bisexual, but suddenly the validity of my identity has been called into question by a group of people who seem to know what they’re talking about… kinda.

Gorba heads back to join her friends as I plan my next move. The games about to start, but there’s just enough time for me to make an approach with the sentient gate.

Thinking fast, I stroll over to the gorgeous living object. I’m functioning on autopilot now, feeling pretty awkward about this whole thing but forcing myself to push through the hesitation.

“Hey, I’m Riley,” I offer.

The sparkling gate smiles. “Heather,” she replies, introducing herself. “I saw you watching from over there, you’re cute.”

I can’t help but smile, flattered by the kind words of this living object. “Thanks,” I retort. “What are you doing after the game?”

Heather grins. “Going out with you, I think.”

My heart flutters a bit, skipping a beat. “Sounds good,” I offer, then turn and wander back to the sidelines.

I spend the next hour and a half watching this group of friends kick the ball around and run their scrimmage. It’s nice to get out and spend some time at the park like this, watching as the evening sun slowly begins to dip below the distant horizon. As the sky blooms in colorful bursts of purple and orange, I can’t help getting swept away in the beauty of them moment.

Still, however, a devastating ache lingers within me. I’m trying to keep a positive face, to push down the painful emotions that bubbling up within, but it’s impossible to ignore them completely. The way my whole identity has been pushed aside is more hurtful than I’d like to acknowledge, a complete and utter disregard for the very things that make me who I am.

Before I have a chance to sink too deep into these grim emotions, however, the gathering ends and players begin heading their separate ways.

The sentient gate saunters over to me, a little disheveled after their workout but somehow still alarmingly attractive. “There’s a restaurant a few blocks from here,” she offers. “You wanna walk over?”

“Sure,” I reply, and soon enough the two of us are strolling down the road at a casual pace.

The first few moments of our walk are a little awkward, not quite sure what to say as our gazes wanders across the blossoming sunset above.

“So, you’re a living object,” I finally offer. “What’s that like?”

Heather laughs. “It’s… different,” she replies. “Technically speaking, I’m a living concept, which is even more unusual. Existing in a semi-abstract state at all times has a lot of advantages, but it’s not exactly comfortable.”

I’m nodding along, listening intently. I don’t quite understand the technicalities of what she’s talking about, but I certainly know the feeling of not fitting in.

“I’ll give you an example,” the gate continues, reaching out and holding my hand. “See, I’m just a gate, and up until this point I’ve never been described as having a hand like some humanoid figure, yet I can reach out and hold your hand. However, when I pull my arm away, it disappears from existence.”

I’m still struggling to follow along, but I’m not quite sure it matters. As far as I can tell, this whole thing just seems like a ruse to touch my hand for a moment.

I can’t say I’m not impressed.

Eventually, we arrive at a quaint little diner on the corner. We head inside and are swiftly greeted by a friendly host.

“Hey there, welcome to Plot Point Diner,” the host offers, grabbing two menus from the table next to him. “Queer section or straight section?”

I furrow my brow, immediately mortified by this question.

The host notices my expression and quickly jumps in with a bit more information. “I know it seems a little fucked up, but it’s just to push the story forward. That’s kind of our thing here at the Plot Point Diner. Besides, the queer section is much, much nicer.”

He motions over toward a set of booths that are, to be perfectly honest, in much better shape than the others.

“Queer section,” I finally answer.

“Straight section,” the sentient gate blurts, our words tumbling over one another.

We exchange glances awkwardly.

“But you’re queer,” I stammer, confused.

The living object nods. “Yeah, but you’re… you know… I mean I know you’re bi, or whatever, but I thought you might feel better in the straight section.”

“Why?” I counter, confused.

The gate just stares at me uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say.

I turn back to the host. “Can we just sit out on the patio?” I question.

“Of course,” he replies with a thankful nod.

The man leads us to an outdoor dining area where patrons mingle casually, directing us toward a nice little table for two. As we sit down, I find myself thankful to end up here, enjoying the fresh air of this beautiful Montana evening.

Still, it’s tough to enjoy the night with all of these unsettled thoughts swimming through the back of my mind. I’m gazing across the table at an absolutely gorgeous physical manifestation, one who I get along with quite well for that matter, yet I can’t help but feel as though any good vibes we started with have been deflated.

A waiter comes by and takes our drink orders, but once they leave our table is plunged into a state of uncomfortable silence.

“You understand that I’m bi, right?” I finally state. “I mean, that test your group gave me was inconclusive, but we all know I’m actually bisexual.”

The gate sits back in her chair, looking me over. “Are you sure?”

While the depths of my mind have been humming with questions of self-doubt and the aching weight of imposter syndrome, this comment is the one that finally prompts the dam within me to break.

My mind is flooded with visual messages as I’m forced to confront the truth of the matter, memories spilling forth in a tidal wave. I see a variety of dreams and fantasies, moments picked from my life and washed with flickering attraction and excited curiosity. I’ve been letting over people force their doubts into this mental space for far too long, and now there’s no room left in the closet of my subconscious mind. The deep, original truth is rushing back in a powerful cascade.

Of course I’m fucking bisexual. It’s not up to these asshole to try and define that for me, it’s up to the journey of my own heart. They don’t get to tell me who I am, that’s up to me.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I state proudly. “Why do you care so much?”

The sentient gate sits up a bit. “Because, as a bisexual, it’s my duty to keep our community safe from imposters who are not perfectly even in their attraction to every gender, with a flawlessly sorted number of sexual experiences in each variation.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, but why?”

“Because… because…” she begins to stammer. “Because this is my community.”

“It’s mine, too,” I correct her. “It’s our community.”

The sentient gate seems taken aback by this, not entirely sure how to compute the new perspective that has forced itself into her steadfast moral equation.

“Listen, I know you’re trying to do what’s best, and there are plenty of valid reasons to create a space for people you can trust. Here’s the thing, though: the harm of a bad actor who slips through the cracks is on them, and the harm of keeping out even one queer person in need of a home is on you,” I explain. “There’s not much worse for someone struggling to find their place in the world than to tell them they don’t belong somewhere, especially when they really do.”

“But what if they’re faking it?” the sentient gate cries out.

This prompts me to reply with a question of my own. “Who elected you the judge of what it is? I didn’t realize you were the arbiter of what is or isn’t valid bisexuality.”

Heather says nothing in return.

As we sit here in silence, the tension building between us, I suddenly find a powerful realization washing over me, a potent truth that’s been sitting right in front of my face this entire time.

“What are you the physical manifestation of?” I finally question.

“Bisexual gatekeeping,” the living concept informs me.

I fall back into my chair, exhausted and, frankly, sick of this shit. “Uggggghhh,” is all I can think to say, rolling my eyes so hard it feels like they’re going to pop out of my skull and bounce across the table.

“What?” Heather questions.

“I’m done,” I retort, standing up and turning to leave.

Without another word I take off down the street, walking back to my car and leaving this whole chaotic mess behind me. Honestly, getting dragged through the ringer every time I speak about my personal identity is just not worth the effort anymore. I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and while I’d left the restaurant feeling quite powerful, with every step I take, I can feel the weight of the world crushing down on me.

Eventually, I just stop in my tracks. I start to cry.

Standing here in the dark, I’ve quite literally never felt so alone. After traveling across the country to a place with no support system, the fact that my own sexuality identity has now been placed in the crosshairs is a bridge too far.

“Hey! Riley!” a voice suddenly calls out.

I glance up, instinctively wiping away my eyes to find a familiar face gazing over at me from a nearby café.

It’s Mary from work, and she’s surrounded by a group of friends at a rather large table. They’re all sipping from large glasses of chocolate milk, their chatter and excitement broken by the loudly sobbing woman who has suddenly wandered into their vicinity and interrupted the good times.

“Oh, sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Mary can’t help but laugh. “Where are you going? Come sit with us!”

Struggling to collect myself, I make my way over to the café patio. The group of friends parts as I approach, making space for me at their large, circular table.

“What’s wrong?” Mary questions, the whole gang looking on with caring expressions.

I hesitate a moment, not wanting to burden them with my fraught emotional state and then finally giving in. “I went to meet up with the Billings Bisexual Buddies and… I guess I’m not bi enough.”

The crowd falls into a tense silence that’s impossible for me to read. My immediate worry is they’ll pull out another test for me to take, or start debating the merits of my identity, but these fears are quickly squashed as Mary reaches out and places her hand over mine.

“You’re bi enough,” she states firmly, a sincerity and confidence in her tone that pierces my heart like a hot arrow.

I glance around at the others, this assorted cast of characters all nodding in agreement.

“Don’t you wanna give me a test or ask me who I’ve slept with?” I question.

Mary laughs, shaking her head. “Hell no. You’re valid just the way you are.”

The rest of the crowd begins to offer revelations of their own.

“I’ve only been with women,” a man offers, “but I fantasize about men sometimes. My bisexuality is valid.”

“I’ve dated exactly twenty men, twenty women, and twenty non-binary people,” a voice chimes in. “I’m valid, too!”

“I’m asexual, and I’m bi,” someone else interjects.

“I’ve been attracted to several genders, but it changes from decade to decade,” an older voice pipes up from the back. “I’m bi and proud.”

I’m starting to realize the rigid requirements of my previous meetup group are not reflective of this entire community. In fact, Gorba, Heather and their friends seem to be the outliers. Instead, I’ve discovered a robust and diverse group of folks who are happy to welcome me exactly the way I am.

There are no purity tests here.

“You’re welcome to join this bisexual activities group if you’d like,” Mary offers. “We’re the Bisexual Buckaroo Buds.”

“I’d love too,” I offer with a smile.

“Our next big activity is tomorrow,” she offers. “We’re playing a basketball game against the Billings Bisexual Buddies.”

To be perfectly honest, our casual game against the other bisexual meetup group starts as a pretty even match. I’m descent enough at basketball, but there are other folks on my team who are absolutely incredible.

On the other side, there are plenty of great players to meet our aggression, and it’s not long before we’re trading points back and forth. We begin to rack up the score, slowly gathering a small crowd of spectators here at the local outdoor court.

Gradually, however, the tide begins to change. As the game wears on, folks start getting exhausted and tiring out, their physical training only allowing them to push so far. Both sides start swapping out players, but the Buddies roster is noticeably shorter than ours.

On our side of the court, there’s a whole crowd of people who are well rested and ready to sub in, but soon enough every single player on the Buddies is too drained to make their plays.

By the end of the game, we’ve nearly doubled their score.

“Good game,” I offer, strolling up to Gorba and her sentient gate companion.

“Good game,” she retorts, clearly humbled. “Listen, I was wrong about you. We all were. We’ve still got an opening in the meetup crew if you want in.”

“No thanks,” I reply with a smile. “I’m just fine exactly where I am.”