Sex and Sexuality

Over the weekend, The Bilerico Project published a fascinating interview with Ellyn Ruthstrom, a seasoned bi activist who became the first and only paid staff member at the Bisexual Resource Center in 2011. Unfortunately, BRC’s current lack of funding prevents Ruthstrom from continuing to earn a salary, but she is still deeply involved in the organization and bi activism in general. In the interview, she explains the challenges bi organizations have faced as they’ve worked to strengthen the movement.

I’ve spent the majority of this series discussing bisexual visibility (and lack thereof) in film and television. This isn’t an accident—I’m a filmmaker and cinephile, so my passions and cultural points of reference tend to fall within the realm of audio-visual media. But these types of media have some significant flaws, the biggest one being that they tend to create isolating viewing experiences. Unless you’re a media producer yourself (which usually involves some degree of economic, racial, or cultural privilege), it’s entirely possible that you will rarely see images which reflect your experiences. If you’re watching something on the big or small screen, you have to accept the reality being presented to you, even if such a reality is counter to what you know to be true. It’s also difficult to interact with this kind of media—if a TV show makes you angry, yelling at the set or throwing popcorn may feel cathartic, but it doesn't usually result in concrete change.

But this is where newer forms of media, like social media, come in.

One of the best parts of writing for Bitch has been hearing from folks who read the series, particularly when they recommend media I’ve never seen before. Such is the case with Rose By Any Other Name, a web series that recently finished its second season. Produced by Kyle Schickner of FenceSitter Films, the series follows Rose, a woman coming to terms with her bisexuality after falling in love with a man, Anthony (played by Schickner). The episodes chronicle Rose’s relationship with Anthony as she struggles to find a way to talk about her identity with her lesbian friends, the new acquaintances she’s met in a bisexual support group, and Anthony himself. The show is incredibly funny and emotional, but most importantly, it’s honest.

(Note: This post contains spoilers about Queer As Folk.)

It was the Spring of 2003. My three best friends and I were taking a break from studying for our math final exam and wandering around our local video store, searching for a DVD to watch at my house that night. Midway through the New Releases aisle, we paused. There it was: Season Two of the American Queer As Folk. None of us had ever watched it, but we knew it by reputation from friends who were fans. As active members of our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance and avid consumers of queer media, we knew that Queer As Folk was the most overtly gay television show out there, and we couldn’t wait to give it a try. We rented the first disc, and all plans of further studying that night were put on hold. Never mind, of course, that we’d never watched Season One—we’d catch up to it later. All we knew was that we had to start watching it immediately.

Nearly a decade later, Queer As Folk has remained one of my all-time favorite television shows; other than Seinfeld, it is the only show of which I’ve seen every episode more than once. It’s flawed in its depictions of diversity, and it’s sometimes a bit too goofy for its own good, but the storylines are compelling, the characters are well-developed, and the issues addressed—covering everything from bullying to parenting to addiction to serodiscordant relationships—are handled sensitively and realistically. All of them, that is, except for sexual fluidity.