It was lust at first sight and love after the third martini. Over a get-to-know-you-dinner I discovered all I needed to know: I had found the Perfect Woman. All the boxes were ticked and the taxi was winding its way to my bedroom when she said: ‘You should know that I’m bisexual.’
She must have seen the frown on my face because she quickly added, ‘But everyone is bisexual.’
‘No. I’m not,’ I said gently.
‘Yes you are,’ she insisted.
‘No, I’m a heterosexual,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘No, we’re all bisexual,’ she said with muffled exasperation.
There followed an infantile exchange of Yes you are!/No I’m not! that ended when I snapped and shouted: ‘You bloody bisexuals are so arrogant — you think everyone wants to be just like you!’
She bolted from the cab and my life.
It was in 1970s Britain that I first heard this curious claim that we’re all bisexual.
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