I think I’m straight. From time to time I might get the urge to have sex with a guy, but I’m not attracted to them.
Blaise – a man who participated in Amanda Hoffman’s and my research with men who think of themselves as straight and have sex with both women and men – described his sexual orientation in these terms (Carrillo and Hoffman 2017). Blaise justified his straight identity by arguing that he has a primary sexual attraction to women, and that his sexual interactions with men need not transfer him out of the category heterosexual.
Some might claim that Blaise is merely in denial of his “true” bisexuality. By contrast, this chapter argues that individuals such as Blaise engage in considerable self-reflection that allows them to expand the definition of heterosexuality and make it compatible with same-sex desires and behaviors. I call this phenomenon heteroflexibility to highlight that it implies elasticizing the conventional definition of heterosexuality, which is typically defined as exclusive “sexual desire or behavior directed toward a person or persons of the opposite sex” (Dictionary.com). (Note the phrase “opposite sex,” which is conventionally used to distinguish between men and women in a binary fashion, and which represents the way in which many people think about gender. As we will see later in the chapter, recently this notion has been problematized.)
Importantly, those who can be placed under the rubric of heteroflexibility are people who reject the label of bisexuality – at least as a public identity – and who actively work at maintaining their straight identities. In other words, people who fall under the rubric of heteroflexibility often have thought quite carefully about their sexual orientation and have concluded that they are primarily heterosexual even if they engage in behaviors that others might call bisexual (and even if they themselves privately acknowledge that they “qualify” to be called bisexual). Moreover, they see this conclusion as advantageous, because they understand the privileges that heterosexuals possess in society compared to bisexuals, gays, lesbians, or queers.
A central claim of the chapter is that individuals’ construction of heteroflexibility reflects their maintenance of a strong sense of sexual “normality” and “abnormality,” and it reflects the fact that most people are sexually socialized into a heterosexual world. Thus, people find it essential to expand the definition of heterosexuality rather than face the possible social consequences of abandoning the category “heterosexual” that would follow from their adopting public bisexual (or perhaps even queer) identities.
Those who seek to make definitions of heterosexuality more flexible increasingly find some validation of heteroflexibility, even in a cultural context in which it is still often strongly questioned. Contrary to what many people may assume, heteroflexibility is no longer a hidden issue in American society. In fact, it has been openly represented in several popular American films and television shows over the past couple decades. For example, think of these characters: Wade Wilson, the main character in the 2016 superhero movie Deadpool, dabbles with his attractions for other men and flirts with other men while being comfortably and confidently in a heterosexual relationship. Annalise Keating, the main character in the television thriller series How to Get Away with Murder (2014–2020) has a heterosexual marriage, but also has dated women, without ever identifying as bisexual. In 2007 The D.L. Chronicles, the character Boo maintains a relationship with his girlfriend while also having sex with other men. And in Orange Is the New Black (2013–2019), the main character, Piper Chapman, engages in bisexual behaviors while presenting herself as a conventionally straight woman. Other examples are Frank Underwood in the drama television series House of Cards (2013–2018), Lily Aldrin in the sitcom How I Met Your Mother (2005–2014), and Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist in the 2005 movie Brokeback Mountain. (I thank my collaborator Amanda Hoffman for suggesting some of these examples.)
Before we proceed, let us return to the question of the gender binary: As I noted, the definitions included so far refer to gender in binary terms, based on the conventional idea that humans can be neatly divided into two gender categories that are most often taken for granted: men and women. However, in recent times we have come to understand that gender must be understood in nonbinary terms and, furthermore, not all people who were labeled male at birth are men and not all people who were labeled female at birth are women. This should prompt us to think about the complex intersections between sexual orientation and gender categories, particularly if we consider them both in nonbinary terms. In this chapter I use binary terms and use sex and gender terms interchangeably because that language figures prominently in the interpretations of research participants in studies of heteroflexibility. As you read, however, keep in mind that the terms “women” and “females” should be thought of as “cisgender women” and “men” and “males” mean “cisgender men,” with “cisgender” referring to persons “whose gender identity corresponds with the sex the person had or was identified as having at birth” (Merriam Webster).
The term heteroflexibility began to be used by young people around the turn of the twenty-first century, along with other labels that suggested that some people were challenging the boundaries of heterosexuality. One of the first scholars to note this was sociologist Laura Essig (2000: no page number), who described the label “heteroflexible” as a label that some of her college students were using to indicate that a “person has or intends to have a primarily heterosexual lifestyle” but “remains open to sexual encounters and even relationships with persons of the same sex.” Essig elaborates: “It is a rejection of bisexuality since the inevitable question that comes up in bisexuality is one of preference, and the preference of the heteroflexible is quite clear.” Note that, in this case, heteroflexible is reported as a label of identity and as the opposite of being “heterorigid.”
For the purposes of this analysis, I have adopted the term heteroflexibility to describe the process of turning heterosexuality into a more elastic category, rather than as a primary label of identity. In other words, I am mostly interested in the process through which individuals expand the definition of heterosexuality, and by extension how other sexual orientation categories might also be expanded. One could imagine, for instance, that some people might begin to talk about “homoflexibility” or to call themselves “homoflexible” to signal that they are gay or queer but open to having different-sex sex.
In addition to heteroflexible, other labels denoting the increasing elasticity of heterosexuality popped up around the same time, including “bi-curious,” “mostly straight,” and “mostly heterosexual.” It is important to note that these labels do not necessarily signify the emergence of new kinds of sexual practices. For instance, there is historical and anthropological evidence that there have always been people who think of themselves as “normal” or “straight” and who engage in bisexual behaviors (Anderson 2008; Carrillo 2002; Chauncey 1994; Chauncey 1985 [1993]; Humphreys 1970; Kunzel 2002; Rupp 2012; Ward 2015). Hoy and London (2018: 5) estimate that, nowadays, in the United States “65.2% of all women who report having ever engaged in same-sex behaviors are heterosexually identified” as well as “43.4% of men.” These are not small numbers and greatly surpass the percentages of people who self-identify as bisexual or gay/lesbian in studies of sexual identity (Rupp and Taylor 2010).
In a different approach to this topic, scholars who are psychologists have proposed the category “mostly heterosexual” as a distinct sexual orientation that is different from both heterosexual and bisexual. They claim that this category can be verified as distinct by physiological studies of sexual arousal (Savin-Williams and Vrangalova 2013). This research differs from mine in that its goal is to demonstrate that we need, at least for scholarly analysis, more than the three well-established categories of sexual orientation (heterosexuality, bisexuality, and homosexuality). It argues that we need to create new categories – at least two or perhaps even more – and then confirm them physiologically as distinct from each other.
My goal instead is to understand how individuals expand the boundaries of the existing sexual categories, and to do this I rely on a social constructionist and symbolic interactionist approach (Plummer 1982). This approach centers on the idea that sexual meanings are socially constructed through interactions among people. I am therefore interested in how our participants put their sexual interpretations to work, assigning meanings to their sexual desires in the context of their relationships and interactions, and their self-definitions of their sexual identities. A similar approach has been used by several other scholars referenced in this chapter. To summarize the distinction between the concepts, the idea of “mostly heterosexual” as a distinct category that is different from heterosexuality would transfer men such as those in our study out of the category “heterosexual,” whereas the notion of “heteroflexibility” instead transforms heterosexuality to make it more elastic and malleable.
In addition, some scholars who are interested in these topics also conflate heteroflexibility with a different concept that they have labeled “sexual fluidity.” However, heteroflexibility and sexual fluidity are not the same thing. Sexual fluidity refers specifically to the experiences of people who move across different sexual orientation categories, at different points in their life, and as their life circumstances change. For instance, the category of sexually fluid women might include those who have thought of themselves as lesbian at some point, and later as bisexual, and later possibly also as straight, and then they may identify as lesbian or bisexual again. In what is perhaps the most robust research on sexual fluidity conducted to date, psychologist Lisa M. Diamond (2008) followed a group of women who initially self-identified as lesbian. Over a period of several years, a considerable number of Diamond’s participants shifted their self-definitions of sexual orientation, calling themselves lesbian, straight, or bisexual at different moments. This often depended on their specific relationship contexts and on the gender of their sexual or romantic partners at the time of each interview.
Sexual fluidity has also been identified among men, particularly those who shift their identities from heterosexual to bisexual or gay at some point in their lives (Diamond 2016; Katz-Wise 2015). But again, sexual fluidity is different from heteroflexibility in that heteroflexibility does not involve any shifts in one’s self-definition of sexual identity. People who fall under the rubric of heteroflexibility seek to remain straight regardless of their same-sex desires and behaviors.
As we have seen, maintaining an identity as straight is a primary feature of heteroflexible sexualities. For instance, in our study of 100 men who had sex with both women and men, all self-identified as straight. In fact, half exclusively used the term straight to describe themselves. The other half, however, thought of themselves primarily as straight but also mentioned additional labels that denoted their being aware that their sexualities depart somewhat from a strict definition of heterosexuality. Those labels included “bi-curious,” “mostly heterosexual/straight,” “with bi tendencies,” “heteroflexible,” “straight but also gay,” “leaning toward bi,” and “straight with a pinch of bi” (Carrillo and Hoffman 2017). Among young women, other labels have also been reported, including “lesbians until graduation,” “spaghetti girls (straight until wet),” “pansexual,” and “fluid” (Rupp 2012: 849).
Implied in these labels is the notion that, despite the achievements of the LGBTQ movement, heterosexuality has a higher social status than bisexuality or homosexuality. Therefore, many straight-identified participants who engage in same-sex behaviors perceive no advantage to leaving behind the heterosexual lives into which they were socialized, sometimes in part because they also think of themselves as conventionally masculine men and feminine women (Silva 2017a, 2021, and Chapter 7 in this volume). For instance, one of our participants, Frank, eloquently remarked: “Who wouldn’t prefer a hetero lifestyle? It is what is expected of us by the society at large.” Similar cases have been reported by other scholars, including a participant Tony Silva (2017b: 79) calls Mike, who says, “we were taught that no matter what, that you’re a straight male, and you’re supposed to get married.” In our study, some men could privately acknowledge that their sexual behaviors qualify them for the label bisexual but, again, they saw no advantage to adopting that identity if they could avoid it. This applies also to straight-identified women, as reported in various studies (Budnick 2016 and Chapter 8 in this volume; Rupp and Taylor 2010; Rupp 2012; Yost and McCarthy 2012).
The perception of being straight is often strengthened by a sense of exclusive different-sex attraction, or a dismissal of one’s same-sex attraction (Budnick 2016; Fahs 2009; Rupp and Taylor 2010). In the case of women, such dismissal sometimes reflects believing that other roles – as a heterosexual wife or mother – are much more central to their identities, which makes same-sex attraction insignificant (Budnick 2016). Breanne Fahs (2009: 432) highlights the “strong normative pressures to identify as heterosexual,” which leads straight-identified women to engage in “performative bisexuality” in an effort to conform to social norms. These women interpret their bisexual behaviors as motivated by outside forces, namely men’s sexual desires rather than their own. For instance, female college students often report that they engage in bisexual behaviors to capture men’s attention at college parties (more on this later).
However, several scholars posit that straight-identified women may be more likely to acknowledge some level of attraction toward other women than men do toward other men, even when they also experience the pressure to keep their same-sex attractions and desires private (Budnick 2016 and Chapter 8 in this volume; Fahs 2009; Rupp and Taylor 2010 and Chapter 64 in this voume; Walker 2014). Indeed, straight-identified men often say that they engage in sex with other men but are not attracted to them. For instance, in our study, Sean said that “if I’m out in a social situation, I’m almost 100% looking at women, and not at men.” Sean saw his attraction to women as permanent, indicating that he is not among those “people who identify as bi-curious who are on their way to being openly bisexual or even openly gay or exclusively homosexual.” And Charlie said that when he sees “a beautiful woman walk down the street,” he
instantly can become hard and get horny… . [But] I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy walking by and got a boner. Also, I would not want to kiss or make out with them or love them. They would be more like a sexual experience.
Here we see attraction paired with love, which Ajay also emphasized: “I can’t see myself with a guy in anything more than sex… . With a girl I can see myself [spending] the rest of my life.” Same-sex sex, instead, often meant exploration and fantasy.
For some men, this also means that male bodies do not arouse them, but specific male body parts do, particularly male penises. Rodolfo, another one of our participants, said: “I never feel attracted to men physically, never have I looked at a guy and say, ‘wow, good looking guy.’ It is more about the sex part.” In Ajay’s opinion, “every time I did anything with a guy it mostly depended on their cocks. I didn’t really care what they looked like.” This may reflect that some had engaged in anal play with dildos with their female partners and then realized that “there’s just something about the living male penis that is much hotter than a toy made out of some material made to look or slightly feel like the male penis,” as Josh put it. Based on a similar assessment, Sam, another of our participants, called his male “playmates” “living and breathing dildos.”
Individuals sometimes also estimate that the frequency of their same-sex behaviors is much lower than their heterosexual behaviors, which tells them that the two are not equivalent. For instance, a participant Reback and Larkins (2010: 769) called Tony indicated that “a bisexual person has sex with … both sexes as much as possible. I’m not having sex every day, or every other day, with a man.” This also implies that heteroflexible individuals see heterosexual sex as more fulfilling. In our study, Shaun found it “odd” that oral sex with a man did not have “the same afterglow that I would have with a woman … the feel-good feeling after sex.” A male partner made him “cum harder, [but] afterward it was odd shifting back to guy talk.” He then added: “I’ve given oral-anal sex [to men], though I don’t have the same enthusiasm for it as I do giving women oral-genital contact.”
Similarly, women sometimes describe same-sex kissing in public as “not serious,” as resulting from being “trashed” from alcohol (Hamilton 2007: 164–165), or as “not sexual,” as “normal” and a practice that “doesn’t mean anything” (Yost and McCarthy 2012: 20). This suggests that heteroflexible individuals see same-sex sex as not defining of their identities, and that they also perceive it as less significant than heterosexual sex. As another young woman put it, describing same-sex kissing: “I have no problem with it. It doesn’t bother me, but it also doesn’t excite me. It’s just kind of something to do” (Yost and McCarthy 2012: 19).
Indeed, straight-identified women who engage in same-sex erotic interactions in public spaces – deep kissing and making out with each other – often say they do so for the sake of getting men’s attention (Fahs 2009; Hamilton 2007; Hoy and London 2018; Rupp and Taylor 2010; Yost and McCarthy 2012). As several scholars note, these behaviors reflect a prominent expectation of contemporary femininity in many social contexts, including within the college “hookup culture,” where there is often stiff competition among women seeking male partners (Hamilton 2007; Hoy and London 2018; Rupp and Taylor 2010; Yost and McCarthy 2012). As Hamilton (2007: 152) indicates, women “imitate same-sex erotic practices, but they generally [do] so only with an audience of men.” One of Hamilton’s participants put it this way: “Guys said, ‘Do it, do it!’ just screwing around… . [They] were like, ‘These girls are going to kiss!’ So you think you’re cooler and guys think you’re cooler” (Hamilton 2007: 164).
However, straight young women who engage in same-sex behaviors sometimes openly acknowledge that they pursue same-sex sex because of their own desires, and that those behaviors are highly enjoyable to them. As a participant in the study by Rupp and Taylor (2010: 30) expressed it: “I may have fallen into that trap of like kissing a girl to impress a guy, but I can’t really recollect doing that on purpose. It was more of just my own desire to be with, like to try that with a woman.” Rupp and Taylor (2010: 31) therefore conclude that what starts as a public display of female-female erotic interaction for the sake of men may “lead to more extensive sexual activity in private.”
In the case of straight-identified men, some of them say that same-sex erotic interactions allow them to experience a relief from the pressures and expectations of masculinity, which they feel sex with a woman cannot provide them. For instance, Matt, one of our participants, speculated that his interest in having sex with men is a reaction to “always [being] in charge in my real life.” Male-male sex helps him release the pressures of being “an alpha male in a male dominated profession.” Similarly, another participant, Russell, noted that “there’s times when I don’t want to be in charge and I want someone to be in charge of me … it’s kind of submitting to another guy or being used by another guy.” Note that these men do not feel they can achieve a similar sense of relief having sex with a dominant woman, which may reflect that they think of sex with men as having fewer strings attached and fewer complications (see also Carrillo and Hoffman 2017; Silva 2017a). Add to this the secrecy and transgression that some men experience in their same-sex encounters, which can turn these experiences into a form of recreation (Reback and Larkins 2010) and make them particularly exciting – but not something that permanently alters their sense of being straight.
As we have seen throughout the chapter, heteroflexible interpretations involve a process that allows individuals to accomplish two general tasks: (1) integrate their same-sex desires and sexual behaviors into a heterosexual life in a manner that does not threaten their self-identification as straight; and (2) expand the definition of the well-established and taken-for-granted category of heterosexuality. People who engage in this process are not sexually fluid insofar as they do not cross from one category of sexual orientation to another. They are also not particularly interested in being classified as belonging to an altogether separate category of sexual orientation – such as bisexuality or the distinct category “mostly heterosexual” that has been proposed by psychologists.
Instead, based on their thoughts and reflections, these straight-identified individuals challenge the notion that same-sex sexual behaviors automatically exclude them from the category “heterosexual.” Often, they do not delude themselves about having bisexual behaviors and they recognize that they technically could be called bisexual. But they see no advantages to adopting a bisexual identity and feel that their same-sex desires and behaviors are not significant enough to transfer them out of the heterosexual category.
We could say that these individuals “queer” the notion of fixed categories of sexual orientation (I use queer as a verb in the sense of “troubling … the lenses through which we read experiences, contexts, and intersections,” as suggested by Young (2012: 127). But, ironically, they do so in a way that reinforces the status of heterosexuality. They make a case for the power of sexual self-identification, and they come to tell themselves “why should I give up the privilege and status of being heterosexual just because I also engage in bisexual behaviors?” They also may think, “being straight is the only thing I know how to do.”
It seems clear that their conclusions are often strongly motivated precisely by a desire to maintain their privilege as cisgender straight people. And their decisions often have consequences for others. In the case of men, for instance, they may deeply affect their female partners. This is especially true if they keep their same-sex desires secret from their female partners, or deny them the opportunity to have a say about how they manage their sexual lives – if female partners are forced to live ignoring, suspecting, or tolerating whatever their husbands and boyfriends do sexually with men. The same applies to the male partners of straight-identified women who engage in bisexual behaviors, although those effects may be less pronounced due to gender disparities and the more constrained place of female sexuality and pleasure in society.
Finally, it is important to understand, but not romanticize, the “queering” of sexual orientation and sexual identities that may occur when people challenge conventional ways of thinking about heterosexuality (and, by extension, about sexual orientation more generally). And it is important to study individual sexual lives with a relational approach – considering the perspectives of all sexual partners involved – because we know that one person’s sexual agency may both limit and foster the sexual agency of their sexual partners. An important implication is that sexual and gender inequalities can never be set aside in our analyses. These complex considerations are part of what makes the study of sexualities and identities both complicated and important.
Héctor Carrillo is Professor of Sociology and Gender & Sexuality Studies at Northwestern University, USA. His past research has centered on the sociology of sexuality, immigration, and health. He is currently conducting research on the social significance of amateur genealogy. His most recent book, Pathways of Desire: The Sexual Migration of Mexican Gay Men (University of Chicago Press, 2018), received awards from three American Sociological Association (ASA) sections as well as the 2020 ASA Distinguished Scholarly Book Award.