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Jonathan explains to Steve, when they've just started kissing, that there's this thing called androgynous.
"It's a bit of both," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. What does it mean? Does it mean he's woman-man, or man-woman, or something else? Is it gender or love or just how he acts?
"A bit of both," Steve repeats, and his face lights up a bit. A bit of both, like boy and girl, like freak and friend, like love and sex. "I'm androgynous."
"Yeah, you are," Jon agrees, because it's true. Steve is a bit of both. He's bent like him.
—
Steve and Nancy fit together well.
He means this for sex.
Nancy thinks he means it for love.
"Antisexual," she tells him one time, thinking out loud. "Asexual. It's a thing. I've read about it. I think they're the same. You don't want to have sex."
"But I want to have sex," Steve insists, because it's the truth. "That's the wrong word. I'm anti-gender and anti-words, but I want to have sex."
"That doesn't make sense."
It makes perfect sense to Steve.
—
When Steve comes out to Robin, he's fumbling his words. He wants the right time, the right place, the right mind. Instead, he just breaks, after only a pint.
"I'm a faggot," he tells her, confident it's true. "Like you, but not. Like everyone, but not."
"Why do you call yourself that?" Robin asks. She doesn't ask other questions. "It's a bad word."
"But it's right," he says, and he knows it is. Just like he's a queer and a freak and an androgynous sex-haver. It's right, so he'll say it. "I'm a faggot." Like you.
—
"It's kinda like—what's it called, where you can write with your left hand or your right hand?" Steve tells Robin one night over mac and cheese. "And you use your right hand usually because it's normal, even if you like using your left hand, too."
"Are you," Robin starts, staring at her new best friend, "telling me that bisexuality is like being ambidextrous?"
"Yes!" Steve exclaims. "You do know the word! I'm ambidextrous for sex."
"So… you're ambisexual."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's it."
"Why not just bisexual?"
Steve looks at her, because that's a new word. Two new words in one day. "What's bisexual?"
Robin looks like she's about to cry, and he thinks that's a good thing.
—
Steve and Nancy finally talk about love. Love, or sex, or whatever it is. They talk, and they both have the words.
"Bisexual," Nancy says, and Steve smiles.
"Bisexual," he says, and it feels so good.
—
Eddie tells Steve about a thing called pansexual. "All-sexual," he says, and it's a pretty good word.
"Is there a word for sometimes-sexual?" Steve asks, because he wants to know. "Or never-sexual?"
"I don't know," Eddie tells him. "I think never is asexual. A means nothing."
Steve nods and remembers and thinks maybe that's him. A for nothing, bi for something. Why weren't there good words? Maybe he'd be aword. Never words. That would be easier.
—
Nancy sends Steve her issues of Boston Bisexual Women's Quarterly, because she knows he likes to read it. He doesn't know how she gets them and he doesn't ask questions.
He thinks about the word bisexual. It fits, so well, and the newsletter women get it. "Anything that moves," it says one time. "Sexual identity can be amazingly flexible." "Labels can help create a community," like a Party full of freaks.
He thanks her every time, and smiles and kisses her cheek.
"We can live with labels when we need them, and at the same time acknowledge that they are inadequate, that the only words will describe our lives, are the words of our own personal herstories and histories."
A friend, a freak, a queer, a queen.
—
"So, I'm a womansexual," Robin begins, standing on a chair in Steve's basement, "and dingus is an idiosexual."
The children stare at her, because these are new words for them, and they don't know what they mean.
"I'm a lesbian," she clarifies. "I am sexual to women."
A chorus of understanding responses spring from the crowd.
"And Steve's just an idiot."
It makes sense to them. Steve wants to kill her, or maybe kiss her, or probably both.