GREEDY

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When the author came out as bisexual, she thought “no one would care.” She soon discovered that lesbians “tend to carry their bias quietly, losing interest especially fast” on dating apps, and that others assume bisexuality is a “gateway identity.” However, for Winston, her bi identity is vital, “a lens through which to reimagine our world.” She recounts her dating life with plenty of self-deprecating humor and many knowing references to both pop culture and queer theory. Her lack of shame around kinky sex is refreshing, as in her account of learning shibari, the Japanese art of bondage, and content warnings at the start of two chapters flag instances of substance abuse, sexual assault, and police brutality. Winston dissects a “girl crush” in clinical terminology, determining if it’s malignant or benign, and she describes how gay dance clubs offer her “worship, safety and refuge,” as churches do for others. She questions if she’s attracted to women because of the male gaze or in spite of it: Do her sexual impulses stem from “lust, objectification, a sense of sisterhood, or all three”? At 30 years old, writes the author, “I needed to label my sexuality—if I didn’t explicitly name my queerness, it seemed too slippery.” Queer love stories are the best, she decides, because queer people are “forced to self-determine.” Near the end of the book, she describes finding true love in the form of a “queer, trans/nonbinary person who takes a low dose of testosterone.” Queer sex is “worth the hype,” she writes. Winston considers gender to be confining—“It feels like quarantine”—and above all, her story is about love that is “rooted in radical, asymmetrical truth.”

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