In the ever-expanding universe of sexual orientation labels—a cosmos that now requires its own dedicated Wikipedia category and approximately seven PhD dissertations to navigate—we have been blessed with yet another entry: berrisexualism. Or “laurian,” if you’re feeling fancy. Because why settle for one unnecessarily obscure term when you can have two?
For the uninitiated (which, let’s be honest, is approximately 99.9% of humanity), berrisexualism describes someone who is attracted to all genders but, whoops, not really that into men or masculine-presenting individuals. It’s like being invited to a buffet where you enthusiastically pile your plate with everything except the meatloaf, then insist you love all foods equally. The meatloaf, understandably, might have some questions.
Now, before the pitchforks come out, let’s be clear: people are attracted to whomever they’re attracted to, and that’s perfectly fine. The issue isn’t the attraction pattern itself—it’s the linguistic gymnastics required to transform “I’m mostly into women” into a whole identity complete with its own flag, terminology, and presumably, eventual merchandise line. One can only imagine the Etsy shops preparing their “Proud Laurian” tote bags as we speak.
The definition itself is a masterclass in having your cake and eating it too. Berrisexuals are attracted to all genders, we’re told, in a manner similar to pansexuality. Except, well, not really all genders with equal enthusiasm. More like all genders with significant terms and conditions attached. It’s the sexual orientation equivalent of those “unlimited” data plans that throttle your speed after two gigabytes. Sure, it’s technically unlimited, but let’s not get carried away here.
What’s particularly delightful is the careful stipulation that attraction to men is “rare,” “light,” or “occasional”—as if masculine-aligned individuals are some sort of acquired taste, like oysters or experimental jazz. One imagines berrisexuals encountering an attractive man and thinking, “Well, this is awkward. My orientation paperwork specifically said this would only happen occasionally.”
The term “feminine-aligned genders” also deserves its moment in the spotlight. It’s a phrase that manages to be both hyper-specific and utterly vague simultaneously—a linguistic Schrödinger’s cat. Who exactly counts as feminine-aligned? Is there a spectrum? A committee? Do you need to fill out forms? These are the questions that keep taxonomists of human sexuality up at night, presumably while updating their ever-growing spreadsheets.
And let’s talk about almondsexual, shall we? Because of course there’s a male counterpart. In the grand tradition of needlessly gendering everything from razors to pens, we couldn’t possibly let berrisexual stand alone. Men who are mostly into men but occasionally fancy women get to be almondsexuals. The naming convention here is particularly inspired—presumably someone looked at a bag of mixed nuts and thought, “Yes, this is the perfect metaphor for human sexuality.” What’s next? Cashewromantic? Pistachio-curious?
The romantic equivalent, berriromantic, adds yet another layer to this terminological lasagna. Because apparently being attracted to someone and wanting to date them are such wildly different phenomena that they require separate labels. It’s the kind of granular categorization that would make a Victorian taxonomist weep with joy. One half expects to discover sub-categories like “berrisexual but only on Tuesdays” or “almondsexual except during Mercury retrograde.”
What’s truly remarkable is how these terms manage to be simultaneously incredibly specific and completely redundant. Humans have been having preferences in attraction since, well, forever. People have always been mostly into one gender with occasional exceptions. We used to just call this “having a preference” or “being human.” But why use three words when you can create an entire identity framework complete with flags and community forums?
The cynic might suggest that this proliferation of labels represents less a genuine need for new vocabulary and more a symptom of our culture’s obsession with categorizing every nuance of human experience into neat, shareable boxes. In an age of social media bios and dating app profiles, there’s enormous pressure to distill your entire sexuality into a handful of terms that sound both unique and valid. “I’m mostly into women” doesn’t quite have the same ring as “I’m a proud laurian navigating the complexities of my berrisexual journey.”
There’s also something rather patronizing about the whole enterprise. The implication that pansexuality or bisexuality are somehow insufficient to describe someone who likes all genders but has preferences suggests that we don’t trust people to understand nuance. As if saying “I’m bisexual with a strong preference for women” would cause heads to explode from the sheer complexity. Better create seventeen new terms instead.
The broader question, of course, is: at what point does the specificity become absurd? If we’re creating separate labels for every possible combination of gender attraction and intensity, we’re going to need a bigger dictionary. Perhaps we should skip ahead and just assign everyone a unique alphanumeric code. “Hello, I’m B47-F9 with occasional M12 tendencies.” It would be more efficient and arguably less pretentious.
None of this is to say that people shouldn’t explore and define their attractions however they please. If calling yourself berrisexual genuinely helps you understand yourself better, then by all means, berry on. But perhaps we could also acknowledge that sometimes—just sometimes—we don’t need a formal label for every possible variation of human experience. Sometimes “I know it when I see it” is actually sufficient.
In conclusion, berrisexualism joins the ever-growing pantheon of microlabels that seem designed more for internet discourse than actual utility. It’s a solution in search of a problem, a label that answers questions nobody was really asking. But hey, at least it sounds vaguely like a trendy superfood. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go update my seventeen different dating profiles with my new almond-adjacent identity.
The meatloaf remains unamused.