On Asexuality

I always saw it as the whole of humanity participating in this sacred set of rituals without me. A party I was never invited to, but tried desperately to peer into while hidden in a bush.

To them, it's normal. To me, it's an exclusive cult. I see it only from my periphery; anytime I try to view it head-on, it vanishes.

What's so good about it, anyways? I doubt any fleeting sensation of pleasure could ever override the ridiculousness in the faces, the smells, the noises... I don't want anyone on top of or inside of or under or over me.

There's a quiet rebellion in being intrinsically indifferent to that which is responsible for my existence-- for everyone's. I'm not going to ever be repaying that favor.

Before, I used to think I'd do it at least once. Just to say that I did; to reap some sense of inclusion. Maybe part of me thought-- hoped-- if I only tried it once that I might actually start liking it, wanting it. As though it were merely something dormant in me awaiting activation.

Have you ever been relegated to the fringes of society over something that was supposed to line the very framework of your being? I’m an instrument with all of the strings, but I can never be tuned. All of the world’s choir plays without me and gawks at me for not knowing the notes. Any attempt I could make to play along would reveal a disgusting, discordant screech.

Nevertheless, I went to a club last month. I figured, even if I never did it, I could try some version of it. Baby steps. Sneak up on it quietly and slowly from afar and see if it didn’t scare me away completely.

I wanted to understand, or to at least pretend that I could. To tell other people that I did.

I wanted to enter the world.

I spoke to a man, and he wasn't terrible-looking. To me this means he was well-groomed with a nice, deliberate aesthetic to him. Whether he was outright attractive or not is difficult for me to speculate on.

He got close to me. One can never know for sure but he leaned in for what I think was supposed to be a kiss. I swallowed the last of my white wine and braced myself. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I felt like I was about to go drunk driving.

I’d had middle school pecks here and there—nothing to write home about—but perhaps not sufficient, definitive metrics in themselves. Those didn’t count.

I got closer. Even if it was dipping a single toe in, I wanted to experience the land of the normal, just for a moment. I didn't need to be a permanent resident; I was okay with being a clueless tourist.

I needed to personally behold the components of this world before being completely sure that I wasn't missing out on anything. I was charting a region I suspected would be inhospitable, but I needed to caress the coarse soil in my hands first. I had to take a deep inhale of the air I already knew to be inadequately oxygenated for my own sustenance.

That fleeting moment, where we both leaned in and anyone possibly watching could glance at us, at me, and see nothing unusual with the picture— be none the wiser to the profound lacking within me, filled me with an immense joy. I wanted to stay in that place for as long as possible. I wanted everyone to see.

I suffocated the moment and it punished me. It forced me back into myself; into my wretched reality.

I felt his gross, hot breath on me and recoiled. I felt like it’d seared a mark across my skin. Somehow, this emboldened him to get closer.

He put an arm around me and our lips met. In no moment was there a sliver of synchronicity or mutuality, there was just nothingness. We weren’t meeting each other. It's like our mouths were journeying to two cities on opposite ends of the country. The texture of his lips reminded me of rubbery shoes.

I thought, tensions and nerves could just be high. I figured I would give us a few more tries to get it right, to see if it could be right. It wasn’t too late for my induction into society. I really wanted it to work. I prayed it would.

What am I doing?

No quick mental scrub through every romcom smooch I could think of was of aid. I looked around to check if anyone else was embracing, as if I could take notes or something.

I felt like an alien in human skin, attempting desperately to assimilate into its surroundings and basing its concept of humanity strictly on mimicry, and what it guessed would seem human.

I'd go up and he wouldn't go down. Then I went down and he was suddenly sideways. Open my mouth a little and he'd open his mouth a lot. Two distinct languages being spoken and not a single shared cognate.

It started getting dental, so I asked him to do it more slowly. I couldn’t stand the sloppiness, the lack of deliberation. I’m by no means an expert, but I assumed these things are better when they’re more exacting and intentional. Attuned.

It was slower, and more tolerable, but it wasn’t chemical. Any fireworks going off were muted for me. We held it for a moment until I pulled away, because this moment was not the moment from earlier. This one was a perversion of the moment I thought I wanted; it was my moment with its mask dropped.

I pulled away and saw his self-satisfied grin. He was completely oblivious to my predicament. That’s when I knew: I’d always be a lone spectator outside of the party and never a guest.

Embittered, I had always assumed sexuality is a glorified distraction wrongfully marketed as a rite of passage. Too many people have treated me as though there is a fundamental secret to living that I’m not keyed into, but I don’t think I really want to know it. If for just a moment, I felt as though I did know it, or almost did, and that’s my own secret.