I really don’t know how’d else I’d have started this. So I just straight up started with it. It that makes me more afraid than any semisupernatural clown ever could.
Anyone who knows me quite well enough is very much in full knowledge of how I like to deal with things chronologically. How deeply I adore the neat logic of linear time and things happening in relation to previous things. So please bare with me while I try to make sense out if this. Maybe even more to myself than to you, but still by using the only familiar aspect I have in this narrative.
Anyone who knows me quite well enough is very much in full knowledge of how I like to deal with things chronologically. How deeply I adore the neat logic of linear time and things happening in relation to previous things. So please bare with me while I try to make sense out if this. Maybe even more to myself than to you, but still by using the only familiar aspect I have in this narrative.
At kindergarten I had a fair amount of friends, both girls and boys. Yet every time we played kissing tag, I was on the boys team. My unorthodox choosing of sides wasn’t based on nothing more than the cold fact that boys won more often and were altogether more skilled players of this sport. That I was at the “wrong side” didn’t much matter anyways as no one actually ever kissed in our games. Such thing was way too gross, for both sides respectively. At the same time I had very orthodoxily picked out my favorite boy, Ville, with whom I wanted to play as much as possible (which wasn’t all that much because he was everyone's ultimate dream play date and as such in high demand). Yet I wouldn’t say that Ville was my first crush. His number one spot was more based on the fact that he did the best job of acting out my “oh my there’s a hurricane coming” scenarios than anything even faintly romantic.
That kind of pragmatism got me all the way trough primary school. I wasn’t a social outcast, so I knew perfectly well that in this society one should have crushes. So oh boy I had them, plentifully and ever-chansingly. But they were always based on something wildly unromantic like who knew enough about pokemon games to be able to help me with them or who was simply nice enough for my, lets say challenging, primary school self. What to do with those crushes, other than acquire secret pokemon information and play football in recess with, I had absolutely no clue. It just felt more acceptable to have them rather than not, so I played nicely along and kept some in rotation.
Haziest of them memories have survived out of junior high school. I think I was basically just too busy playing sims with my mates and digging music to even think about boys that much if they weren’t in a band and from usa. Of course at that age that wasn’t the set norm and as previously mentioned I was armed with a basic survival skills, so I kept some handy crushes around. Random boys with nice jaw lines and not so random boys who were generally nicer to me than others. Maybe I even pined after some guy or other, but as a hindsight I think that was more out of jealousy towards my more beautiful friends whom started to attract male attention, while I, pre-emo, ugly and bad-tempered was left with none. Sure, I still wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with such attention, but I was self-aware enough to start thinking that maybe there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t getting any.
At the third day of high school I suddenly fell in love. Hard an irreversibly. Following that was countless of hours and sometimes even days when I cried to my friends’ scratchy sequined throw pillows about why he doesn’t notice me and why can’t he just luuuuuuv me (though we had barely exchanged a sentence back then). Yet still when it finally came to my attention that he was super gay, I wasn’t all that bummed. Some faint common sense echoing my friends was hinting that this is the point I should stop my fruitless unacquired romance, but everything else inside of me was screaming most overjoyedly upon this turn of events. After that I loved him more than ever. Three years spent with that undying love for him, my friends and emo music, were the best I’ve ever had. It was so dead simple back then. Now that simplicity is forever gone, but to this day I would start wars over my first love’s happiness and well-being. I would fight you too if necessary.
I have always been incredibly lucky with my friends, even back then. At the age when every media ever depicts teenagers talking only about sex, there was nearly zero sex-talk happening in our midst. Not when I was around anyhow. But once during those good olde high school times one insightful friend of mine asked what I would like to do with them. Boys, she meant. We had spent dozens of sleepovers turned into pale mornings talking about our drop-dead gorgeous emo crushes and how we would totally save them from drugs (though not from anorexia) and live happily ever after. That saying she was well aware of my adoration towards the opposite sex. I remember that moment to feel intensely private, sacred even, in a way that even between good friends don’t happen very often. So I bet my friends thought me just generally very shy and prudent about the subject of sex, and that in that holy moment I would reveal my true lusty self. “ I don’t know, I think I would like to sleep with them. No not like that you old perv, just next to them, you know.” She was very perplexed by my answer and finally asked if I did want to kiss them at least. “Noup” I replied.
During school years I was able to tell myself that there wasn’t anything drastically wrong with me, that I was just one of those, pardon the most horrid phrase, “late bloomers”. But as the years piled up so did the painfully gnawing feeling of being somewhat broken. I did think that boys were handsome and I very much liked being around them. I still didn’t want to kiss them or pray horror, see them naked. But at the same time I yearned for attention and love from those swell creatures. I was a depressed mess of feelings which even at best seemed wildly contradictory. For years I suffered as an anonymous miserable romantic, until way into my 20’s I saw it. A crappy tv documentary.
There was a totally cute british boy on my tv screen, saying how he would definitely want to date and eventually get married with a nice girl. He just didn’t want to have sex with that said girl, or anyone for that matter. With that boy I finally had a name for myself, name that proved that I wasn't alone and an unholy abomination. I was just simply asexual. With that revelation followed a lot of google work and nights of sleep which at once wasn’t disturbed by constant crying. I learned that I wasn’t just asexual, but a heteroromantic sex-repulsed asexual, meaning that I really really didn’t want to have sex, but I really really wanted to have a loving relationship with some nice boy.
There’s calm after every storm, but there’s also calm before them.
It’s now 2018. I’m nearly 29 years old. Most of my friends are in serious relationships. Many are married, some have children. I have never kissed no one (I’ve come to conclusion that I’d like to), never dated, never spent that night sleeping next to boy I like and who hopefully likes me back. I have spent years of my life by loving nearly perfect strangers with all my sad little heart. And that hurts me more deeply I can ever be able to express. I’m almost envious for aromantic asexuals who only has to deal the social pressure side of the thing, whilst I have both time and time again stated to obnoxious female folk that NO I am not having a children ever and NO it’s not a phase but something deeply rooted in my very existence, and no dearest mom and dad, though you would make the awesomest grandparents, that will never happen, AND also come to terms with the cruel fact that I may never be able to find anyone ready and willing to love me so much as to completely cast aside one of their basic human needs.
As often when talked about bisexuals, and even sexuality as whole, asexuality is also very mutable state of being. I have discovered that as the years have passed I’ve become less sex-repulsed. So much so I’ve began to think that I may even be demisexual, which means that I could have sex
with someone I’ve build a deep emotional relationship with. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m still not that enthusiastic about the idea, but for someone I really love, yeah, maybe. But that doesn’t matter a whole lotta doesn't it? I still have to write on my tinder profile “looking for someone who wants to spent years getting to know me before getting laid, maybe, holler” (you see why tinder freaks the fuck out of me). I still have to s...
As I’m writing this I freeze like that more often than not. Out of fear, out of sadness, out of unmanageability of it all. I have never ever before written any of this down. I have mentioned some of it to some dear friends, but I have equally not mentioned any of it to some of the dearest. And to anyone dear maybe reading this, do not think your dearness to me is based on did you know or not. It isn’t. Sometimes this thing came up, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes I just wanted to feel normal to someone so I could feel normal to myself. To have cute boys to date suggested to me. I liked that and I wasn’t ready to give that up.
I have always been very outspoken about myself. I never hesitated even for once should I tell everyone about my mental health issues. Of course I did, and it has never brought me anything but positive in return. And yet with this, with my asexuality, there has always been something, some fear, that has been holding my tongue. Maybe I thought that if people knew, no cute boy would ever dare to approach me, knowing full well how useless I am. That being silent would somehow give me a faint glimmer of hope to catch someone for long enough for them to realize that I’m actually kinda nice and yes, a little weird, but not so much that they couldn’t overcome. That I’d be forever alone.
At the same time, as a proper sagittarian, I’m a firm believer of truth. Hiding aspects of oneself doesn’t seem healthy or meaningful. I’m too old to be ashamed of who I am, when there is nothing to be ashamed of on the first hand. I’m not yet as evolved as to say that sometimes I would like to be a nice normal heterosexual, but that just wasn't what was in the cards for me. I’ve been very lucky indeed when it comes to friendships, and thought sometimes it feels that my high sense of aesthetic and romantic attraction paired with my asexuality is a grueling curse, I’m also kinda happy that I get to feel so deeply nonetheless. And if this messy little piece of writing will help anyone, young or old, to give name for their inner turmoil, it was worth of every fearful feeling I went through while creating it.
Haziest of them memories have survived out of junior high school. I think I was basically just too busy playing sims with my mates and digging music to even think about boys that much if they weren’t in a band and from usa. Of course at that age that wasn’t the set norm and as previously mentioned I was armed with a basic survival skills, so I kept some handy crushes around. Random boys with nice jaw lines and not so random boys who were generally nicer to me than others. Maybe I even pined after some guy or other, but as a hindsight I think that was more out of jealousy towards my more beautiful friends whom started to attract male attention, while I, pre-emo, ugly and bad-tempered was left with none. Sure, I still wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with such attention, but I was self-aware enough to start thinking that maybe there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t getting any.
At the third day of high school I suddenly fell in love. Hard an irreversibly. Following that was countless of hours and sometimes even days when I cried to my friends’ scratchy sequined throw pillows about why he doesn’t notice me and why can’t he just luuuuuuv me (though we had barely exchanged a sentence back then). Yet still when it finally came to my attention that he was super gay, I wasn’t all that bummed. Some faint common sense echoing my friends was hinting that this is the point I should stop my fruitless unacquired romance, but everything else inside of me was screaming most overjoyedly upon this turn of events. After that I loved him more than ever. Three years spent with that undying love for him, my friends and emo music, were the best I’ve ever had. It was so dead simple back then. Now that simplicity is forever gone, but to this day I would start wars over my first love’s happiness and well-being. I would fight you too if necessary.
I have always been incredibly lucky with my friends, even back then. At the age when every media ever depicts teenagers talking only about sex, there was nearly zero sex-talk happening in our midst. Not when I was around anyhow. But once during those good olde high school times one insightful friend of mine asked what I would like to do with them. Boys, she meant. We had spent dozens of sleepovers turned into pale mornings talking about our drop-dead gorgeous emo crushes and how we would totally save them from drugs (though not from anorexia) and live happily ever after. That saying she was well aware of my adoration towards the opposite sex. I remember that moment to feel intensely private, sacred even, in a way that even between good friends don’t happen very often. So I bet my friends thought me just generally very shy and prudent about the subject of sex, and that in that holy moment I would reveal my true lusty self. “ I don’t know, I think I would like to sleep with them. No not like that you old perv, just next to them, you know.” She was very perplexed by my answer and finally asked if I did want to kiss them at least. “Noup” I replied.
During school years I was able to tell myself that there wasn’t anything drastically wrong with me, that I was just one of those, pardon the most horrid phrase, “late bloomers”. But as the years piled up so did the painfully gnawing feeling of being somewhat broken. I did think that boys were handsome and I very much liked being around them. I still didn’t want to kiss them or pray horror, see them naked. But at the same time I yearned for attention and love from those swell creatures. I was a depressed mess of feelings which even at best seemed wildly contradictory. For years I suffered as an anonymous miserable romantic, until way into my 20’s I saw it. A crappy tv documentary.
There was a totally cute british boy on my tv screen, saying how he would definitely want to date and eventually get married with a nice girl. He just didn’t want to have sex with that said girl, or anyone for that matter. With that boy I finally had a name for myself, name that proved that I wasn't alone and an unholy abomination. I was just simply asexual. With that revelation followed a lot of google work and nights of sleep which at once wasn’t disturbed by constant crying. I learned that I wasn’t just asexual, but a heteroromantic sex-repulsed asexual, meaning that I really really didn’t want to have sex, but I really really wanted to have a loving relationship with some nice boy.
There’s calm after every storm, but there’s also calm before them.
It’s now 2018. I’m nearly 29 years old. Most of my friends are in serious relationships. Many are married, some have children. I have never kissed no one (I’ve come to conclusion that I’d like to), never dated, never spent that night sleeping next to boy I like and who hopefully likes me back. I have spent years of my life by loving nearly perfect strangers with all my sad little heart. And that hurts me more deeply I can ever be able to express. I’m almost envious for aromantic asexuals who only has to deal the social pressure side of the thing, whilst I have both time and time again stated to obnoxious female folk that NO I am not having a children ever and NO it’s not a phase but something deeply rooted in my very existence, and no dearest mom and dad, though you would make the awesomest grandparents, that will never happen, AND also come to terms with the cruel fact that I may never be able to find anyone ready and willing to love me so much as to completely cast aside one of their basic human needs.
As often when talked about bisexuals, and even sexuality as whole, asexuality is also very mutable state of being. I have discovered that as the years have passed I’ve become less sex-repulsed. So much so I’ve began to think that I may even be demisexual, which means that I could have sex
with someone I’ve build a deep emotional relationship with. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m still not that enthusiastic about the idea, but for someone I really love, yeah, maybe. But that doesn’t matter a whole lotta doesn't it? I still have to write on my tinder profile “looking for someone who wants to spent years getting to know me before getting laid, maybe, holler” (you see why tinder freaks the fuck out of me). I still have to s...
As I’m writing this I freeze like that more often than not. Out of fear, out of sadness, out of unmanageability of it all. I have never ever before written any of this down. I have mentioned some of it to some dear friends, but I have equally not mentioned any of it to some of the dearest. And to anyone dear maybe reading this, do not think your dearness to me is based on did you know or not. It isn’t. Sometimes this thing came up, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes I just wanted to feel normal to someone so I could feel normal to myself. To have cute boys to date suggested to me. I liked that and I wasn’t ready to give that up.
I have always been very outspoken about myself. I never hesitated even for once should I tell everyone about my mental health issues. Of course I did, and it has never brought me anything but positive in return. And yet with this, with my asexuality, there has always been something, some fear, that has been holding my tongue. Maybe I thought that if people knew, no cute boy would ever dare to approach me, knowing full well how useless I am. That being silent would somehow give me a faint glimmer of hope to catch someone for long enough for them to realize that I’m actually kinda nice and yes, a little weird, but not so much that they couldn’t overcome. That I’d be forever alone.
At the same time, as a proper sagittarian, I’m a firm believer of truth. Hiding aspects of oneself doesn’t seem healthy or meaningful. I’m too old to be ashamed of who I am, when there is nothing to be ashamed of on the first hand. I’m not yet as evolved as to say that sometimes I would like to be a nice normal heterosexual, but that just wasn't what was in the cards for me. I’ve been very lucky indeed when it comes to friendships, and thought sometimes it feels that my high sense of aesthetic and romantic attraction paired with my asexuality is a grueling curse, I’m also kinda happy that I get to feel so deeply nonetheless. And if this messy little piece of writing will help anyone, young or old, to give name for their inner turmoil, it was worth of every fearful feeling I went through while creating it.
Being unusual takes up a hell lot of courage, so lets be kind and give that to others whenever we can.
And please, don't ever stop suggesting cute boys for me.
I love cute boys.
And please, don't ever stop suggesting cute boys for me.
I love cute boys.
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