Asexuality

Let me let you in on a well-kept secret… So well-kept that I went ~24 years without telling anyone. Until a few months ago, when I told my fiance.

I dislike sex.

I simply get no real pleasure out of it! I can get turned on, and “wet,” and yet, it never amounts to anything. In fact, I get bored within the first few minutes. As such, I tend to cut the foreplay early and get right down to business, simply to speed up the process a bit. But even then, I do not think that I’ve ever really experienced an orgasm with a partner.

So, I began thinking,

Am I asexual?

The answer, after I did a bit of research, is maybe. For so long, I have felt broken and isolated because I didn’t get this thing that was supposed to be the most amazing act a person could do. I’ve masturbated, given/received oral sex, and had full-blown vaginal sex. I’ve found men to be almost unbearably hot, gotten turned on by some events, and yet, I still felt alone. Sex didn’t really do anything for me. I am able to orgasm (at least I think…) when I masturbate, but never with another person. But even then, it’s almost not worth my time and effort, it just seems pointless.

So, let’s break down some characteristics that may label me as asexual:

I can be sex-free for years, and be totally fine. Great, actually
I am disinterested in sex (goes along with #1)
I rarely experience sexual attraction (though this is not to say that I don’t experience romantic attraction!)
I have sex because it’s what I feel I am supposed to do
When I’ve had sex, it’s been less than fun

I think that I will start identifying as asexual, because I feel like I fit into this category… And it gives me something to hold on to. I no longer have to feel broken or alone, because there are others like me out there. In fact, one source tells me that every 1 out of 10 people in the world are asexual, and that may be a very modest statistic (meaning there could be more!).

But just because I’m asexual does not mean that I am not romantic.

I love my fiance. He is my other half and I would do anything for him. I can feel love and attraction and all those emotions as strongly as any sexual person. I simply do not mix love and sex, as sexual people do. As my fiance does.

In fact, that is why I finally broke my 2-and-a-half-decade long secret, and fessed up to him. He began to fear that I didn’t love him, or that I was cheating on him, because I never wanted to have sex. I had to tell him the truth, to at least try to get him to understand. But I don’t think it worked.

We now have a schedule for sex: the first Saturday of every month. He believes that sex is a meaningful part of a relationship, and without it, he could not remain in a relationship… Me, I would much rather prefer to never have sex and instead experience intimacy in other ways. Admittedly, I may also carry some other baggage with sex, rather than just my asexuality… I bring my rape also to the bed, and I think that always scares me. Not only am I asexual, but I fear sex and its smells, touches, and memories. It’s a double whammy, and even though I’ve tried to explain it to J, he just doesn’t get it. Just as I don’t understand how he feels sex is a necessity.

Can an Asexual and a Sexual have a healthy and lasting relationship?

I guess we will find out. So far, the schedule has been satiating J, and I have simply been suffering through it. But how much more can I take before I break? And he has already talked about upping the frequency… What happens when I can’t give him what he wants? What he needs? Is it my responsibility to attend to his needs, as a committed partner in this relationship?

If you are interested in learning more about Asexuality, I recommend checking out asexuality.org. That is also where I got my facts and statistics from for this post.

If anyone has any tips or experiences with asexuality, please let me know in the comments!

Red

The color of blood

The color of love

An eternity above

A dance of grace

A beautiful place

A speck of lace

The sign of death

Perhaps from meth

A final breath

The apple I see

Maybe even me

Or a shout of glee

A tinted gaze

A menacing haze

An endless maze

A blooming flower

The sparkling shower

Please don’t cower

A ribbon that flows

The underside shows

The dust that blows

A smear of clay

A game to play

The end of day.

This poem is about describing the color red. No one can exactly explain what a color looks like, but to me, it’s not simply a color in itself. It is experiences and objects that come to mind. When I think of the color red, I don’t see a blank wall shaded red; I see all these images: Blood is one of the first (perhaps from a broken hymen, perhaps from a grisly murder), love the second. But still more overwhelm my brain. I picture heaven above a sunset. I see graceful dancing figures intertwined in red veils, a place tinted red, making all the objects look softer and more soothing in appearance. I picture a hand in red lace and a slow, agonizing death. Meth I picture as red, as if to give a warning sign. The last breath of a man, turning red as his spirit flows from him.

An apple I see of course, tracing back to kindergarten. I see myself with red inside; some evil… or maybe it’s just my burning happiness. There’s a rose and fireworks behind with people afraid of being blind. Eyes flash red, a red mist in Hell, where there’s no escape. I can see a hair ribbon, the belly of a furry dog a dull red, and the dust of a wasteland. I see the pioneers building houses of red clay, a sunset fading into night, and the game of life.

Red exemplifies all these things to me. Each person is unique in how they relate and understand different words. To me, when I hear “red,” my mind jumps through all these images in a heartbeat, and through it, I gain enlightenment.

Finally Talking

Trigger Warning: This post contains graphic sex and sexual violence,
 nonconsent, and mental health questioning.

Sometimes it’s hard being the victim of rape. I was five when it happened, so I don’t even remember much of what happened. It comes to me in bits and pieces, but the one thing I can’t get out of my head is the smell. It’s hard for me to get intimate with my fiancé because when we’re getting to that place, it’s the same smell. Arousal. Man musk. Sexual tension. Call it what you will, it’s the same. I smell that smell and all the feelings come rushing back; the insecurities of being naked in front of this dominant man, the fear of being found out by Mom and punished, the anxiety of disappointing my surrogate father, the confusion of what was going on, the pain of things happening that shouldn’t have been. The ache that my little sister had not escaped this time. The desire to go to sleep and never wake up again.

That isn’t the worst part, though. The worst part is when people know. When your family knows and doesn’t talk about it. Having a meltdown in high school and confessing everything was far from my best hour, and yet it was liberating to finally come clean and find out that he was in jail for doing the same to some other family. Turns out I didn’t just dream it. Turns out I wasn’t making it all up in my head. But now when his name comes up in conversation, they all just say, “We don’t talk about John.” But what if I want to talk about him? I wish they never knew. I can see the pity in their eyes, the guilt that they should have done something, the accusation of why didn’t I say something before? I have no idea how they feel about me, about him and me. If they completely believe me, if they believe that A was a part of it, or if they simply think it a fantasy when I heard about him in jail. I’m not a hurt little kid anymore. I can talk about it. I’ve been living with this almost my whole life and I am fine. But what about A? Does she know? Does she remember? I hate myself that I couldn’t save her from that. I tried.

But how big of an impact has he had on my life? How much of my strength, creativity, open-mindedness do I owe to him? Sometimes, I can’t tell if I hate that it happened, or that I’m glad it did. It makes me different. It makes me, me. Does that make me a monster? Does that make me not a victim at all, but in a way, consensual? I have weird tendencies, weird daydreams, fantasies. How much of him is within those? I enjoy dark humor, write about pain and torture. I like hard music with the lyrics dripping metal. I like to lay awake in the dark, contemplating life, contemplating how I can make myself feel pain. I love the rain, when it’s gloomy, cloudy outside. I like daddy doms and daughter subs. I like being dominated and helpless. What does that say about me? I’m a freak, and afraid to tell anyone about my darkest secrets.

I don’t feel like I will ever find my half, the guy that I can completely bare my heart to. I’ve met nice guys, sweet guys, but never the guy that I’m not afraid of, even including my fiance, J.

Flashes randomly come back to me, but never really interfere in much. It’s just that smell that gets me, that feeling when his name comes up that maybe I didn’t do enough for A, that I failed her. But I’m fine. I think. I need someone to talk to, someone who understands not to pity me, that it wasn’t a traumatic event. It was just something that happened when I was a kid. Most kids broke their arms, I had sex. At least, I guess I did. I can’t actually remember doing the deed; I clearly remember giving him blowjobs, which is probably where the smell comes from, and him peeing on my stomach, and him putting a cue stick up his butt? But never actually sex. But I wasn’t a virgin when my first boyfriend and I tried it out, my hymen was broken. That’s something that bothers me. If I can remember other things, why can’t I remember if that happened? And then, does this mean that I actually am a rape victim? Or because I can’t remember if I actually had full-out sex, am I posing? Am I a fake? I need to talk to someone who will just listen, and feel no sympathy. I need a judgment-free conversation, one where I can find out his last name. I want to know if he is still in jail, or if he’s still out there spreading his disease. And what of his kids? I did not like them, but were they that way because their dad abused them too? Or did he save that for other people’s kids?

I wish my family didn’t know. If I could take back one thing from high school, it’d be that. They don’t need to be burdened, and it honestly makes it feel like a burden to me. Without them knowing, it’s not so much of a burden as just an experience. And when do I talk about it?

I need to feel. This is one way I feel.

My little sister in this post–as will be in all my other posts–is simply referred to as A to keep her anonymity.

My fiance is referred to as J for the same reason.

I feel no need to hide the identity of the man who raped me, so I will refer to him with his real name, John. I only regret that I do not know his last name.