I know what you’re thinking…
Why in the hell do you think that?
Well… don’t freak out, and let me explain.
So it’s been 151 days since I last had sex… and in that amount of time, I’ve thought. You see, for the past 12 years I’ve never gone more than two weeks without having sex. That’s a disturbing statistic when you do the math and figure out that I was 13 when I lost my virginity. It wasn’t until a couple years after that, when normal people were losing their virginity at 15 or 16, and some held out to 18, 19, even 20 or 21 years old. I just thought that having sex was something you did when you got to high school, and the sooner you got it out of the way, the better. Then somehow it just became a habit.
Boys like sex. Boys like girls that have sex. I want boys to like me. So, that means I should have lots of sex.
I never really gave a lot of thought to the fact that you’re supposed to like sex. I just figured that it was one of those things in life that get better with age, or experience, or something. I perfected what I should sound like, what I should do, etc. I had a lot of partners, in the pursuit of trying to perfect those things and find the person that would want to stay with me forever. I never found that person, and I never got to a point where I really enjoyed sex. I tried all sorts of things, too, from different fetishes and lifestyles, to seeing if I was a lesbian and sleep with girls. It just never felt… comfortable. I didn’t like it.
Then, I hit this dry spell. I dunno why, but I just stopped trying to get laid. It was upsetting at first. I was just used to getting sex twice a week. It was a standard. A status symbol. Something that kind of boosted my ego about how I look, etc. But as time has gone on, I’ve realized that I hate the idea of having sex with someone. I don’t like the new feeling. I don’t like having to pretend that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t like what I’ve trained myself to do in my pursuit to be an ideal sex partner. It’s all kind of revolting… and on a level it’s kind of shameful.
Maybe you just haven’t had sex with someone you’re comfortable with, who can make it good for you.
Well, maybe. At this rate, though, the number of men and women I would have to plow through to find someone that made me comfortable and allowed me to enjoy sex would be a ridiculous number. I lost track of my sexual partners around 30… when I was 19. I’m 25, now. That’s a lot of addition.
So, I’ve thought about it, and I researched it. I knew that asexuals existed, but I’m really fond of making out, so I didn’t think that applied to me. Turns out I was wrong and that can totally apply to me. There are asexuals that don’t feel any kind of attraction or romance, and there are some asexuals that go so far as foreplay, but don’t like sex. There are others that have sex after they fall deeply in love with you, ones that like to kiss and cuddle… all kinds of asexual people just existing in the world. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like my feelings were weird. It’s like a weight has been lifted off me mentally, just thinking about it.
Okay, so why are you sitting there all teary eyed if you’re happy?
I think the hardest thing in my life right now will be trying to decide whether to tell people that I’m asexual… and then explaining why I like to kiss people. Part of me wants to tell them, because I’m happy and excited to feel like I understand myself a little more, but a big, big, bigbigbig part of me is scared as hell. My friends aren’t really judgmental people, don’t get me wrong. My friends are hetero, homo, bi, poly, and everything in between, but I think I’m the only one identifying as an Ace… And the problem is that I’m going from being a sex-obsessed slutty ho to an Ace. EVEN TO ME that is some confusing ass bullshit.
I don’t want people to think that I’m being a hypocrite, or that I’m trying to be someone that I’m not because I’m ashamed of my life, or that I don’t know how I feel so I’m filling a gap in my life. It’s my own fault, because I never really talked to anyone about how I felt about sex. I was just raised to compartmentalize everything kind of emotionally weird. You don’t burden people with your unnecessary shit, or they won’t be there when you need them for something real. (Real, in this case, means when I thought I had breast cancer and got crazy wasted and cried a lot.)
So… that’s where I’m at.
I’m really happy to understand myself better, but I am terrified of trying to tell anyone about it…