‘Word by Word’ is a column by Garima Behal on learning to ride the highs and lows of everyday life
I’m 10 years old and reading a book by Sidney Sheldon. The story has a scene that describes oral sex. It’s the first time I read anything so explicit, or anything sexual for that matter. I’m in such disbelief that I reread the paragraph three times. Just to make sure I’ve got it right and that such a thing is humanly possible. (I’m obviously too young to be reading Sidney Sheldon.)
I’m 13 years old. ‘Dick’ seems the funniest word for most boys in my class. I take out my pocket dictionary to figure out what it means. I can think of funnier things, like Tom and Jerry or sharp one-liners from Reader’s Digest.
One year later, we’re introduced to Chapter 9, Reproduction. I finally understand how babies are made. The realization that I’ll be expected to participate in this process someday and push a fully-grown tiny human out of my inch-wide vagina horrifies me. (To be honest, I’m still petrified of that dark, dark thought).
At 16, as my school friends start getting into relationships, I feel no desire to be in one. At 18, I start avoiding the farthest aisle on the top floor of the college library to avoid running into couples slobbering all over each other.
I’m 19 when, a little unexpectedly, I fall in love. With a guy who lives 2000 kilometers away. It takes me two years to want (and be comfortable with) sexting. He’s patient and kind and loves me enough to understand. I thank God for the distance because the thought of sleeping with him, with anyone for that matter, is still as scary at the end of my teenage years as it was at the beginning.
When it ended in heartbreak, I never sexted anyone I like again. Because I just don’t like them enough. Because I just don’t like the idea of sex enough.
Being different and diffident
I’m an asexual romantic. Or, more specifically (and in woke terminology), I’m a demisexual romantic. I’m unequivocally romantically attracted to people. I picture myself holding hands with them in cute couple photos, taking long walks and having long conversations with them on starlit beaches, and sharing simple dinners with them on shared plates in a shared forever home.
But sexual attraction, a basic biochemical phenomenon most people take for granted, is something I’ve only experienced a literal handful of times. Most of these instances came about only after spending years getting to know or be with the person and developing an emotional and intellectual bond with them.
So, when my girlfriends look at men with cute dogs and ask, “Okay, how hot is that guy?” it takes me a moment to stop looking at the dog, turn my attention to the subject of interest and resist the temptation of telling them how there’s only been ONE hot guy in my world, ever. And that he happens to be a fictional character. (Sergio Marquina, aka The Professor from the popular Netflix series Money Heist, if you’re curious!)
I know I am different. I’ve known it and been reminded of it at 10, at 13, at 16, at 19, and now at 28. I just didn’t know how left out it would make me feel.
Excluded from the laughter that followed that’s-what-(s)he-said jokes. Excluded from the pleasures of comparing people’s hotness quotient on dating apps. Excluded from sleepovers where others would describe their ‘first time’ in detail too graphic and unnecessary for my taste. Excluded even from the joys of dating people because I’d never want to bare my body to them without having had a chance to bare my mind.
It’s unsettling not to experience sexual attraction to people in a world where everything from cars to a Carl Jr’s burger (yes, really!) is hyper-sexualized. It makes me feel like a misfit. It makes me pity myself. It makes me fear being labeled a prude when all I am is simply not interested in sex to the degree that nearly everyone else around me seems to be.
Disguised blessings
So, I take refuge in Facebook groups where like-minded aces—an even more woke term for asexuals—smile, laugh, frown, and sometimes cry at our shared misery and shared gift through quotes, memes, and discussions.
Yeah, it did take me a while to stop thinking about my asexuality as a curse that isolated me from most of humanity, and view it as a blessing in disguise instead.
Because my orientation doesn’t allow me to be attracted to people for their looks, I’ve ended up getting attracted to them based on qualities I think are anyway more important than facial features or body proportions. Qualities such as wit, humor, kindness, empathy, gentleness, optimism, resilience, honesty, ambition, intelligence, warmth, level-headedness, calmness, and more.
Because I don’t find (often crass and undignified) jokes based on people’s private parts (and matters) funny, my repository of jokes and witticisms has expanded to include anecdotes and incidents from all walks of life.
My orientation has saved me from using other people’s bodies as a coping mechanism for loneliness and forced me to deal with it in ways that have made me stronger.
It has conditioned me to ignore the superficial hits of instant gratification from coupling and invest in partnerships that will hopefully stand the test of time because they’re built on so much more than the short-lived, ever-waning pleasure of sex.
I’m not judging people with a more mainstream sexual orientation or appetite. The only thing I’m trying to do with this column is to tell people who don’t fit into the mainstream narrative that they are not alone. Their story, too, has a voice, even if it gets lost in all the noise. And that it’s okay, no, a-okay to be a-sexual in a world that doesn’t understand half of it.
Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of MyndStories. As a first-person essay, this content is not verified by our Reviewers.
