The first post is always the most daunting. Introducing oneself to a new audience, trying to make a good first impression. It’s both exhilarating and scary. Lots of “will they like me?” and “will people be interested in what I have to say?”
So, who I am: I am a bisexual, demi-sexual, middle aged mother of two, married to my best male friend and soul mate for twenty years. I have two teenaged children. My daughter came out to me a few years ago as probably pansexual leaning towards asexual, but that’s a post for another day. My son is undeclared but seems to lean towards straight.
My extended family consists of my female soul mate who lives in another state, (our plan is to be old ladies together) and several non-blood related sisters.
When I told one of my friends I was going to blog for FRW, her question was, “Why would they want a straight married woman to talk about anything on there?”
I blinked a few times, thinking, “I look straight?”
After a moment, I realized that I guess I do. If you saw me on the street, I am a cis-gendered, middle class, white, straight woman. A little on the geeky side, probably pretty liberal. People always seem to think I’m much more conservative than I am.
This particular woman has only known me for about five years. I may have mentioned to her that I’d had a girlfriend before my husband. Perhaps not.
On the other hand, I’ve known quite a few people, gay and straight, who seem to think that bisexual people in a straight, monogamous marriage aren’t really bisexual. Or that bisexuality is, you know, (insert condescending sneer) a phase.
Then, I mentioned that among other things, I was going to be talking about demisexuality and gray-a, I found myself having to explain what those terms meant. Which is fine, they are relatively new.
After a long explanation what asexuality and demisexuality were, she was quiet for a moment, then she said, “But, I thought everyone was like that--I mean, I always figured sex is just for guys, right?”
A silence on my side, and then, “Perhaps this is something you should explore?”
I’ve certainly been exploring it a lot myself. I’ve always know I was queer in the most traditional sense of the word. Queer the way my grandmother would have used the word. Queer as in “not like other people”.
I’ve heard that asexuals define themselves as people who would prefer cake to sex. In 1987 I had that exact discussion with some other women at a party--my graduation party actually. I was eighteen and I said I’d much prefer food to sex. I remember the giggles and condescending looks. The “Oh honey, you’ll get it one day.” Someone asked if I’d had my hormones checked. Perhaps my birth control pills were too strong or not strong enough. That was the last time I discussed it public.
I assumed that my lack of enjoyment/interest had to do with my lack of practice and or my history. Compared to the women I was talking with, I was practically a virgin.
You see, during my early adolescence, when all the girls I knew were swooning over this guy or that one, I pretty much feigned interest, so as not to seem like a bigger freak than I already felt. Eventually, I realized that I was only attracted physically to other girls, although they weren’t crushes I ever acted on. They were more an abstract, “Whoah! She’s hot!” sort of things. I discovered porn and realized that I liked looking at the pictures of pretty women. Pretty guys? Not so much.
I had a girlfriend for a while, but we kept it on the down low from mutual agreement. I had been best friends with this girl forever and she was an extremely sexual and sensual person. We weren’t lovers long, and I always felt that it was my fault because I was lacking somehow. I assumed I wasn’t sexual enough, or pretty enough or whatever.
Then, somewhat to my surprise, somewhere around sixteen, I fell deeply in love with a boy. The sex with him was (mostly) pleasant and fun. I figured that made me straight and perhaps having girl crushes was just a phase. I had been sexually assaulted during my childhood, so I wondered if that was where they came from. Mostly though, I was relieved. Being gay would not have gotten me thrown out of my mom’s house or anything, but it would have been a problem.
My boyfriend and I must have broken up and gotten back together a bajillion times. We’d known each other since beginning high school and we were always close friends before. Every time we broke up, I remember thinking in an almost-panic “But, I’ll never be able to have sex again.”
I had three lovers after that, but the sex was always problematic--I would try, but it never worked right. And I never had sex more than once or twice with any of them.
Part of the problem, I think, was I never did it for the sake of having sex, but more for the myriad other reasons people have sex. All the while, concerned that my body was screwed up because it wouldn’t act right--by this time, I had read Our Bodies, Ourselves and I was pretty sure I understood how it was supposed to work. Only mine didn’t. Save for one specific man and one specific woman, I pretty much still preferred food to sex.
I flinched away from any other possible sexual partners and, all unwittingly, must have given off some very mixed signals to those who were interested.
I remember trying to untangle this mess with my one of my shrinks--his view was that my lack of desire was directly related to my history of sexual abuse. We talked about trust issues and love ad infinitum.
At the time, I couldn’t help thinking that I knew plenty of women who’d been sexually assaulted and they didn’t lose all desire.
The other thing was that my relationship wasn’t particularly healthy, far from it--but it really makes it tough to leave someone if you believe that your sex drive only works properly in their presence. My shrink kept telling me to find a person who loved me for me.
Perhaps this is the most important reason for asexual or demisexual visibility. The lack of sex drive doesn’t mean there’s a problem, it’s just a question of wiring. Everyone around me, including my shrink, really made me feel like I’d be missing out on something essential if I didn’t at least try to make sex work for me.
After another screwed up relationship, I did eventually make it work for me. I found my way into my current relationship with my husband, which is happily sexual, although it required (and still requires) much negotiation. Fortunately, my husband has a patient nature and a sense of humor.
We’ve been in our relationship since 1991 and friends since 1986. I can’t imagine ever wanting another man. I have never once been tempted to stray. I mean not even in the abstract “I wonder what it would be like to have sex with....” I don’t think that makes me virtuous, merely demisexual. If I can’t have my soulmate, I’ll have the cake.
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