Sexual Relationships 
Sexual Health 
I am already anticipating a lot of the responses that I will likely receive for writing this mytake. I’m sure there’s going to be a lot of people who tell me that I don’t understand my own sexuality, or blatantly that my sexuality doesn’t exist. I’m ready for that, and frankly don’t give two shits if people want to try and tear this take apart, because I’m not here for them; I’m here for the guy or girl out there who doesn’t understand why they’re different, or even what/who they are. I’m writing this hoping it will reach other people like me, who live in fear and confusion for not being one of the more openly discussed “alternative” sexualities. In this series of takes, I am going to talk about my personal experience discovering my sexuality and other takes that will focus more on the facts about demisexuality, to shine light on a generally very unknown sexuality.
I don’t mean to belittle homosexuality or bisexuality in any way, but it’s pretty fair to say that they have far more representation that the folks who fall under the spectrum of asexual to demisexual. I figure it’s because, for us, it’s far less about our sexual preference, and more about what we need in order to form romantic bonds or connections. Asexuals, of course, have no sexual desire whatsoever, and many are also aromantic, with little to no desire to even partake in relationships. Of course, this isn’t true for them all. Demisexuals on the other hand, we’re very complicated. The “official” definition of demisexual describes itself as a person who falls under the spectrum of asexual (not being interested in and even repulsed at times by sex) unless there is a strong emotional bond, where they can then at times achieve arousal. The truth is though, is that demisexuals are extremely complicated, and most websites offering information on them will explicitly state that. For every demi it’s different, which is why it isn’t as actively recognized and is often challenged by those who belong to different sexual communities, simply because its complexity leaves us stranded between a grey area that lies between asexual and sexual.
I didn’t even realize I was demisexual until about a few months ago, after my attempts at establishing new romantic relationships inevitably failed. I had been working on my appearance to assist in this task, and noticed very immediately that I was getting more attention from people who initially never took interest in me before, primarily old platonic friends or acquaintances. It didn’t take long before people began trying to sexually engage me, and quite honestly, it was repulsive. I felt literally grossed out that these people who were friends of the past were thinking of me in a sexual way, especially considering none of them were particularly close friends either. It left me cringing and no longer responding to their messages or calls, because I didn’t want anything to do with what they were after. It didn’t stop there however; I was approached in public as well, by people who definitely weren’t unattractive … but, I felt nothing for them. No attraction, no interest, definitely no sexual attraction … nothing. I forced myself to hand out a few numbers, but nothing ever panned out. Everybody seemed like they just wanted sex … and no matter how attractive they were I didn’t feel anything remotely sexual towards them. It left me wondering what was wrong with me and why I was suddenly having this problem … until I thought about it. I had always had this problem.
From the time that I was thirteen, sex was a complicated issue for me. Puberty hit, my hormones were out of whack, and an interest in sex slowly but surely formed in my mind. However, it didn’t manifest in the way it seemed to for other girls; while other girls were interested in relationships or boys, I was more interested in fantasy role plays and fantasizing by myself. I would fantasize about two (non-existent) people or characters. There was always a strong emotional connection between the two, and they would perform sexual type “acts” with each other … but never the real thing. I had this strange aversion to actual intercourse, even at the height of my sexual interest, which were my preteen years. It was always about affection, giving, love and a distinct lack of pressure. Everyone in these fantasies were so in tuned with one another that they didn’t have to tell the other what they wanted; they just knew. It was more about this intense emotional and spiritual connection they had with each other that made what they were doing “okay” in my little preteen mind, who still thought that having sex was naughty and reserved for people in love. Of course, as I got older, my views changed slightly.
I knew that sex wasn’t wrong, but I knew that for me, I wanted there to be love before I even considered anything. If I couldn’t be with somebody I loved, then I didn’t want to have sex. I figured the safest way to make sure I only had sex with somebody that I loved was to wait until marriage. Mind you, I expected to be married at the age I am now: my very early twenties – so I didn’t think I would have too long to wait and I didn’t have to worry about it. I would get a boyfriend, we would fall in love, be the exception and stay together forever and get married. Then, in that moment when our wedding ended, I would have the sudden desire to have sex.
Of course I realize how stupid that sounds now. But there was no open discussion about relationships and sex in my house; the best I got was my mom warning me that men are pigs, no matter what. Just like before, my views changed shortly after I finally got my first boyfriend at age seventeen. I liked him more than I had ever liked anyone before, because … well … I had NEVER liked anyone else before. He was special. Even though he was just an average guy, his personality and the way he made me feel made him the most attractive guy in the entire school. He knew how to get past my barriers and was patient with my hesitation. Before I knew it, I was crushing hard on the guy.
That’s when all of the confusion really began.
We held hands, we cuddled, we kissed – all of the things normal lovers do. We went on dates, went to dances together – he was my first everything. Well, almost. Early in our relationship, we were dazzled and infatuated with one another, attending two dances back to back in the span of a month or so. I was attracted to him and I liked him, I knew that for sure. Then, something happened that would confuse me, and tip me off to my sexuality years later as an adult. We were huddled in the corner of the venue, talking and being cute as couples do, when all of the sudden, I felt him grab my breast. I looked down and confirmed my suspicion. He had – during a lull in the conversation – put his hand against me and began silently groping me. I was stunned, and just stood there, confused. The action didn’t feel aggressive, and it didn’t feel wrong either … as a matter of fact, it felt like … nothing. I felt nothing. It didn’t feel good, but it didn’t feel bad – more uncomfortable than anything, but it mostly felt like nothingness – numbness even. Complete emotional numbness. So I remained still, until he pulled away suddenly, shocked at what he had done, claiming he didn’t mean to; he pictured it in his head and acted it out while he was in a daze, or so he said. It was at this moment, when I was still just getting to know this wonderful guy that who I was inside poked her head out of the darkness, even if I didn’t realize it then.
The reason the situation so desperately confused me was that, months later (after a brief separation) me and this guy met up for what one could call a last hurrah: he was going off to an army university in Quebec, and I was switching parental homes due to familial issues. We decided to meet one last time and spend the afternoon together before parting ways, and I can’t lie and say that it wasn’t one of the most sad and beautiful moments of my life. We hung out at the park, cuddled, and I had my first experience making out too. But there was a moment, a pinnacle moment where I would experience something I had never felt towards another person before. While we were sitting in the grass, he pulled me onto his lap, facing away from him, and put his arms around me while we looked up at clouds. Just then, he asked me if he could “Do something mean”, and I hesitantly said sure, trusting he wasn’t going to do anything truly malicious. Before I knew it, he was blowing raspberries on the side of my neck, a bizarre sensation that sparked something in me that I almost felt ashamed of. Somehow, the feeling of his mouth against my skin gave me a brief, confusing spark of arousal. By now, we had been together for most the school year, and it wasn’t until this time at the park, knowing we would probably never see each other again, that I left the closest to him than I ever had before. It was only when I was sure that he was absolutely special that my walls broke down and I was able to feel sexually thrilled by a very subtle, physical action. It was looking back on this first relationship, comparing it to others, and first learning of the word that I realized I was demisexual. With that knowledge came many obstacles but also many good things. I finally felt like I understood myself, but still feared others wouldn’t.
This is the end of the first part I of the series I intend to do on demisexuality. With my personal story out of the way, the next installment will deal more with what demisexuality is, the culture around it, and understanding what it truly means to be demisexual. If you enjoyed this first installment, let me know in the comments below. It was a long one but I hope you like it. Thanks.
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