Asexual in a Sex-Addled World
The original asexual couple, Barbie and Ken
It’s hard to say what lead to my asexuality, really. True, I had been in a six-year relationship that had just ended, but even before that I was someone who could either take sex or leave it. Sure, sex is good, but often I would rather curl up with a good novel than extend any effort to get it on. So I had a momentary post-break-up contemplation of maybe sleeping with a plethora of people, but in the end, I got into bed with quite a few good books instead.
In the course of one year I read 342 books and, no, not the picture book variety, but true literary endeavours. When I say “asexual,” I don’t mean that I procreate parthenogenetically. Instead what I mean is that I just don’t want to sleep with anyone.
During this time I also was relatively new to Montreal and I decided that instead of waiting around to meet people to go to concerts with, I would go by myself. So I hit up shows like the Gossip and the Dirt Bombs and anything else that caught my fancy or was at a venue that usually had half-decent music. It was at these shows that I met my crew (Morry, where are you dear girl and when will we dance again?) and I met men, lots and lots of them. Like most girls who hang out at local dives, I was propositioned, but instead of acquiescing to their advances I got off on creating false lives for myself by telling people that I was practicing to be a failure, insulting members of Sloan or other rock stars and claiming to be a professor of humanity (which was technically not a lie, since I do like to profess about the humanity of things).
It was fun times and full of shenanigans, and not once did I feel like I was missing out on anything by not having sex. Part of the irony was that I was living in a place that was dubbed by friends as “the House of Sin.” Living with roomies who are hyper-sexed is a good way to contemplate sex, yet I was not driven to go out and actually have sex.
I am a tragedy junkie, in both the literary and the real world, but my affinity for furious boys has never served me well. So, whenever a guy would get up the gumption to ask me on a date, I would have to say no. Most guys tell me that I am too intimidating—whatever that means—so I have to give these men credit for asking me out at all. I always felt bad about saying no, but in the end I never just felt whatever it is that makes you want to go home with someone and have sex with them. I met so many beautiful men that it seems a shame I couldn’t be enticed to enjoy some frolicking with them but, alas, after a few kisses (which are always appreciated) Peggy Lee’s song “Is That All There Is?” would start playing in my head and I would be forced to cease and desist. People never believed me when I told them I was asexual; they thought it was just something to say to be clever. However, I have never put much of a premium on being clever for clever’s sake.
I understand why men would find this hard to believe. Morry and I did share a mutual love for yelling out inanities and anatomies at the Bifteck, and any excuse to be inappropriate was welcomed, to be sure. Men could never believe that I just didn’t want to have sex. Despite my random utterings, my sex drive was non-existent, to say the least. I wasn’t a frigid woman—I am far too much of a hedonist for that!—but why must there be something wrong with saying “Thanks, but no thanks; I just don’t want to have sex with you”? It was nothing personal. After all, I didn’t even want to have sex with myself. That has to count for something, non?
When all is said and done, I am happy to say that my asexuality has served me well, and although I think I might be entering another period of being sans sex-drive, I do romanticize about billet-doux, so maybe some beautiful man can awaken me to the pleasures of sex once again. Otherwise, here’s to more happy times curled up with some eighteenth-century bawdiness.
