That hasn’t happened.
I haven’t even dated anybody since I moved in.
And I find that both depressing and strangely comforting. Because it feels like when I moved into my own space, I finally allowed myself to be myself. I wasn’t trying to do all the things my friends were doing – dating, having sex, starting relationships, getting engaged, getting married, some even getting pregnant – instead I focused on myself. I focused on making my online brand something I could rely on as a source of income for years to come. And eventually, I started to focus on trying to make sense of what it was that always felt off when I dated men.
When I’m standing in front of the fridge, I pause before opening it, bracing myself for what could be inside. My nose wrinkles from the stench that has definitely worsened since I stepped into the kitchen.
“Ah Jesus fuck, please don’t be a dead mouse, not in my fucking fridge.”
I pull a deep breath into my lungs and hold it as I open up the fridge. Not seeing the culprit immediately, I am starting to feel dizzy from holding my breath when I finally open up the bottom drawer and find a very sad-looking soggy cucumber. As I reach for it, it falls in to pieces and my fingers slip through its mushy flesh.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, dropping it again and holding my hand up as I move quickly to the sink. I rinse my hand, all while muttering more curse words, and then I reach for the roll of kitchen paper on its stand and pull off at least seven sheets.
“That will teach me for trying to be healthy for once,” Itskmyself. “Right, you manky cunt cucumber. I’m coming for you.”
A handful of held breaths and half a roll of paper towel later and the offending cucumber is out of my fridge and the drawer has been cleaned up.
Just as I slot it back in place inside the fridge, I heave out another sigh.
It’s the most ridiculous thing to feel sad about, but I do. I don’t want to remove dirty cucumbers from my fridge on my own. Sure, I would like to have someone to do it for me, because I have a tendency towards princess-like moments, I’ll admit it, but more than that, I’d like to have someone to cheer me on and applaud me when it’s done and to maybe laugh with me as I’m doing it.
I tut as I go back to where I left my bags. If this is what I’m like dealing with a mouldy cucumber, God forbid the depressive episode I slip into when I have to deal with an actual crisis alone.
I need to toughen up. I need to remember how hard I’ve worked to get to where I am right now, all under my own steam. I need to remind myself that this is likely my reality for the rest of my life; I need to find a way to not just get used to it, but actually enjoy it. Because I don’t want to be miserable for the rest of my life, no matter how fucking excellent I am at it.
I’m better than this. I’m stronger than this. I’m braver than this.
And I’m too vain to allow the wrinkles of my perma-frown to take root on a face that I invest hundreds in keeping looking clear and youthful. Not that I’m old. I’m twenty-fucking-seven, for crying out loud. And yet I feel like life is passing me by, or rather certain parts of life are passing me by.
“Ugh!” I groan out loud as I pick up my handbag and roll my suitcase over to the stairs where I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need an action plan.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what I need. I need a cup of tea, a shower and an orgasm. In that order.
It’s not everybody’s best defence against stress, and it’s definitely not every asexual’s go-to method to relieve frustration, but it’s mine. What can I say? I don’t like sex much, but I sure as fuck like the release and rush of happy hormones an orgasm gives me.
I pull my phone out of my bag and take it with me back to the kitchen where I grab a mug and a teabag and then wait for the kettle to boil feeling in my bones how tired and stiff I am from travel. I’m massaging my neck when the kettle clicks off and I reach for it, pouring water into the mug. I use a teaspoon to dunk the teabag up and down in the water while I pull my phone out and absent-mindedly start tapping through social media apps and scrolling through notifications.
It’s when I’m on TikTok that I see I now have over one hundred direct messages, and rightly or wrongly, once I get to those kinds of numbers, it starts to stress me out. It’s also happened occasionally that interesting opportunities have landed in that inbox, so I open it up and have a look at what’s there. I’m not even looking at usernames or profile pictures, which is why one message takes me completely by surprise.
I tap the profile photo to double-check it’s from who I think it’s from and it’s disconcerting how familiar their profile already looks, as I’ve returned to it a few times over the last week or so. I’ve watched more than a handful of their videos and while often the content has threatened to make my stomach contentslurch up my throat like an old rackety rollercoaster, I can’t deny that some of it is interesting, fascinating in fact. I didn’t know sex could be talked about in such an academic and informative way. Honestly, I didn’t know that sex could be more than an uncomfortable tangling of limbs and an awkward and clumsy bumping of flesh on flesh. But this ElBaby person, they make it sound like it’s something more than that and not just in a lovey-dovey kind of way. They make it sound like a hobby or activity somebody could get very passionate about.
Not me, of course, but somebody else.
But why is ElBaby messaging me?
I mean, thewhyis clearly explained in their message. They want to acknowledge all the many tags that I’m continuing to get in their video. They want to comment on the tags people are leaving, but don’t feel it’s right because I’m still ignoring them. They also want to ‘praise’ me for my ‘bravery’ coming out as asexual. I roll my eyes. What does someone who is clearly obsessed with sex know about being asexual and the struggles that come with it? Nothing.
Sure, they have ‘Aro’ in their bio but, as they themselves have acknowledged, being aromantic is not the same as being asexual. A fact I know only too well.
I stop dunking my teabag and start typing a reply.
Jesus fucking wept. They’re a grown person. They don’t need my permission to comment on their own video.
Without locking the screen, I slide my phone onto the kitchen counter face up.
