But it isn’t. It really, really isn’t.
“Earth to Maeve!” Jake’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Does that work for you?” Rami’s gentle voice follows up.
“Sorry, what?” I shake my head.
“We’ll pick you up just after nine. That okay?”
“Yeah, that’s grand,” I say, still blinking and trying to return to the busy restaurant. I’m partially aware of conversation drifting elsewhere between Rami, Jake and my brother, and I find myself wanting to escape again, but this time not into my thoughts. So, I pull my phone out of my bag and start tapping through apps, looking at notifications. I’ve been really diligent at putting new content up every day this week, and making highly-polished, super-relevant videos and posts, wanting to prove to Aisling that I can still grow my platform without stripping downto my underwear. And it’s working, I think. The more I talk about being asexual, doing some videos that are informative and others that are entertaining, making jokes about how confusing being asexual is, and how misunderstood it is, I’m reaching new followers. And I’m getting more comments and DMs from people who say my speaking on this topic is really helping them. I wish I could wave those emails and messages in Aisling’s face when she starts to talk to me about ROI and KPIs.
But I know I can’t. I also can’t help but feel that, while my following may be getting a nice little boost, the offers for work haven’t exactly increased. And this trip to New York that I’m going on tomorrow is one that I’m paying out of my own pocket, which isn’t a big deal. Sometimes I prefer to make my own travel arrangements, but this trip is different. I’m paying for everything and I don’t even have a job to travel for. Instead, I’m going out to New York to meet with a possible new agent, someone who has been in contact with me for some time, slowly, slowly trying to convince me to sign with them.
This is not unusual in itself; I’ve been approached by lots of agents in the past, but this is different because the agency is a start-up, a queer start-up.
To make the most of the trip, I’ve also planned and paid for a photoshoot in Central Park, and arranged to do some meet-ups with other influencers so we can shoot content together at a Yankees game, be courtside at a Knicks game, and also go to a pumpkin farm upstate. When in fucking Rome at fucking Halloween, I guess…
“Are you okay, Maeve?” Jenna’s voice fills my ear. She’s leaning towards me, her hands balanced on her stomach.
“Yeah, I’m grand, I’m just… tired.”
Jenna nods. “Will you have some downtime while you’re in New York?”
I shake my head. I don’t want downtime. Especially when I’m travelling… alone.
“But I’ll be fine. It’s going to be a fun trip,” I tell her, hoping the smile on my face is genuine. “I’m seeing some friends. Doing a fun photoshoot where I get to be the director. And you know the meeting with this possible new agent is exciting.”
Jenna’s eyes dart to Marty quickly but then come back to me once she sees he’s still occupied with his conversation with Rami and Jake. “You know, your parents and Marty are worried this meeting may mean you move over to the States. But I want you to know that you shouldn’t let that influence any decisions you make.
I’m not surprised by what she’s saying. Ma and I have spoken about this before and I’ve even admitted how I’ve considered it in the past. But that was before my first nibling was due to be born. That was before I started to think that if I’m not going to find a life partner to love and be loved by, I should definitely stay close to the family and friends I do have.
I shake my head and look at Jenna but don’t put my phone down. I’ve just noticed I’ve got some new messages in my TikTok inbox. “That’s never going to happen, trust me. I don’t want to live there. It’s full of annoying Americans.”
Jenna snorts. “Isn’t the US one of your primary audiences? Aren’t you, like, seriously popular there?”
I shrug. “Well, there you go. They’re stupid as well as annoying!”
Jenna chuckles as she reaches for her glass and Marty turns to her, saying something I don’t quite catch. Checking both couples are busy talking, I finally open up my inbox.
I wouldn’t say my stomach sinks when I see it’s not a message from Loncey, but I’m definitely not pleased to see it’s a message from somebody with the username “NaughtyNico69” that I instantly regret reading.Ew. Fuck off.How did that get through my keyword filter?
Once NaughtyNico69’s message is deleted and his username blocked, I find myself scrolling down and finding my conversation with Loncey. I re-read our last messages, although I know most of them by heart now.
Three and a half weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since we last shared some messages. I don’t miss them, as such. I don’tknowthem. But I do find myself thinking about them. I even find myself opening up their profile and watching the videos that aren’t too sex-focused, which isn’t that many but enough to make me feel like I’m scratching an itch I don’t want to have
There was even one evening when I got stuck on my sofa watching a whole series of their videos entitled, “How smutty romance can teach us how to have better sex.” and I didn’t hate everything they had to say. I liked how they differentiated between libido and arousal and attraction, and how they also acknowledged that romance novels create a safe environment for readers to explore fantasies with no pressure from the outside world, and how that helps people remove the shame they may have been taught to feel. They also briefly touched on how we need to remember that sexuality is on the same spectrum as asexuality and that the way people feel sexual attraction to one another can change over time, and that there’s nothing wrong with feeling sexual attraction to fictional characters; they are indeed written to be sexually attractive. In fact, I liked a lot of it. And I liked the way they said it – gently, eloquently, intelligently – albeit, yet again, while they were still shirtless.
“Who’s that you’re texting?” a voice asks. My brother’s voice. I look up and see him sat in Jenna’s chair. She must have gone to the Ladies. I’m momentarily disappointed she didn’t ask me to go with her, but then realise we only went together about fifteenminutes ago and she must have assumed, rightly, that I didn’t need to go again.
That’s like the fifth time she’s been this evening.Fuck that shit. I am never getting pregnant.
“Seriously, who is it?” Marty asks again and his eyebrows have the audacity to wiggle at me. I lock the screen on my phone and turn it over on my lap.
“They’re nobody,” I say with a quick tut.
“They?” Another eyebrow wiggle. “You’re being cagey with the gender.”
