“And happy birthday again, brother,” Jenna leans over my lap. Her stomach presses against my legs and the little tingle of excitement I feel about the life that is growing there is a welcome little surprise that almost manages to melt away some of my bad mood, but not quite. “And have ALL the fun!”
As Jake and Rami share a knowing look and Marty and Jenna chuckle, I just close my eyes and start counting to ten. By the time I’ve reached ten, the door is closed, Marty has given the driver the addresses for my hotel and Jake’s flat, and we are moving away, but I don’t feel any calmer or more at ease.
“Maeve,” Jenna says my name slowly, hesitantly, and I just know she wants to do the one thing I really don’t want to do; talk about it.
“Jenna, I fecking love you to bits, and you know I think it’s amazing what you do, being a sex and relationships journalist and all, but I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“That’s fine,” Jenna says. “I just want you to know youcantalk to me, when you’re ready.”
“I know.” I sigh. And I do know. I know I have people,goodpeople, who care about me and want me to be happy, but sometimes that doesn’t feel enough. I’m grateful for them, don’t get me wrong. Marty, Jenna, Jake and my parents have all showered me with love and support since I came out as queer at Christmas and then further defined my identity by publicly acknowledging I am asexual about three months ago, but I thought the whole point of going on a journey of self-enlightenment, of being curious and questioning about my sexuality and my wants and desires, was supposed to result in some clarity and and maybe something like a conclusion. Something like a happy ending, or a happy beginning, for me too.
It’s possibly a lie to say it hasn’t brought any clarity. Since I did a spontaneous Live on Christmas Day and came out as queer to my social media followers, which now total nearly three million, I have discovered things about myself,things that are undeniable and true and immovable.
Do I like that I’m asexual? Yes, if we remove the rest of the world, the allosexual world, I really do. I like how it removes a whole world of cloudy, contradictory and complicated connections that perplexingly involve being as close as you can possibly be to somebody physically and yet as distant as strangers mentally or emotionally. I like how being asexual has helped me remove endless aggravating worries and frustrations about how I thought there was something wrong with me. How I thought I was broken. How I thought I was the only one who felt – or who didn’t feel – a certain way. Now, I know there are people just like me, or similar enough. People who all speak a language I am fluent in, even if we do not share the exact same vocabulary, the exact same thoughts. Now, I am one of many. Now, I am not alone.
But I don’t live in a world populated only by aces. I’ve been slow to make real friends in the ace community, because I wanted to figure out more about myself first. And I don’t have the luxury of not being confronted regularly with how, while my asexuality makes complete sense to me most days, I still struggle tolikebeing asexual in the real world. I still sometimes feel like something is missing. On my darkest days, I still feel like I’m broken.
And I still also find it so, so confusing thinking about how I crave the intimacy, the closeness, the trust of a romantic relationship with someone, and yet I don’t want the physical act that comes with it.
Because even if I am capable of a romantic relationship, who is going to want one with somebody who may never want to have sex?
This is why I hate love. This is why I hatewantinglove. I hate wanting what I’ll never, ever have.
When I surface from these busy, ugly thoughts, I realise we’re approaching the River Thames and in less than ten minutes we’ll be at my hotel. A soft rhythmic rumble pulls my eyes to my brother who has his head tipped back and his mouth slightly open, fast asleep and snoring. When I turn the other way and give Jenna a quick half-glance, I see she’s awake and staring out the window as we start to go over Battersea Bridge. Looking ahead again, I see the cabbie is going to town trying to get something out of his teeth with one hand while the other grips the steering wheel. The radio is chattering away to him, although it’s a muffled sound to me because of the glass panel that separates us. I sigh and I’m not wholly surprised when it pulls out a small hiccup and my eyes get warm with tears.
“Jenna,” I say when I know I have only a few more minutes before we are pulling up at my hotel. The air in the cab is too quiet and yet also too full, too heavy and I know I can’t hide my tears anymore. Not when I am cursed with hiccups whenever I cry.
She turns to me immediately. “Yeah?”
I don’t say anything, but my eyes meet hers and I know she sees it – my sadness – and I know she’ll notice the tears.
“Oh, Maeve,” she says and her face crumples in sympathy.
“Can I...” But I don’t finish. Instead, I lean my head on her shoulder. A second later, we are bumped by a dip in the road, apothole or something, and my body falls forward. I find myself letting gravity take me and I lay my head on Jenna’s lap. Behind my head, I feel the warm, firm curve of her pregnant belly, and her hands come to comb my hair away from my face.
“It’s going to be okay, Maeve.” She doesn’t know why I’m upset – we haven’t spoken properly in months about my queerness, my asexuality or anything deep – but she knows me, she knows I’ve struggled in the past, and she knows I wouldn’t collapse on her in a sobbing heap unless I really had to.
“I don’t think it will be,” I say, finding it easier to admit this because she doesn’t know what exactly I’m talking about. She doesn’t know my deepest, darkest fear feels closer and more solid than ever. That I’ll never find love like others have. I’ll never know what it’s like to wake up next to somebody who wants to do life with me.
“It may not be okay how you think it will be,” Jenna says after a few seconds, her fingers still stroking my hair. "But it will be okay, I promise you that. We will make sure that it is okay."
“You and Marty?” I ask with a hiccup.
“And Bubba,” she says.
“Bubba,” I repeat, and I smile despite it all.
“There are so many good things to come, Maeve. Not just Bubba but also...” Jenna sighs but it’s a light bridge of air. “Everyone, everywhere.”
“Everyone, everywhere,” I repeat and it’s not because I believe her. It’s not even because I’m comforted by her words. It’s because I’m so tired and I’m so sad and I’m so fed up with trying to feel better about what I’ll never have, what I’ve lost before even experiencing it.
“Stay with us, Maeve,” Jenna says a minute or so later when the taxi stops moving. "Go grab your things and then come back down and we’ll go to—”
“No,” I sit up and interrupt. “No, I want to be alone tonight.”
It’s not the truth, but being alone is my reality and I may as well start getting used to it. I give Jenna a quick peck on the cheek, then open the taxi door and climb out, careful not to disturb my snoring brother. I take a few steps towards the hotel’s entrance, then look back and wave at Jenna as the taxi pulls off again. Then I look up at the sky and pull in a deep breath of the mild night air. As my lungs deflate on my slow exhale, I watch clouds part above me, revealing a sprinkling of a few tiny, glittering stars. There are so few that I can count them. Seven stars. Suddenly nothing feels more depressing than the fact I can only see seven stars in the sky. Their low number only makes me feel sadder, and makes them feel further away. They feel a million miles away. No,Ifeel a million miles away from everything and everyone.
Unanchored. Unrooted. Unhinged.
