“That’s true, but I can guarantee nearly all of the people in the room will have heard a story like yours, or indeed even have their own very similar version.”
“Which is why I’m sharing it. Jesus, keep up, Einstein.”
“But what about sharing something they don’t expect?”
Maeve blinks at me. “Like… like what?”
I turn to face her, crossing my legs under the comforter. “What’s the one thing you wish people knew about being asexual?”
She literally chews on that, a curve emerging in her cheek as I imagine it squashed beneath her teeth. “That… no, I can’t say that,” she shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut, “because it’s different for everyone, right? One asexual person is not a monolith. And asexuality is a sliding scale, right? There are asexuals who like having sex, there are asexuals who hate having sex and there’s everything in between. There are asexuals who are aromantic too, and there are asexuals who… aren’t. There are asexuals who have sexual and romantic relationships. There are asexuals who have platonic relationships. There are asexuals who choose not to have any kind of relationship outside of friendships and even those may be a struggle. And then there are demisexuals and graysexuals, but even within their classifications there’s still a spectrum of different experiences. So even if I’m trying to tell people one thing about being asexual that they may not know, that thing likely wouldn’t apply to everyone.”
Her shoulders lift with a heavy breath at the end of her monologue.
“Then just tell me, Maeve. What is it you wish people knew aboutyouas an asexual?”
She keeps her eyes on me, blinking a lot and I notice that her jaw works as she swallows.
“I wish… I wish people wouldn’t make up their mind about me once they hear the wordasexual,but at the same time I don’t want them to interrogate me about what I do or don’t like. And I hate how that makes me sound difficult, pedantic, demanding, but still I can’t explain it better than that. Ultimately, I just wish people didn’t react at all. Like, the way we’re finally there when people say they’re gay or bi or a lesbian, it doesn’t get such abig reaction anymore, at least not in some circles. But I just feel so far away from that. Because at the very heart of the way people react to my being asexual, and the way they want to know whether I like kissing, or hugging, or I don’t know, bumping uglies, is just this undeniable proof that we live in a sex-obsessed world. And I hate that.” She looks down for a few moments and I let her words fill the room and take up the space they deserve. When her eyes are up again and on me, she continues in a softer voice, “Now, how on earth am I going to share that with a room full of people who are probably very proud to call themselves sex-obsessed?”
Her cocked eyebrow emphasizes the challenge in her question and like the Aries moon I am, I rise to it.
“I think they’re exactly the people who need to hear it,” I tell her.
“Ha! So I can get heckled out of the room,” she scoffs and crosses her arms in defiance.
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees on top of the covers. “What makes you think that sex workers would do that? Do you have some preconceived bias against sex workers? Do you really believe they are, as you say, truly sex-obsessed or how much of that is for show, for their content channels? Are you telling me you’ve never hammed up who you are or are perceived to be for likes and comments or a little extra revenue?” I give her one of my own cocked eyebrows. “What makes you think that sex workers can’t be open-minded or receptive to somebody who sees the world differently to them?”
Her eyebrow lowers but a small pout puckers her lips as her eyes narrow on me. I wait for her retort and I’m almost disappointed when that scowl slips off her face and she unravels her arms, her shoulders sinking.
“What the fuck am I doing?” she asks, her hands palm-up on the bed either side of her body. “I’m a fecking idiot for thinking I could do this keynote.”
I shift forward and throw my legs off the side of the bed, the bedsheets slipping off my body.
“Let’s play a game.”
“Jesus Christ, Loncey, I don’t have time for I-Bloody-Spy. I need to write and memorize a speech and I have,” she glances at her laptop, “less than twenty hours to do so.”
“The game is called, Honest Answers Only.” I nod. “You have to answer my questions and give me only honest answers.”
She rolls her eyes in a way that is as infuriating as it is adorable. “Fine.”
“Okay. Question one. Why did you agree to give the keynote at tomorrow’s conference?”
Her chest lifts with her deep exhale. She’s taking too much time.
“Honest answers only,” I remind her.
“Okay. Jesus. Hold your horses. I agreed to give the speech because I wanted to challenge myself and the people I would be talking to.”
“Sounds like you’re definitely going to achieve that. And how did you imagine challenging the audience?”
“By making them aware of compulsory sexuality, and how not everyone fits into a world where that is the norm.”
“Sounds like something we all need to know more about. Good. And why is the speech going to challenge you?”
“Errr, for all the reasons we’ve just mentioned. You know, I’ll get laughed at or shouted at or asked to leave or I’ll have rotten vegetables thrown at me.”
I shake my head with a smile. “We only work with very ripe vegetables, so no danger of that.” I watch a frown of astonishedbemusement cross Maeve’s face but I ignore it and point my finger at her. “And I also don’t think that was an honest answer.”
