This—demisexuality—makes so much sense when I place it into the context of my own life. I’ve never been one for casual hookups. I mean, I’ve been hearing Whit and Knox, and even Ty, talk about sex and girlfriends for years now. But even when I’ve been in close proximity with a girl, that desire just isn’t there.
But with Lexi, it almost was. It was like putting on the perfect pair of skates that just happened to be half a size too small. So close, but still totally wrong. With Lexi, I felt that deep connection. Other than the boys, she was my closest friend for a year. We did everything together, and I was happy. Life with Lexi was good, but there was still no sexual desire.
My eyes linger on the definitions Ian has on the screen and it’s like one of those cartoon moments where the puzzle pieces fit together or the lightbulb goes off.
I’m demisexual.
I don’t experience desire without a really strong bond.I don’t want to kiss someone, don’t want their body tangled up in mine, unless I care deeply for them and know they care deeply for me.
Oh, and male. They also have to be male.
Because there’s no denying it. I feel things for Ian McBride. Things I never felt for Lexi. Things I never even thought about before we became friends, before I knew what it felt like to have his hand on mine or be wrapped up in his arms.
And sure, all of that’s been done in friendship, in comfort. But I want more. So much more.
The question is this: what am I willing to do about it? Can I own up to it and face potential rejection?
I don’t think I’m there yet, honestly. And though I know it's true, acknowledging the truth and screaming it out loud are two very different things.
Ian
Booker heads out of the lecture hall with his buddies, and though I’m tempted to call after him, I don’t. First off, he’s technically my student for now, considering that Hannah messaged this morning to say she extended her family leave for another month. I guess her dad is healing, but it’s a slow process, and since he’s her only living relative, she wants to be there for him. How could I say no to that?
Instead of heading up to Hannah’s office to put a dent in the rest of the journal submissions, I make my way to Drip for an afternoon shift. It’s just about time for mid-terms, and Theo must be eyeballs deep in some engineering project because he uncharacteristically called off.
The walk across campus does me good. I’ve been so busy lately that sometimes I’ll crawl into bed and realize I barely saw daylight.
But I want to be a professor, and so this is what my life is going to be like for the foreseeable future. And honestly, with classes like the one Booker is in, and discussions like the one we had today? That’s the kind of stuff I live for. I offered information and made commentary when necessary, but they generated such a rich, respectful discussion that, at times, I forgot I was the one monitoring it.
I clock in and catch up with Mel, who’s been the shift lead for the past four hours. Soon enough, I’m making drinks and getting back into my groove. It’s not quite as fulfilling as a class-wide discussion on demisexuality, but I still love the rhythm of it.
I’m making drinks, and I get into a flow and my movements are so automatic that my head reaches a space where it can just wander. That’s bliss. I think about the next discussion topic and an article I recently read on gender fluidity that would work well as a journal prompt.
Pretty soon, it’s time for my ten, so I make a steaming cup of honey mint tea and find a spot in the back corner. Since I only have a few minutes, I figure I’ll just scroll through social media and see what I’ve missed.
But that plan goes out the window when Booker Zabek approaches my table.
“Hey, um, do you mind if I sit?”
“No, of course not. Do you want some tea? Or a smoothie? I can—”
“No, I’m good,” he shakes his head.
I resist the urge to tell him that he doesn’t look so good. Because, honestly, he’s gorgeous. All sexy scruff and manly muscles and boyish charm. But there’s a weariness on his face that worries me. A tired look in his eyes. He’s lost his spark, and I want to kick the shit out of the asshole who stole it.
“What do you need, Booker? Is there an issue with an assignment?”
He blanches, and instantly, I know I’ve said the wrong thing, but I can’t figure out how.
“No, no, everything’s under control there.”
He recovers quickly enough, and I wonder if maybe I’m just being a worrywart. I have a tendency to fuss over those I love, and while I certainly don’t love Booker, he’s definitely in my circle.
“So, what’s up? Is everything good with Rose? And the gang?”
“Yea, they’re all fine. I just…um, did you ever make that sign?”
The question seems to come out of nowhere and it takes me a moment to follow his train of thought.
