No Sexual Orientation? It’s Possible: Asexuality

I actually feel some compassion for the LGBT community. It’s a dirty little secret of mine; my religion taught me it was an act condemnable by God, but what the LGBT community is going through socially does provoke me a bit- since I’m filling shoes similar to theirs.

I never understood why men were so obsessed with breasts (and being a 30A was no fun when I discovered this) or why my girlfriends swooned when they walked past a Calvin Klein billboard. What society called attractive looked the same to me as what society called ratchet- it all looked like people. When I heard that people had sexual fantasies about their crushes… something didn’t sound right.

Of course I have a crush. He’s been my best guy friend since 7th grade, and he reminds me of the things that I still haven’t realized I forgot about yet. He is such a genius and I could talk to him all day if my teachers let me (my biology teacher smartly placed us at opposite ends of the room). But… I never had a sexual fantasy about him. Or any of my crushes, for that matter. They were more of, “I’d like to get to know you more, be close to you…”

I was surfing the internet like a typical person armed with a computer since I was on a writing high (it’s when you found a muse and can write obsessively for days and even weeks). I discovered a website where people submit their secrets anonymously. I cracked up at some of them and was thought-provoked at others. Boom! I somehow landed at PostSecret’s Twitter feed, and there weren’t as many secrets as I wish there were. Every fourth or fifth Tweet was a secret, but in between them, there were news stories. One caught my eye: Asexuality.

It led to this website: http://www.asexuality.org/home/

After reading some info, asexuality is described as an orientation where a person doesn’t experience sexual attraction. No, not celibacy or abstinence were a person does have sexual attraction but chooses not to act on it until a certain time (usually marriage). The person can look at somebody and think, “Oh, she’s cute,” but not, “I want to hook up with her,” and have sexual fantasies.

There are different kinds of asexuals. An asexual is an asexual as long as the person doesn’t have sexual attraction upon first meeting someone.

The things you need to keep in mind about asexuals is there are people who are interested in a romantic connection and those who aren’t. Romantic connection as in getting to know someone, hugging, kissing, holding hands, yay! romance! But no sex. A sexual person can be a bit confused about asexuals since romance and sex are very, very intertwined in their lives.

Suppose you’re a straight man on an island. Or woman. Or whatever. You have your sexual orientation, but everybody else on the island has the contradictory sexual orientation. You’re straight, they’re gay. They’re gay, you’re straight. You’re bi, they’re asexual. Life sucks. You’re not interested in the other people’s way of sex. You want to have sex the way your sexual orientation asks for. You’re a straight dude on an island with gay men, the men are off hooking up, that sucks because you want a girl and you’re not interested in gay sex.

That’s kind of what it is in asexuals. Everyone is talking about sex, obsessing about sex, having sex, but you’re just not interested. This doesn’t mean you’re low libido. You’re still a straight dude on a gay man island (theoretically). You have a sex drive, you want to connect with someone. Asexuals want a different connection with people that isn’t sexual.

I advise you to check out the website for a shorter explanation about different kinds of asexuals, because while I can explain it, it will stretch out forever and AVEN (organization behind the website) just has a thing for keeping things short and sweet.

But some clicks happened to me when I visited the website. I was like, AHA! So that’s what it is. That’s why I never had a sexual fantasy about my crushes.

I called up my best friend who was openly bi. She must’ve known something about being different sexually, coming out, etc. I didn’t know if asexuality was exactly for me. I was a confused mess. I knew asexuality made sense to me, that it was something I experience on a daily basis, but at the same time, why me? It’s estimated that 1 in every 100 people in the UK are asexual. I’m in the US, but why me? I was becoming more and more unable to form a romantic relationship. Religious, vegetarian, having a personality type that only took 4% of the world, and now, what? Asexual? Who was going to put up with a meal dilemma 3 times a day and no sex?

I texted her, and at first, she didn’t understand. After some explanation, she told me it was a phase. That 15 was too young to know for sure, that I was a virgin and there was no way to tell until I tried, and so on.

I’m very disheartened. She talked to me about her sexual orientation being difficult, how people treated her differently, and so on. And she simply turned around and did the same thing to me. I wish people would be aware of asexuality and learn to accept it as a sexual orientation also. The LGBT community has considerable progress in this aspect, and the asexual community has much to learn from them.

After some late nights staying up and crying until the wee hours of the morning, after prayer, after a lot and a lot of research, I know I can’t deny being asexual, but I don’t know how I’m going to admit it in the first place to my loved ones. I don’t even know how people would respond, who should I tell and who I shouldn’t. How to explain, how to stay tough. But it’s progress I have to make. I might as well get it over now then face frustration later on because I let it slide under the mat.

I have a small plan. I want my family to know first before everyone else. So I came up with a fake story, and I’m going to present it the same way I tell my real stories to my mother. I always say, “Today at school, this person blah blah blah blah. Can you believe it?” She gives me her input and some life lesson, every day after coming home from school. Sometimes, on long car rides, she’d ask me, “And what happened to that girl that did such and such?” Maybe I could simply say, “This girl told me she was asexual. She says it’s blah blah blah. What do you think?” Maybe I could get her input from a safe distance.

Maybe I could present the story the same way to my friends. See their eyes, see their expressions. I’ll look at them, find them beautiful, but not sexually. Not that way.

Why I Believe Columbus Day Should Be Killed

  Today, many kids and adults alike are off from their daily obligation(s) because on this day, Columbus stepped on a piece of land he thought was India and met beautiful people he thought were Indians.

 And thus, his discovery started a chain of genocide, oppression, and the dehumanization of the original Americans- the Native Americans.

 Columbus himself doesn’t even deserve the credit for “discovering” America, or even being the first outsider to enter America. Groups like the Vikings, Phoenicians, and West Africans had stepped on this land hundreds of years before Spain funded the voyage.

 Columbus started the slave-trade to America and a great mass-murder. He treated the Native Americans as commodities, forced them into slavery, dehumanized them, and killed them in a fashion similar to what an animal would endure.

Native Americans aren’t silent on their opinion on Columbus or the thousands that took their land and pronounced it their own. On Thanksgiving, when Americans are wolfing down a turkey and raising their obesity rates, the Native Americans on their reservations are going through their Day of Mourning.

If someone mourns the arrival of their own species, it is a very powerful message that clearly proves that their treatment wasn’t at all humanitarian.

Are we teaching our children that genocide is acceptable, as long as you’re not the one being slaughtered? Are we teaching them that oppression and dehumanization is tolerable?

Some cities and people, like Angelina Jolie, have chosen to not even acknowledge this day due to the cruel treatment that Columbus gave to the Native Americans. Instead, some cities have chosen to instead celebrate Italian Culture Day.

History, of course, can’t be changed. We can choose to learn from it, though. I want for it to never happen again, whether it is something as how Americans treat delinquents or immigrants, or something as far fetched as extraterrestrials. History has a lot to do with each individual on this face of the Earth. We just have to make sure that each individual learns from it on a personal level. 

This is why I wrote to Obama, Rick Perry, and Ted Cruz. I wrote to Rick Perry and Ted Cruz since I live in Texas. I wanted to tell them that I didn’t approve of this day and asked them to instead change Columbus Day to Italian Culture Day.

Obama sent back a letter with a picture of him and Michelle. I glowered at the letter.

Seriously? I bought a 46-cent stamp to get an automated response and some picture?

“Obama,” I sighed, “make a change for once and at least write back with that left hand of yours. I mean, you should know better than that. Your tribe in Kenya is raging right now because they want their idiot back…. Now, I’m not saying that you’re an idiot, but if you drew that conclusion from my last statement, well. I’m not taking it back.”

Rick Perry said it was an honor to be an American. Rick. Perry. You know, I used to doubt that if you knew how to read. Now I know that you don’t even know how to write, because someone else clearly did it for you. And that someone else can’t read also, because I basically wrote on how Americans were total jerks to the Native Americans. And to say that it’s an honor?

Ted Cruz didn’t even respond. I’m pretty sure he read it and I got on his nerves. I talked about how my stepdad worked for the government. I was just trying to find a common ground. A week later, my stepdad was at home, grumbling about the government shutdown. I see how it is, Mr. Cruz. You sure know how to cast your revenge plans. Me and my four eyes will be watching you.

Six eyes, actually. I recently got contacts.

Me and my six eyes will be watching you. And the nation’s eyes will be watching Washington and every one that sits in a white building and makes decisions for a living.

Make a move.

You had no problem moving the Native Americans anyways.

This post was written in inspiration from the following muses:

“Reconsider Columbus Day”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8sS2CEp3hM 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/10/14/writing-challenge-history/

“Christopher Columbus and the Indian Identity Mishap”

http://www.readthehorn.com/blogs/talking_heads/84796/christopher_columbus_and_the_indian_identity_mishap

 

The Beast

 Suddenly, I realize where I’m headed. After hours and hours of fingers that grasp me, choke me, and then release me- the ultimate shaver of torture is taunting me as the powerful tentacles carry me to the last seconds of my life.

It flashes before me. I grew up in the woods, around giggling children and streaking sunlight. They would hug me, lean against me, whisper their numbers before saying, “Ready or not, here I come!” Then bigger children started to arrive. My neighbors whispered that they were greedy “adults” that never returned our kind, or never bothered to introduce more of our kind to let us at least be comforted at the thought that we weren’t the last ones left on Earth. The children started to disappear one by one, and the adults brought roaring beasts. My neighbors screamed at me to take care of their children as the beasts overpowered them. Their cries of pain echoed through the Earth until they faded into the air. Gone. Then one day, I couldn’t look after the small, vulnerable children because I suffered the same fate. I was handed off into multiple beasts. Beasts that roared, beasts that hummed, beasts that wounded, beasts that smoothed. Each were taunting in their own way, each took a piece of me until I was slim and fragile. Despite my weak state, a black disease was forced into my head, my heart, and all the way down to my end. After that, I was sealed off from fresh air. I wasn’t alone, though. Eleven others were with me, and one by one, they all told stories similar to mine.

Then one day, fingers took me out, and I learned of fresh air again. This time, though, a beast wasn’t handling me. It was a creature, one like the children that used to hug me and tell me of their adventures. This creature didn’t talk much. Sometimes, its’ voice would echo through the air and into a black box. Other than that, the creature grasped me, choked me, and released me for a chance to breathe. The black disease slowly flowed out of me with great reluctance, but it’s so thick that I might never get better.

Suddenly, the creature let out a breath of frustration, and it stood up. Its’ tentacles were smoothly carrying me to a beast. I knew this beast. Three others that were let out before me screamed as the beast gurgled. However, the beast whispered something to me.

“The secret is to relax,” it said.

“What?!” I demanded.

“Relax,” it went on, making me doubt my sanity, “and this won’t hurt. All I’m doing is sharpening you.”

“What are you?!” I sputtered out in disbelief. The beasts never, ever spoke to me.

“I’m a pencil sharpener. You should know that by now; you are a pencil.” It replied.

“What? No! I’m a tree!” I protested.

“You were a tree. You’re a pencil now.” The pencil sharpener told me as-a-matter-of-factly. Suddenly, my end covered its’ mouth, and it began to gurgle.

Relax. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re not here. You’re with the children. The sunlight is warming you. Relax. 

Then the black disease was flowing out of me again. The pencil sharpener was at the other side of the room, grinning at me.

“You did just fine, Pencil!” He called out. “You did just fine!”
  

Blurring Together

 “Delaware, wake up.. We’ve got to get going.” 
 Delaware moaned and hid her head underneath the covers. It was her father’s voice that woke her up every morning for the past eight years. Many thought that she had her father home when she told them this, when in reality, his calls ceased to ring through the house as time went on. 
 She remembered that day where she wore her Hello Kitty pants, which she wore everywhere she went until Mama would chase her throughout the house with a laundry basket bouncing at her hip. Her parents took her to an ice cream parlor with smiles on their faces. 
 Their smiles were different that day. They stretched over their teeth forcibly, like a slinky straightened to its’ limits. She asked for two scoops, waiting for a pinch on her shoulder to just get one. It never came. She pointed excitedly to the gummy bears in the corner, and when the cashier asked if she wanted anything else, her parents displayed blank faces. Delaware decided to risk another pinch by saying yes and pointing to the cheesecake bits. The pinch never came. 
 She sat down across from her parents. “Where’s your ice cream, Mama?” She asked. 
 “Delaware, we have to tell you something.” Mama told her before hesitating and glancing at Dad. 
 “Your mother and I decided to split.” Dad said. 
 “Your mother and I?” Mama snapped. “Excuse me, but I wasn’t the one who got ‘bored’ on a Saturday night-” 
 “You left me first, Emmy!” Dad snapped. “You and your pathetic boss!” 
 “Oh, really? Who was the one who got caught with-” 
 “You’re not as innocent as you think you are! I bet Delaware isn’t even mine!” 
 “She is too! Do you really think I fabricated the results?” 
 “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Dad snapped right back. 
 They were yelling again. Delaware’s appetite for the two scoops of ice cream diminished. The smiling gummy bears seemed to taunt her with their happiness and her lack of it. 
 She slowly stood up and made sure to not let the bell at the door clank scandalously. Outside, a rusting carousel invited her to sit down next to its’ children. She leaned against a fleeting white horse and sighed.
  Splitting up. Again. For the third time in her life. She already knew how it was going to happen. She would go from house to house, car to car, and every time, Mama would have a message to pass on to Dad, and Dad would have a nasty reply to send back to Mama. They would sneer at each other when they had to pass her back and forth like a football. 
 But just like the carousel, the world kept spinning. Time kept going. Life passed along at its’ own place. The animal you’re on may seem stuck to the ground, but everything around you keeps spinning and spinning, changing and blurring together, until one day, it stops. Your ride on life is over. It’s time for you to step off and let a young, wide-eyed child take your seat on the carousel. You’ll lay your head on a soft pillow, and give watch the child spin until the warm darkness blinds you and the silence of the coffin deafens your ears. And the carousel, the world, and life will continue to spin on. May Delaware rest in peace, and never have to wake up and hear her father’s voice inside her head ever again.