Dear S

Dear S—

You were the first person I told, the very first. It was a casual utterance, the café was noisy, the order was late, you were scrolling lazily on your phone, and I blurted out: I’m ace.

Oh, you said, glancing up. To prevent possible misunderstandings, I confirmed: you know what that means, right? You gave me the affably affronted look, the one I first fell for – of course. 

Asexual.

I think I knew when I was 14. It was the pandemic, the world was a mess, and teenage me was a chronically online reddit user. One click led to another and there I knew. Some pop-psych tests, tons of memes, a couple blog pages, and endless youtube videos only confirmed what I’d always felt deep within myself.

I told you about my antipathy towards sex. I love romance novels, don’t get me wrong, I’m not aromantic, in fact I LOVE love, I’ve had so many book boyfriends geez but sex…

I rambled on, overcompensating for the bombshell I’d just dropped. You smiled. I told you everything – everything, poured the thousands of words only my laptop screen had been witness to. You were my first.

Unlike the other, well-meaning but lost-in-translation friends I later came out to – you were curious and sensitive. No awkward questions, but you showed you still cared. Blame my attention-starved childhood or the low standards women keep, I fell a bit in love with you. 

We geeked over Taylor Swift, you impressing me with a finer collection of trivia about her cats than any other queer man I’d met. We bonded over our shared abhorrence for the 9-5 corporate drill. We had those never-ending 3.21 a.m. conversations at the library, surrounded by snogging couples in the dim light, the rain masking the unholy sounds they made, as you showed me the embarrassing clip of you from school and I made you watch my favourite spoken word performance on the internet. 

Your roommate kept teasing you in my name. I prayed with all the faith my irreligious heart could muster it would be true. My friends sneakily brought you up in every conversation to elicit my reaction, I tried to hide my blush. We had inside jokes about inside jokes, we texted in the middle of class, you told me about your ex and I told you about the stories I spun in my head to help me fall asleep. We bared our hearts, whispering secrets – conversation flowed like wine amidst us, laughter was easy, banter was natural. My cynical self always scoffed at those silly notions of a whirlwind affair – how reckless, how imprudent. But, in those three months, I went from knowing nothing to wanting to forget everything about you.

It was at “our” spot, where I confessed. Half mumbling, half drunk. Fully cognizant that for better or worse, things would never quite be the same again.

Oh. You said.

By then I knew your ohs rather well, too well to tell what that particular low-pitched inflexion meant. oh no.

The classic “I like you as a friend” charade ensued. You were quite gentlemanly about it. Then came the blow.

Honestly, I’d considered dating you but, you know…you’re ace, not that it’s wrong, but just saying…

S, I couldn’t hear a word after that. It’s as if a dawn of realization came over me. For most of my life, my asexuality was the background score to the main play. You, mon cheri, gave it centre stage.

I remember telling you how I never felt queer because of how invisible my queerness was. How I had pangs of fear and shame and doubt that somewhere deep within I probably was only making it all up: oppression Olympics, late bloomer, too ugly to be fucked…

Then I realized, in vivid colour, what my asexuality truly entailed. I cried that night – not for you, but cursing my aceness. Why, why could I just not be “normal” and want to do the whole schtick? You know, I’d always gaslight myself into believing that if I an allo dude fell for me, I won’t inconvenience him. You helped me figure out I was so wrong – I could never.

My asexuality is not a cloak I can put on and off. It is me.

Yes, there are couples who lie on different, sometimes polar extremes of the spectrum, and accommodate and adjust their lifestyles for love. But what I had envisioned was me gulping away a core part of me to appease a non-existent man just so he’d stay. All that performance – the sex a mere foreplay for the warm cuddles I’d crave. Dear S, you helped me understand that I could never.

I was bothered, tormented for months after that incident. I frantically calculated the odds – my age, gender, nationality, falling on the normie scale – against the number of ace people I could find in my lifetime. Prematurely mourned the lack of any companionship my super ultra graphic romantic heart had forever craved for. 

I’m still in the dark: stumbling, searching, becoming.

It’s a lone path, I’m still envious of my allo friends, how easy they seem to have it (though I know they have their own struggles). I’m still a bit uncertain about how I’ll navigate the world, come out to my friends and family, a million other tiny and big things.

But you, dear S, helped me come out to myself. And for that, I’ll ever, ever be grateful.