by N. R. Walker
“Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“If you can hold my hand. You said you should have asked before now, which might be true, I don’t know, but you’ve held my hand like three times already.”
“Three times?”
“I’ve been counting.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I’m not. But you still haven’t asked me.”
He smiled, more relieved than happy, I thought. “Would you mind if I held your hand? Do you like holding hands? I don’t know what you’re comfortable with because we haven’t got that far yet—”
I held out my hand. “I like hand holding. I actually like it a lot. And the nervous rambling you have going on right now is kinda cute, but I have the nervous rambling market cornered. There are trademarks and patents pending. In case you were wondering.”
He took my hand, feeling the weight of it as though it was quite a monumental thing, before threading our fingers. Then he looked at me with the dopiest grin on his face. “I like holding hands too.”
Then we stood there on the footpath for a while holding hands and smiling at each other like a pair of idiots. “Should we?” I asked, nodding toward the stairs to the art gallery.
“We should.”
So we did, holding hands. We took in the creations and masterpieces that adorned the walls. We didn’t speak much in the few hours it took. Hennessy would stop and stare at a particular piece and I’d wait patiently until he’d taken in every line, every stroke of paint or charcoal, every shade. Don’t get me wrong; I admired the artwork too. It really was amazing. But watching him process each piece was kind of amazing too.
“You love it, don’t you?” I asked him quietly.
He nodded, then turned from the charcoal artwork to me. “I do. I know the saying is a picture paints a thousand words, but it’s more than that. It’s like a book on canvas. Every stroke of the artists hand is a word, a sentence, a chapter. The whole picture is a story in itself. Don’t you think?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. And I knew, I just knew that we had to have that dreaded talk about expectations and limits and what we wanted from each other. There was no going back now. Because there, while the world spun around us, surrounded by white walls and priceless art, holding hands and hearing him talk about the correlation between art and books, well… that was it for me.
Like I took a miscalculated step or like I missed the last stair, I fell headfirst right into love with Hennessy Lang.
Motherfucker.
When we left the art gallery, we grabbed some lunch at the Pavilion, then set off for a stroll through the Botanical Gardens. It wasn’t long before Hennessy slipped his hand around mine. “So how was it? Did you really like the exhibit, or were you bored out of your mind? You can tell me honestly.”
“On a scale of one to best second date in the history of ever, it was a nine.”
“Just a nine?”
“Well, it’s not over yet.”
He smiled. “True.”
“I liked how much you liked it,” I admitted. “The fact you find beauty in art tells me a lot about you.”
“Is that so?” he mused. “Do I want to know?”
I saw a bench seat in the sun overlooking the park and pulled on his hand to lead him toward it. We sat, almost touching. “It’s a good thing, don’t worry. It tells me that you have great visual awareness; you notice smaller details others might overlook. It’s probably why you’re so good at your job. But also that you can appreciate things you find beautiful, simply for what they are.”
He was quiet a moment. “You got all that from one visit to an art gallery?”
I laughed. “I’m a librarian, remember? I can tell a lot about a person by what books they choose. Like you said, artwork is like a novel, yes?”
He nodded. “I guess.”
“It’s subjective, though. Art and books,” I added. “I’m no expert in art, but I know books, and there is such a misconception about what genre people prefer. I don’t give a fuck what people read, as long as they read. From manga to gardening books, it doesn’t matter, and why people scoff at romance, I’ll never know. Because isn’t it a beautiful thing? Romance, that is. People wanting a happy ending. How is that ever wrong? But that being said, I’d like to think I know a lot about a person by what they read. Knowing what people choose to read or study or what books they enjoy in private is akin to seeing someone’s browser history, their true selves. Autobiographies, murder mystery, self-help, romance… And then you have sub-genres within those genres, which adds another layer of awareness. Some people like any and all crime and thriller, yet some will only read true crime or fictional crime where the protagonist is a forty-year-old woman with mummy issues.” I took a sip of my coffee. “It can say a lot about a person.”
“And what do you think my choice of audiobooks says about me?”
“That you have eclectic tastes. That you like a broad range of subjects, so you have a well-versed scope on how humans think, and in world affairs, that you’re open minded, always learning. You like some escapism but enjoy being challenged. I’d say you’re rather clever, smarter than you like to let on. And I think you thrive in your own company, and you need to be mentally stimulated by something, or someone, before you delve a little deeper.”
He blinked. “Holy shit. I’d say… you’re not wrong.”
“I know I’m not.”
“And what does your love for eighteenth-century French poets say about you?”
“I can’t answer that for me. You tell me what it says about me.”
He let out a slow breath. “I’m not going to lie. I feel a little exposed after what you just said about me.”
I baulked at that. “How so? I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Oh, I’m not offended. I just feel—” He let out another breath. “—like you see me. I feel kind of stripped bare, given you dissected me in five seconds with your analogy. But you… see me.”
I blushed. “I like what I see, just so you know.”
He laughed. “Okay, my turn. What does your love of eighteenth-century poets say about you? I think it tells me that you’re a romantic at heart. Perhaps, like the revolution itself and like those who survived it, that despite all the adversity and horrors, there is still hope that love will win in the end.”
Oh God.
I chewed on my bottom lip, my eyebrows narrowed, and I wanted to object, but I shrugged with a resigned sigh. “Well, I’d say you’re… you’re not wrong.”
“I know I’m not.” He gave me a nudge with his shoulder and he smiled.
“Isn’t that what everyone wants?” I asked, looking up at the sky before looking at him. “Not romance or love, exactly. I’m aware of my aromantic brothers and sisters.” I raised a fist before letting it fall heavily back to my lap. “But we all strive for something. It might not be hearts and roses for everyone, but doesn’t everyone want something to fulfil them or someone to connect with on some level?” I shrugged, feeling less confident now and more vulnerable. Here it was, the leap into the discussion we needed to have. “Is it not human nature to find our own tribe? We all want that one thing, whether it’s someone to meet your every sexual need, or maybe it’s someone who loves to cuddle on the couch, or maybe it’s someone who knows the last three answers in the cryptic puzzle you can never get every damn time, or maybe it’s someone who loves Dungeons and Dragons just as much as you do, or maybe they love olives on pizza and will pick them off yours for you. Finding someone to share your life with doesn’t have to be based on sexual compatibility. I mean, if you want someone to pound you into next week while you’re chained to a cross, then by all means, I hope you find them and live happily ever after in your red room of pain. Or if you want someone who doesn’t want to ever have sex but still enjoys hugs and kissing, hand holding, and snuggling on the couch to watch movies, then hell the fuck yes, you should find that person. Or two people, if poly’s your thing. Whatever floats you
r boat, have at it. Find your one person, your tribe. Be happy, be content.”
“You’re sex-positive,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “Meaning you have no issue with sex itself.”
“Totally. If sex gets your motor running, then go have all the sex you want. As long as it’s consensual and healthy or whatever, then yes. Go do that.” I made a face. “But it’s not for me.”
He nodded, then sighed and smiled with what had to be relief. “Me too. I just want people to be happy, and I totally respect their desire to want sex, but I also want them to respect my desire to not have sex.”
“Exactly.” I groaned up at the sky. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had people tell me maybe I haven’t met the right person, or I wasn’t doing it right, or maybe I wasn’t even gay. Have I considered fucking a woman instead?” I rolled my eyes. “My great-uncle Brian thought it was hilarious to ask me that in front of my entire extended family until I asked him how he knew he was truly straight if he’d never fucked a man before. I mean, maybe he just wasn’t doing it right. Maybe he needed to try bottoming, just to be sure.”
Hennessy barked out a laugh. “Oh wow. I bet that was a conversation stopper.”
I sighed. “Made him realise how stupid he sounded. And I was uninvited to his Christmas dinner after that, which was a win-win for me. My mum was kinda pissed though.”
He frowned. “I’ve heard all that before too. Mostly from men. Dates, boyfriends…”
I nodded and gave him a smile that I just couldn’t quite get right. “Yeah. It sucks. Is it not enough to be gay? But oh no, let’s sprinkle on some asexuality just for good measure. I wish I liked sex. I wish I wanted it. But I just don’t. And I have stopped trying to pretend.”
“It’s not easy. I told you at the meeting the night we met that I first told my boyfriend slash best friend in high school that the idea of sex didn’t appeal to me.”
“And his response was really shitty. Sorry he did that to you.”
“Me too. I lost my best friend and the only other gay friend I had in school, so that sucked. And for a few years after that, I tried to like it. You know, sex and whatnot. And I tried to fit in, and I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me. But it did. And it’s not easy for a guy to fake, you know what I mean?” He waved his hand at his crotch. Then he whispered, “They could see I wasn’t sexually aroused.”
I made a sympathetic face. “Yeah, been there, done that.”
He let out a long sigh. “But it wasn’t working for me. I was miserable, and I told my doctor and she suggested I read up on asexuality. So I did, and it was like something clicked inside me. I was nineteen, and I finally felt right. I found an online community group and finally met people who were like me. It was incredible, and I began to embrace that part of my life. It was part of who I am, and so when I met guys, I’d tell them I was asexual. Some had never heard of it, some thought I was joking, some thought I was weird. But I’ve had a few boyfriends over the years, so it’s not all bad.”
“Was it an issue for them?” I asked. “In the end?”
“Yes. And I’ve even tried to oblige, to make my boyfriend happy. It’s quite common for asexual people to engage in sexual activity to make a partner happy or to help fulfil their partner’s needs.”
I swallowed hard. “Boyfriend? You said boyfriend, as in current…”
“Ex, sorry. I should have said ex. It’s well and truly over.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said quietly but so very relieved.
“It was my choice. But he wasn’t exactly upset by the news. He went out the very night after I’d left and slept with three guys, so…”
“Ouch.”
He sighed again, adding a shrug. “He knew from the beginning about my being asexual. I was upfront, as I’d always been for years. And he said he was okay with it, but…”
“But in the end, they think you’ll change or give in or have sex whether you really want to or not. Like you said, to fulfil their partner’s needs.” I frowned as I looked out over the park.
“Is that what you did?” he asked gently.
I nodded.
“It’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve done it too. I thought it would help, and I thought it would make them happy.”
I looked at him then, and his eyes searched mine. “But it made you feel like you’d whored yourself out? Like a transaction where sex was the currency but all you got from the deal was a sick feeling in your gut because you’d just sold yourself for sex.”
He quickly reached and took my hand. “Their happiness shouldn’t come at the expense of your own.”
“I left him,” I said. “After that night. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. That was like, ten months ago. We’d only really been together a month or two, and I’d told him I didn’t really want sex and he thought it was weird but he said he was okay with it. And every time I’d hold his hand or hug him, he thought it was foreplay. He couldn’t understand it wasn’t anything more than just hand holding or hugging. It wasn’t a precursor to wanting more. And it messed with my head because I liked him. Well, I thought I did. He was smart and funny, but then I was scared to initiate any kind of contact. I wouldn’t hold his hand or touch him, even if I wanted to, because then he’d think it was foreplay. I lived with that kind of anxiety in my gut for weeks, just being around him, because he’d always ask if I’d changed my mind and I tried to tell him it wasn’t like that.”
He squeezed my hand. “It’s not like that.”
“But then he asked if I wanted to make him feel good. He said if I really liked him I’d want him to be happy, and I fucking believed that shit.” I shook my head. “I know better. I really do. But I was so caught up in him and he did things with me that he didn’t actually enjoy, like watching The Great British Bake Off, or going to local author readings, so surely I could do something for him, right?”
“Oh, Jordan…”
I nodded sadly. “I felt so dirty,” I whispered. “But it was consensual. I did agree to it, but the whole thing was awful. I left him after that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I gave him a weary smile. “I know, right? I mean, I should have known he wasn’t the one for me. Because seriously, who doesn’t like The Great British Bake Off?”
Hennessy chuckled. “Only monsters and heathens.”
“Exactly. Monsters and heathens.” I studied the coffee cup in my hand for a bit. “Anyway, I told Merry, of course, and I’d talked to her before about not being too interested in physical stuff, but always in a kind of joking way. Like, ‘Ugh men, they can never get enough,’ and we’d laugh it off, and I’d always just said they’d wanted more than I did, which wasn’t an untruth. But it all came out after I left Anthony—that was his name. And I admitted to her I’d never been too interested in anything sexual, ever, and I was expecting her to say something smart or funny. But she didn’t. She said asexuality wasn’t anything to be ashamed about, and I was like what? And we talked about it off and on, for a while, she was always asking me if I’d read up on it, but I hadn’t. I didn’t want another label to wear, ya know? Then a few months later she saw a flyer in the community centre next door about a meeting for asexuals, and she thought I should go.” I laughed quietly. “Would you believe I’d never heard of it? Well, I’d heard about asexuals and aromantics, but I’d never read the fine print, ya know?”
He nodded, because, yes. He ran the meetings. Of course he’d know.
I took a deep breath. “So I don’t know where you’re at or what you want, or even if you want anything, I don’t even know. God, this is embarrassing, but I think you’re kinda great, so I was wondering if you wanted to maybe talk about what you might want with me, or from me. Because you’re asexual too and I’m really hoping you’re on the same page.”
“I think you’re kinda great too,” he said, his gaze intense. “Truly, you walked into my support meeting and I thought to myself, He’s really cute, but it was inappropr
iate of me to be thinking that of a guy who was there for emotional support, but then you got on the bus and you asked me about the audiobook I was listening to, and you knew who the author was without even trying, and it’s one of my favourite books. I’m not gonna lie, I was kind of blown away and fascinated, and felt like it was fate or something.”
“I couldn’t believe it was you,” I said with a laugh. “Standing there all cute and shit with your clipboards in that meeting.”
“You looked scared as hell,” he whispered.
“I still am.” I let out a puff of air. “To be honest, right now I’m about five seconds away from freaking the fuck out, just so you know.”
He shot me a look and put his coffee down so he could take my hand in both of his. “You don’t have to worry or be scared when it comes to anything with me. I will never pressure you for sex. You mentioned cuddling on the couch and watching movies or hugging and kissing?”
I swallowed hard and somehow managed to nod. “I like those things. I want all the romantic things. I like holding hands and I love kissing. I love it. It makes my heart do some pretty weird shit and I get butterflies. And hugs are… well, a good hug can fix a wounded soul.”
Hennessy grinned at that.
“So I want all that,” I admitted. “But I don’t want anything else. I see all the naked pics on Twitter and Grindr, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why they don’t put clothes on. Like I have zero interest in that. And the random gifs of porn are like, Jesus, is that really necessary? Not one part of it appeals to me. I think I can honestly say I’ve masturbated like twice in the last twelve months, which is probably far too much information than you ever needed to hear, but one of those times was just to see if I could even get aroused and the other time was, well, more of an attempt at stress relief, which evidently had the opposite effect. But I just want a boyfriend who I can sleep in with on Sundays, whom I can cuddle with or touch just because he’s close, and I want all that without him wanting more. And that’s probably selfish, I realise that. But I can’t be in another relationship where I’m walking on eggshells and praying he doesn’t want sex.” I shuddered at the thought. “I just can’t.”