The Real Shades of Grey

I’m going to break with my usual format and step (slightly) aside from invisible illness this time around. Considering the current state of the world—and being Pride Month—it felt important to say this.

Feel free to disagree.

Given the option between a passionate night between the sheets and running a load of laundry, I’d choose the latter.

One, when I’m finished, I end up with less mess rather than more.

Two, I feel accomplished. (And I probably needed to handle the chore, anyway)

Three, I can read a book or watch TV while shifting clothes from the washer to the dryer.

Four, no one cares if I fold clothes in silence.

While I won’t deny I could probably find a person who’d tolerate the last two, I feel like their sense of humanity and compassion might come into question. Most decent people want and need their sexual partners to participate. At least enough to demonstrate they’re still breathing and paying attention. (Note: I won’t comment on tolerating the partner “going through the motions” to make them think they’re still breathing and paying attention)

My preference has nothing to do with bad sexual experiences in my youth (although there were plenty), sexual abuse (none of that), or finding myself in relationships with partners for whom I had no interest (none of those, either). I’ve known from a young age that I desired men. And I spent plenty of daydreaming time contemplating what it would be like to have a committed relationship with someone I viewed as attractive. Courtesy of my reading, I even recognize the fun of sharing a sexual encounter with someone.

I would just rather spend my time in bed—or on the couch—doing other things. Like sleeping. (Another prime example of an activity that grants you more than sex)

Finding a partner who would understand my disinterest in sex has proven a challenge.

Your average heterosexual male consumes the majority of their lives thinking about sex. As soon as you meet one, you can guarantee they’re contemplating what you’d look like naked. Or how you’ll respond to their lovemaking skills. They are entirely unaware you might be looking at them wondering where they bought their t-shirt.

I tried to justify my lack of a carnal appetite in different ways throughout my twenties and thirties. (“I’m tired” never seemed to work—even when I worked two jobs) Sex proved painful, especially when my adenomyosis or endometriosis flared up. An irregular period—despite medication—gave me a few more passes. And, of course, the various injuries I racked up helped. Some. (It’s incredible what a horny man will suggest. And when)

Instead of enjoying the thrusting and pawing, I “left my body” to explore why I wasn’t as interested. (Provided I made the right sounds or said the right things, partners never noticed my lack of attention) Plenty of my friends participated in eager exploits with their husbands and partners. They even encouraged me to read particular articles on “new things to try,” assuming my disinterest in sharing my experiences represented a stale relationship. None of them ever talked about wishing they could eliminate sex from their lives. No one said she’d rather bake cookies.

I loved the person I was with. (Or convinced myself I did) Sex was nothing more than an expression of that love, right? Or did my sad lack of interest mean I wasn’t in love with them? If I found someone who truly made my life worth sharing, would I feel differently?

Had I allowed my physical pain to dominate so much of my life I’d rather think about whether or not a new partner liked board games? Rather than focusing on what they might be able to do with five minutes and a flat surface?

It remained easier to play along.

And wonder why a few times I had experienced that thrill of sexual arousal. What made those moments different from the remainder? Had the difference come from me or them? Or was it unrelated to anything other than a racy chapter in a book I’d read? Perhaps my reproductive system deciding to function properly for once?

Until my autism evaluation, I’d never heard of any sexual identities beyond those encompassed by the LGBT abbreviation. (And non-binary) I certainly never claimed anything that run-of-the-mill heterosexual. Except…the word and description didn’t feel genuine to me. I avoided sex whenever possible. My interests lay in other distinctly unsexual realms.

Like zoning out on the couch.

Already feeling vulnerable, given our discussion of my life, I faltered when the evaluator asked me for my identity. I felt an overwhelming need to speak honestly. But admitting the truth felt like a violation of everything I’d built with my relationship with Tim. What would the woman think if I confessed I didn’t feel a sexual rush every time I saw my husband? If I spoke up, would I condemn my marriage to eventual failure?

Witnessing my distress—at what is a straightforward question—she asked if I was aware of all the possible sexual identities. Earmarking the space for a later date, she asked me to read through and see if I could discover something that rang true. Something that felt right.

I did feel an attraction to Tim. Sometimes it even managed to boil over and erode my desire to do laundry. I certainly felt more positive about our conjugal moments than I did any other in my sexual history.

What made those moments—and him—different?

Easy: I felt safe, comfortable, and seen with him. When I genuinely wasn’t interested or in too much pain, he respected my refusal without trotting out a bunch of cis-male bullshit of how I owed him physical relief. If I ignored his hints or touches, he never pushed the issue and claimed I wasn’t in love with him. That level of respect mattered.

It was the reason I felt compelled to agree to our first sexual moment. (One of those few I actually enjoyed)

Our emotional bond drove my feelings. However rare or fleeting they might be.

Asexual, along the grey spectrum, with a demand of demisexual.

I read and re-read the entries, searching for some fault or reason for me to excuse them. But they made sense.

I’m not interested in sex, as a whole. My brain and body aren’t wired for it. But when I am feeling interested, it’s only because I have an emotional bond that reassures me I’m safe, wanted, and respected.

Further confirmed when I sat down and admitted to Tim that I didn’t care about sex. I won’t say he was thrilled with the announcement, but he acknowledged and respected my identity.

Maybe I’d rather do laundry. Or read a book. Pick up a video game.

I’m no less deserving of a loving relationship for my preferences.

And the same goes for everyone else out there.