iPonder

Boring. Boundaries. Balance.

~ Tael ~ Leave a comment

While catching up with friends during a very extended birthday celebration week and commenting on the year’s impending end, I reflected on how chill this year has been for me.

And how, I couldn’t remember the last time I was able to say that. That my year was not stressful. Lacking in chaos. No severe disruptions. Damn near breezy. I mentioned this to my cousin at Christmas and he immediately (and impressively) confirmed what I’d done differently this year: Boundaries. The thing my therapist had kept coming back to for forever before she graduated me some time ago. This year, I veered away from any signs of toxicity. If it didn’t bring me peace, joy, or some kind of fulfillment, it didn’t get my attention. If it was fuzzy, lacked clarity, or made me question myself, I walked away. If it made me feel icky or negatively influenced, I fell back.

Even if it was family, friends, or familiar.

They say the healthiest actions are the most boring ones. Routine exercise and eating well. Getting proper sleep. Drinking water. Not chasing immediate gratification in drugs or substances or adrenaline or attention. Not very exciting elements. And yet, my year was not dull.

I showed up for friends who needed me. I went to PoGo Fest in Jersey City. I pushed myself to progress in my salsa journey, going to socials and asking strangers and teachers to dance when I was terrified at my lack of skill. Building a hobby out of nowhere, I made connections in the new community I’d found, and as a result, I was more active and more social. With more movement, my body began to show me the importance of rest and how I needed to prioritize it more, and not just go-go-go until I buckled under fatigue. I finally spent more weekends guiltlessly doing absolutely nothing and it felt amazing and refreshing and not boring at all. I embraced the concept of rest as a necessity and not a waste of time that could be better spent. And after a day or two of nothing but loafing, I was always ready to unpause and get back out there.

I represented at my sister’s graduation when my mom was absent, cheering with pride when she crossed the stage to take her diploma. I planned a random family trip to Barbados since her own graduation trip got cancelled, her first out-of-the-country experience. For my birthday, I decided to get a second helix piercing to make the first one I got during Covid a set. I chose “mutiny” against long-time family holiday traditions, choosing to stand up for changes I found enjoyable, rather than swallowing my own desires for the decades-old practices my family was glued to. I broke tradition, but maybe started new ones. I maxed out my Roth IRA for the year. I finally decided that, whether I found a flight deal or not, it was time to book my dream trip for next year, and have delighted in researching my itinerary.

I had so many late nights, planned and impromptu, filled with dance, joy, popcorn and ramen. I wandered the East Village with a friend one night and ended up in a restaurant where we were invited to be added to their wall of customer polaroids. I went to my first SOUP PARTY in Brooklyn where you sample homemade soup varieties. I HALLOWEENED. I built a consistent morning routine of tea and gentle stretching to start the day. My message and social media response time grew even worse because I was immersed in situations that appealed to me, more attractive than idle scrolling to pass time, which equaled more presence.

I’ve long since realized that much of the chaos I’ve encountered in life has been other people bringing it to me. But this year, I didn’t need to keep anyone entertained, lest they grow bored with stability. I didn’t need to manage anyone’s unhealthy habits or anxiety or walk on any eggshells from their stress. I marveled in silent apartment time, peaceful walks, reciprocal conversations, sunsets falling behind water towers of urban landscapes and discovering more Lofi and Chillhop. And I feel nothing but gratefulness for this year. Grateful that I’ve made it this far in life and the fact that I’ve always been able to appreciate tiny, joyful things. And realizing, I just frequently found myself in the company of others who couldn’t.

If I have any “resolution” at all as this New Year approaches, it would be to stay on this path of “boring”. Of staying active and loving sunlight and reading more. Of healthy calm, doing what feels best for me and not vying for validation outside of myself. Of minding my New York business and staying out of others’ chaos, while staying grounded in my inner-peace party. That La-La land in my head. Because mentally, I made my own inner space a happy place to be. And healthy mind/body/spirit has always been the goal.

Wishing you your best boring New Year too. 🙂 Stay ninja.

~Tael

Watching Porn Daily: Unhealthy or Nah?

~ Tael ~ 1 Comment

Hisashiburi! Ya’ll know I love a healthy, intellectual, inherently controversial discussion that most would commonly avoid initiating out of fear of judgment. But since I prefer boundary-tolerant boldness, I found myself commencing a study (haha, it was just an Instagram poll) to try and glean what the masses (of my personal, shimmering oblong of associates) equated with “normalcy” regarding pornographic consumption. And yes, I still prefer to use real, unedited words like “porn” and “sex” because we’re adults and I find the new standard of censoring dictionary-approved terms that social media now deems too harsh, demeaning, and, quite frankly, soft.

I never thought I’d become one of those “My therapist said” people, but honestly, that woman was smart, and I learned a lot from her before she “graduated” me from her sessions this past summer. One of the primary lessons being that things we might have grown up with or observed everyone around us doing, that we perceive as “normal”, may simply be accepted because the majority is participating, but not necessarily healthy. We have tons of tangible examples in America, as statistically our majority is overweight and lacking exercise, with major addictions to fast/processed food, alcohol and substances, and the leading cause of death is heart disease. Common? Yes. Healthy? Ruh roh.

As the “study” responses started rolling in, the women were united in their responses that nah, daily consumption ain’t it, while the male responses were much more…forgiving. My stance was already solidified with my female brethren before I even started the poll. Yes, I believe daily smut consumption is unhealthy. Why? Because at one point I did it.

Let’s set the stage.

As a millennial, online porn was birthed in our era. Before that, you had to be 18+ to go past the rope into the Adult section of the DVD store, or the “LIVE GIRLS” peep show joints that littered Times Square once upon a time (any Millennials ever had a chance to go IN one of those before they all got swept away?). So the only access us young souls had (which we probably shouldn’t have had) was coming across someone’s poorly hidden Playboy magazine stash, or the softcore stuff on TV that, once the adults in the house were sleeping (or maybe they just left you while they went out for the night) you whipped out the aluminum foil for and messed with the rabbit-ear antenna trying to get a clear-enough picture of naked bodies, meanwhile you’re getting moist down there sitting next to your best friend and not at all understanding the feelings you’re feeling because you don’t even really know what sex is yet, just that it’s naughty and hidden from you and your body has already inappropriately been initiated into the sexual world by curious relatives. Or you somehow found a way to watch Showgirls on someone’s TV in an HBO household.

But then the Internet rolls around and you learn that along with your illegal music file-sharing, you could also add a 3-hour download on your dial-up modem connection of a 25-second clip of hot lesbian action that you hope completes with time for you to view, process, and delete the evidence before your parents get home.

Then you get your very own laptop to take to college, and while the Internet connection in your dorm is OODLES better and faster, platforms like Napster and Limewire have come under heavy fire in the news and music companies are threatening to come and bust in on you downloading your fast porn, and I can’t be the student that gets caught, shamed, sued and expelled, becoming the disappointment of my very Christian family, because my campus network can certainly track what I’m downloading, right?

So imagine, when you graduate and you’re finally out on your own for real for real, and you no longer have to worry about school networks or parents walking into your room (or you know, the family living room if that’s where your computer was), you can finally dive into all that illicit hentai and debauchery and explore the underworld those Girls Gone Wild commercials and pop-up ads taunted at us, always behind a paywall, or a firewall, or a purple-velvet curtained wall…

All the freedom.

Now you’re over 18, so it’s not just about household internet speeds progressing and private computers; you now have CREDIT CARDS where the bill doesn’t go to your parents. You can now go into that roped-off Adult DVD section with the Middle-Eastern arms-crossed man watching you as you peruse the scandalous material even though you’re of age now, checking the “preview” screenshots on the insert to see if it’s worth parting with your cash for. Pre-redtube.com days (I used redtube.com in a sentence in an IG message with one of my friends, not realizing that it would actually link the damn site there and I screamed at him NOO DON’T CLICK IT!!! WordPress, please don’t link this.) But see, Redtube and Xvideos and the others effectively destroyed the last barricade to access cheap, easy, sexual content without fear of an accompanying Trojan Horse virus.

You now have unlimited access to the most primally stimulating, pleasurable content as an adult, with nothing standing in your way.

And so…you indulge. You watch. You ready your vibrator. You play the voyeur, acting along with the scene. You learn new things you didn’t know turned you on that you would never admit to others, new positions that seem cool to try, new situations to add to your fantasy-bank. Being able to immediately pull up gratifying carnal titillation at the slightest knock of boredom is thrilling. You save favorite videos to your library and surprise yourself at the genres that turn you on.

But that euphoria doesn’t last forever. When it’s no longer new and fresh and it starts taking longer to come because you’re overstimulating your sensitive bits. When you realize it’s been 25 minutes of tedious scrolling to find new material, because not every video is a banger (yes, all the punz). But there’s always another page, another page, another chance to strike orgasmic gold. Maybe. Could be right around the corner on page 9. Or 12. Or 23. And then when you finally finish it’s been an hour-and-a-half, and all you’ve done is stare at a screen and play with yourself.

Because it’s not real sex. But it sure does make you want to have some. Which is the whole point of pornography. It’s to turn you on. It’s to get you aroused for…what…? Well, for me, it’s freaking intercourse, a main course (also wordplay) that was usually missing. Otherwise I would have been indulging in that and not porn.

I can’t remember exactly how long the daily porn-viewing phase went on for. Maybe a few months? Maybe longer? But cracks started to form. Cracks in the pleasure facade that drained the appeal. Behind-the-scenes clips of women admitting how sore and raw they were from the screen time. Men who ain’t lasting that long without some kind of pharmaceutical assistance. Awful, over-the-top acting with cringe voices and ridiculous facial expressions and glaring phoniness that grated on my authenticity and made it hard to get off to. The 80%-of-the-time money shot of the guy finishing on the woman’s face because yay this is what sex is (and that shit burns eyes). The darker themes you uncover…So much glamorized incest…(Wasn’t the whole “fucking my stepsister on the washing machine” genre recently trending? Kind of sick.)

The biggest crack I could see through, was how this could lead to an addiction if one stayed on that path. How, little by little, you needed more to stimulate you. Watching basic sex stopped cutting it. You sought out variety. Different positions. More taboo scenarios. New kinks to spice up the viewing. Something different, something different, things socially unacceptable, forbidden shit I’d never actually do; this situation is morally wrong, but it doesn’t count because it’s not real so I can enjoy it guilt-free, right? As I condition my senses to find grossly unethical scenarios arousing in secret until cognitive dissonance is born.

I could see how someone could become an isolated hobbit, furiously thrusting into a fleshlight with the blinds drawn in the shadows. Just because it was there and accessible. Easy for the undisciplined. The distance to achieve the same (or greater) high would always continue to extend (giggity) and require…more. And we all know what that sounds like. Like drugs. As you stared at choreographed and controlled pleasure, trying to hold out and orgasm at the optimal point in the clip. Relying on the content to take you to a new level of arousal. And my creative ego would be damned if it was going to let some commodified lust fuel override and control my own sexual imagination and expression.

That just didn’t feel like “freedom” to me anymore.

Porn is controlled and rehearsed. But the passionate, spontaneous dance between two lovers’ bodies in the real world? Mmm mmm… Unless the dance is above my skill level, I prefer to do it, not watch it.

So I tapered off and willed myself to stop. When I was unentertained, rather than just reaching for the laptop and pulling up some XXX for easy pleasure, I just…found something else to do. Or pleasured myself without porn. I went back to using my own imagination for masturbation resources because what was I gonna do when it was time to passion dance with a real person, recall PORNO scenes? Or, follow my own instincts of what feels good, and improvise a sultry wanton tango I wasn’t expecting in the moment, working off my partner’s energy. Because watching the explicit scenes on-screen is always tantalizing, but never comes close to my body reacting from the low, sensual tone of a man’s voice drifting softly into my ears or his warm, strong hands on my body. What turns me on most, I didn’t learn from watching porn scenarios. I learned from feeling lips on my skin, weight sinking deliciously into me, tongue play, and shivers from stroked pleasure points.

The most frustrating part about porn would always remain that it left me wanting the real deal. Wishing someone was actually there to “finish the job” and quench the blazing desire ignited by it. Yeah, you douse it yourself, but it’s almost like I was stoking fire after fire just to do it.

My most euphoric points, my highest highs, the prurient experiences I replayed over and over again that made me flush with warmth reliving them, never came from porn-generated desire. They either came from my own mind, or a real-life encounter. Life introduced them to me.

What’s real will always draw me. I’ll always choose the quality of soul-feeding authentic stimulation over everyday cheap thrills. Daily porn consumption didn’t enhance my sexual life in any way. It just made me horny and kinda threatened my natural sexual dance instinct with unnatural moves. It became pointless to arouse myself every day artificially and then get no sex.

Now, I can’t remember the last time I pulled up a porn site. Might be years. I haven’t banished it to the land of evil, but it’s just whatever to me; my mind doesn’t seek it out. Instead, my mind seeks out organic stimulation and excitement. But it also reminds me that it has no problem generating its own eroticism. Like that one time I needed to quickly change out of some uncomfortable underwear and meet my family downstairs, so, keeping my bubble jacket on I stripped from the waist down and felt the cool air tease my delicate lower lips, while my upper body remained wrapped up like an Eskimo. And in that moment I imagined how hot it would be if a man bent me over just like that to slide into me from behind for a quickie. All it took was an instant for an authentic primal instinct. Our minds can be something if you nourish them properly.

I’ve also been a reader of Sandra Brown novels since like 2nd grade. IYKYK.

~Tael

I Deserve a Bed

~ Tael ~ Leave a comment

I’ve mentioned before that I used to hate vacations.

There was no Disneyworld or cruise trips for me growing up. A “vacation” for my family generally meant squishing 5-6 peeps into one car for a journey that lasted anywhere from 3 to 12 hours, the destination being a family member’s house where you were either sleeping with your mom, piling into bed with 2-3 other cousins, or preparing a pallet on the floor. I can only recall one weekend beach trip that was considered luxurious, simply because it was the one time we actually got to stay in a hotel.

I have no regrets, nor resentment about this. But now, I have the independence and luxury of being able to pay for a flight (and sweet Jesus, I will pick that route of transportation over a road trip any day) and hotel accommodations for a leisurely excursion.

I come from a large family. The type where you will NEVER remember that random aunt you see once every 7 years, and you cannot keep track of who’s a first cousin, second cousin, or just a “cousin” that’s apparently related by blood somehow OR just grew up with all your other cousins so they’re kind of like a Ditto. And now many of THEM had their own kids so our family tree probably looks like a periodic table of chaos. Do you also come from a big family where you piled into bed with your cousins during family getaways, or shared a room with siblings growing up? And then you got a certain age and left all that behind right? Only in my family, they don’t leave it behind.

Last Labor Day weekend, me and my “immediate” fam took a little weekend trip. Five of us in one hotel room, all adults, aged 20, 32, 35, 55, and 56, respectively.

Two to each Queen bed, was the general agreed upon consensus, with my mom saying she’d bring along her air mattress. Not exactly ideal, but since it was only for 2 nights, I agreed. Until we arrived at the hotel and my mom revealed, OOPS, she forgot the air mattress, and the hotel could not provide us with an extra rollaway.

My mom volunteered to sleep on the tiny uncomfortable mini-couch against the wall like it was nothing. But in a low voice my cousin warned me, “You know she’s going to sneak into bed with you and your sister in the middle of the night, right?”

And he was right. That half-chaise lounger was not fit for sleeping and that’s why she’d offered so flippantly. She’d just wake up stiff and order me and my sister, half-asleep, to make room for her. The thought filled me with dread.

“Three can fit in a bed, just do head to toe. I don’t care,” my aunt said.

The thing is, I care. I care deeply. I don’t WANT to do head to toe.

Sleep is very high on my priority list. I still have an old-school pillowtop mattress, with an additional egg crate topper at home. I read reviews on the sheets I buy. I have a white noise machine for ambient sound. Blackout curtains in my room. I’m very good at getting my 8 hours every night. An unexpected three to a bed, head to toe, in a hotel room I contributed to paying for, is not on my agenda. Even in a hostel, you get your own bed.

“Would you feel comfortable sleeping with your cousin so that me and your mom and sister can all sleep in the other bed?”

While he’s 100% my closest cousin and like a brother to me to me, he is also well over 200 pounds and we’d surely end up touching. The last time we slept in a bed together, I was probably around 11-years-old. So I asserted myself honestly and said “No, I would not feel comfortable with that.”

They seemed surprised at this.

I calmly stated that we should find the nearest Target and simply purchase an air mattress. My mother seemed exasperated at this plan, and the fact that I would want to seek out a way to sleep more comfortably. In a snippy tone, she stated she didn’t want to pay $40 for an air mattress. But I insisted I would pay for it. We found one for $21, self inflatable and everything. And lo and behold, once we had it back at the hotel room, it was my mother who requested to sleep on it, leaving me to one of the beds with my sister.

Fine. That’s fine. I slept with my sister for the two nights. Both her, and my cousin on the other side of the room, snore. Luckily I’d had the foresight to bring my white noise machine to help a little. And I was woken much earlier than I would have liked by their conversing the next day, because hey, one room. I wouldn’t call it “relaxing”.

Now, my mom has 7 siblings. And for them growing up, at least 3-4 girls shared a room, and a bed as well. They grew up with virtually no privacy and no boundaries. Then they got married and had kids pretty quickly…and they still don’t blink twice if 3 of the sisters have to climb into bed with each other, even at their age now.

But up until I was 15, I was an only child. And while we did move around a lot when I was a kid, for the time we were settled, I had my own room and all the luxuries of space of an only child. I was often called spoiled and selfish by my family because of it. While I loved my cousins dearly and cherished my time with them, I also loved my snacks dearly and felt it unfair to share the spoils I’d carefully obtained and allocated after they’d decimated their own with little self-control or discipline. It was like I’d already learned how to be resourceful and thrive in a capitalist environment, but my elders tried to spread the allocation to those who didn’t work for it.

As I grew into adulthood, I never lost the concept of valuing what I work for and what I’ve obtained. My own quiet space. My nighttime wind-down time. I don’t live with roommates for a reason. And when planning trips in advance, I’d like to know that wherever I’m going, I’m going to have some sort of safe space that I can retreat to. A “home base”. And that includes a bed. If I know in advance that I can’t have this, I would rather not go. Gone are the days where I’d clamor with my cousins to somebody’s house and make a blanket nest on the floor, or pass out on somebody’s couch in college. It was fun then, yes, but I’m a grown woman now who values her comfort.

I often witnessed my mom enthusiastically giving up her bedroom for visitors, and hell, even I gave my bed to my older cousins who came over. I thought it was my duty and I was happy to fulfill it. Generally the unspoken rules of sleeping hierarchy I saw; if it was a married couple, you gave up your bed. If it was an elder, you gave up your bed. If it was a man, you gave up your bed. Unless he was a broke man. Those slept on the couch. But men making more money than you, you definitely gave up your bed. Eventually air mattresses and pull-out couches were brought into the mix. But even now, when someone visits my mom’s apartment from out of town, it’s my 20-year-old sister who’s displaced from her room. The common law of order.

And that’s fine. I did my time. I did my duty. But now that I’m a fully contributing member of society, I’m allowed to choose. And I shouldn’t be accused of acting like the Queen of Sheba for having a reasonable expectation of my own bed to sleep in when I pay to visit somewhere rather than engage in my family’s boundary-less climate. I shouldn’t need to be a well-paid man to be seen as important enough to get the honor of my own space offered to me.

On our most recent weekend family trip last month, when my mom got into persuasion-mode to convince me to come, I expressly stated my biggest condition beforehand. That me and my lover would absolutely have a room with our own bed to sleep in for a trip that we were paying for. It was promised and delivered. A step of achievement towards basic rights assertion.

Ask and you may receive.

~Tael

Unlearning: Discomfort = Love

~ Tael ~ 4 Comments

Not too long ago, I asked my crush about a past relationship and he informed me that he didn’t want to go into detail about it. My first reaction was hurt; I wanted to connect and grow closer by learning about this part of his past and I almost felt shut out by it. But the logical part of my brain reasoned with me: why was I making this about myself? It had nothing to do with me. He just felt uncomfortable sharing it.

Boundaries.

Some time ago, my therapist (AND my boss haha) brought some very valuable information to light concerning my tenuous relationship with my mother; that our relationship lacked boundaries, which then translated into boundary-trampling in my other relationships. I put aside what made me uncomfortable in romantic relationships, and suffocated my partners’ limits, because my upbringing had taught me that discomfort equals love.

I want to say “in my family,” but maybe this wasn’t the case. Maybe it was just my mom in particular, who never took my personal mental comfort seriously. Sure, the normal PHYSICAL comforts were taken care of. But never my psyche.

She’d buy clog-shoes that felt uncomfortable on my feet, but insist I wear them because they were “fashionable.” She’d force me to wear a graduation dress that exposed far too much side-boob than my 13-year-old self was comfortable with. She’d demand that I hug so-and-so, despite my visible uneasiness, and call out that uneasiness as problematic because she didn’t understand it (or care to ask), putting me at war with my internal feelings.

We weren’t allowed to have boundaries as children, it seemed…because adults knew better what we should properly feel.

She’d drag me to the forefront of an audience to recite a pleasantry (knowing full well I hated being the center of attention) and stand idly by as her shadow as they asked me questions and she answered for me, until I had permission to flee. Or she’d shove me into a group of children at a gathering against my pleas and demand I make friends, where anxiety got the better of me and I’d break down and sob.

Once I reached adulthood, moved out and got my own job, apartment, and self-sufficiency, those habits never ended. She continued to pull me into the spotlight to show me off, cut me off to answer questions directed at me, and automatically make plans for me assuming it was a given I’d go along with them. Any time I expressed discomfort as an adult, manipulation tactics, guilt trips and gaslighting were used to coerce my submission.

Eventually, I resorted to ignoring her phone calls and texts most of the time, or preparing ironclad defenses like a lawyer as to why I couldn’t attend an event, simply because I was afraid to say “no” and the drama that would ensue as a result. But as an adult, why did I still need to live with this fear? Why couldn’t I ever say “Actually, I don’t feel like it,” or “I think that request is unfair, so no,” or “I feel uncomfortable,” without getting the 3rd degree for it and made to feel that my emotions were insubstantial somehow?

Always made to feel like a selfish person to choose yourself first, guilt became interweaved with the concept of “no,” and responsibility for everyone else’s feelings paramount to your own. And discomfort became a way of life; normal even. And boundaries ceased to exist between those who love each other and the more uncomfortable you feel, the stronger your bond and the higher your love must reach. Until distress spills over everywhere because you don’t even know what boundaries are anymore, or the source of your unhappiness.

But…you do know a state of constant discomfort doesn’t feel good, so you wonder…why would someone who loves me continue to put me in situations I don’t feel comfortable in, for their own satisfaction?

I don’t want to continue that cycle.

Unlearn that love.

~Tael

Demisexuality: It All Makes Sense Now

~ Tael ~ Leave a comment

Nope, this is not a joke post; this is me taking my enlightenment very seriously. Because many see the definition of demisexuality and say it’s an unnecessary orientation that doesn’t NEED labeling, or duh, EVERYONE is this way, so you ain’t special, yah? But I have never so clearly understood my odd and largely sporadic sense of attraction that I’ve never been able to quite pin down until I explored this new label.

I’ve come across the term occasionally in the past few years. The first time I thought, yeah sounds like me. The second time I thought, hokay, I think I really am this thing. The third time, a few days ago, I thought, HOLY SHIT, THIS IS REAL.

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Because suddenly, patterns in my past dealings with attraction and heartbreak began to fall into place. Sure, most folks would LOVE an emotional connection with those they sleep with. But most can also still have sex without it easily. That’s why casual hookup culture is so prevalent and one-stands are common. But for what i’ll affectionately call the “demi” tribe, those are very difficult. I can only think of ONE time I may have been down for a hookup. Drunk at a party at college, grinding up on a guy who followed me to the bathroom when I got dizzy with the pretense of helping me get water, *may* have made out with me, and said “You know you want this,” as he placed my hand on his crotch. And I think I really DID want it, but I also had an off-campus boyfriend at the time so amidst my idiot party girl decisions, I knew I didn’t want to be a FULL cheater…? Anyway, it didn’t happen.

In grade school, you basically like who everybody else likes to fit in. The pop stars, basketball players, school jock heartbreaker, ohh squeal, hearts on your binder, he said hi to me in the hall blahblahblah. Once I left the realm of adolescence, I realized I didn’t have the same attraction to peeps as my peers did. When the girls around me would say “Oh, check out that hot guy over there,” I’d be the one squinting in the general direction like “Where? Where is he? Is that it?” And being severely underwhelmed.

Because it is EXTREMELY rare for me to experience on-sight physical attraction to someone, and I never knew why.

Whenever men hit on me, my initial reaction is suspicion. I don’t care how “conventionally attractive” they are (and I THINK I can usually spot a “conventionally attractive person” pretty good?). I have never thought “Damn he’s sexy, I’d love to hop on that.” More like “Why tf are you making me take my headphones out right now?” Attraction at first sight doesn’t exist for me.

When I do like someone, it’s because I’ve spent time with them. I’ve noticed their little quirks and chuckles. The cracks in their silly facade when they answer a question seriously. The mischievous glint when they parry back a witty comment without missing a beat. Or the eye contact they make as they watch you love their face burrowing between your thighs……………oops tangent! And it might take awhile to see these things unless they’re being completely natural with you off top. Which means demis often don’t know how we actually feel about the person until some time has passed.

It can be a chore if you’re really TRYING to find someone to connect with.

And it makes online dating an EXTREME hassle. Because you swipe incessantly, wondering if the person you COULD be *MAYBE* physically attracted to actually has the personality necessary to attract you for real since you still need BOTH. I’ve never been too sure of my “type” of men because I’ve been with a variety. I’ve even been with those I’ve only had the emotional connection with, but not the physical attraction. Because the connection was there, I was still able to sleep with them, but eventually I realized it wasn’t sustainable if every time I looked at them I thought WOOF.

So you’re cautious with your likes/matches because you’re trying to be sure there’s the best chance for a connection, but you’ll only REALLY know for sure if you meet them, probably like 3-5 times first, and if there’s still nothing there, go through the awkward “Oops, I’m just not feeling it,” “Wait, really, I thought we had a great time!” “Oh sure, it was nice but I don’t want to proceed sexually yet because your personality has not charmed the shit out of me, but should we try a few more times or just call it now before we waste any more energy??”

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Like dat.

But once you FINALLY overcome the GRIND of connecting emotionally and finding them adorable, the attraction mounts, and then the ATTACHMENT begins. Rapidly. And it can be hard to let go, because of how uncommon it is to feel the attraction in the first place. Which can cause a mess of feelings and tears and frustration if it doesn’t work out and trouble disconnecting because you WENT THROUGH ALL THIS WORK, and when’s the next time the STARS ARE GOING TO ALIGN to find this buildup AGAIN?? It’s exhausting. I can see why it’s classified smack in the middle of the sexual/asexual spectrum. Because demis may as well be nuns while that connection is missing. We’re just not INTERESTED.

But then comes the problem of when you ARE sexually wanting because the last connection didn’t work out, but finding emotional connection is sparse.

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Why are my friends like this?

It speaks to the current hookup culture that waiting an ENTIRE WEEK to sleep with someone is seen as this crazy obstacle now. It should NOT be HARD WORK. Why, BACK IN MY DAY…you know what, FORGET IT. And who KNOWS if I’d even find your friend HOT ANYWAY., PROBABLY NOT, because I’M DEMI. *Bitterbitterbitterbitter.*

I remember when the term “sapiosexual” became popularized years ago. I also identify with that one, however, while I may be highly attracted to intelligent individuals (teach me, senpai!), I am also attracted to glasses, genuine smiles, nice eyes, sarcastic wit, skateboarders….there’s no term for each one (thankfully). You can be attracted to intelligence AND other things. But even if a guy had all that ish, and the connection was missing, it would still be a dead-end for me. I wouldn’t even WANT to still sleep with the unicorn man of my dreams just for kicks because he had all the things I ever wanted. If I couldn’t confide a deep dark secret with him, his penis was useless. The point is, demisexuals don’t WANT to be demisexuals lol. At least I sure don’t. Hooray, I’ve finally gained clarity on my orientation, but I don’t WANT to be this kind of different, horny and angry over it (horngry?).

I would love to “order up” a quick hookup on Tinder to soothe the raging fire in my loins (because I’m experiencing quite a drought) but I can’t just DO IT. I can’t just open myself up to (metaphorically and quite literally) to a person I haven’t spent time and laughed with, assessed their character, and grown to LIKE in some way. Without that connection, it’s just sex. And I don’t want JUST sex with some random “conventionally hot” person. I want something passionate and powerful, with a delicious natural build-up, where our speech was never-ending foreplay and our words were extensions of our tongues teasing our minds and flesh and each confident touch sent electric currents up our joints. And if that ain’t there, then what’s the point?

(I may be a bit of an overachiever). I don’t need “just sex.”

I have always been on a never-ending quest for human connection, sexual or no. I crave authenticity and realness, deep bonds with folks who resonate on the same vibe, honest emotion. I think we all know how hard it is to find on just a friendly level. Move it to the realm where it’s required for intimacy and it makes life that much harder for those who won’t settle for anyone less, in a world where casual is where it’s at and, let’s face it, PEOPLE STRAIGHT UP SUCK. One time I tried settling for less a few years ago and the dope couldn’t even be a proper FWB; I ended up being less satisfied than before. I’m accumulating a lot of “Don’t Settle” lessons at this stage in my life.

I guess the silver lining is that demisexuals are willing to wait for something more meaningful (not like our hearts really give us a choice), which means more meaningful sexual encounters WHEN WE DO FIND THEM, but what do you do in the meantime if you’re a demi who’s not finding anyone to connect with on that level, AND not settling?

Tough it out miserably with your vibrator in the meantime is the main suggestion I keep getting.

Damn my standards. But at least I know I’m not alone.

~Tael