Coming to Terms With Things

To be completely honest, I am not entirely sure why it took me so long to think about it this way. Like most people, I think that the pandemic and the occasional uneventfulness on a micro-level for 2020 just gave me too much time to think. Considering that a year packed with death, where the United States still has thousands of Coronavirus infections reported regularly, it’s hard not to think of your own mortality, thinking of what you want to leave behind in this world. As a writer, it was straightforward, nose to the grindstone stuff. I just kept hitting ‘publish’ on every article, hoping to make someone else’s day a little bit better. 

But it becomes more difficult when you look at the other things in one’s life. What else was there that I valued? I thought about love, trying to piece together what type of person I wanted to see by my side on a stressful day, talking things through. There’s family. I hope there will always be a loving one there. But what about personally? As an introvert, an autistic who pretty much thinks before he leaps or even picks something different off the menu, it’s difficult to think of love. After all, it’s something more committal, long term and requiring a vulnerability that I haven’t really felt with anyone. I thought of love and began to do my own research on those terms. Much like how discovering every term possible for neurodivergence has made me feel more centered, I wanted to determine just who I was on a deeper level.

I guess that I’ve taken it for granted, thinking that everything would happen “one day.” In my mind, I still imagine that my ideal relationship will form from one of those chance encounters, where we laugh and bond over trivial meetings. I recognize my fantasies are mundane, even unrealistic given how intricately I seem to plan every social moment. Even then, that is what I want. My best friendships have all emerged from chance encounters, which have been sadly rare over 2020, mostly moving to online interactions that could never seek to be more than long distance pen pals, keeping up on each other’s exploits.

The thing that makes this particular essay a bit awkward is looking at other stories. I’ve spent hours on TikTok, feeling somehow attacked by proxy of being 31. Most people (read: younger Millennials and Generation Z’ers) realized their queerness “late in life” by their early 20’s. As much as I realized that a younger me was more eager to settle down with a relationship, I don’t think I was capable of questioning who I was until recently, following a self-identification as autistic that allows you to wonder “what else don’t I know about myself?” To some extent, discovering these details later in life than the late in life crowd makes me feel like an imposter. Even then I think of Stephen Sondheim, who didn’t find true love until he was in his 80s. There is no road map for this stuff.

But yes, late 2020 was a period of private discovery featuring so many times where I bumped myself on the head and said “But of course!” The truth is that I am terrible at hiding most aspects of myself. I’ve supported LGBTQIA+ causes in some capacity since high school. I’ve been doing what I can to comment on representation in the media, even celebrating the passing of gay marriage in America by saying “We’ve come a long way, baby.” I never hid my support, though I don’t think I ever applied that perspective to my own life. I was an “ally,” though then again I noticed a ton of times when I didn’t feel conventional, disliking muscle man action movies and the machismo. Women filmmakers were often more interesting in capturing humanity. I knew in this respect I was queer, though a very inactive one on a relationship level.

The pandemic has a way of making everyone feel lonely, allowing them to ask tough questions about themselves. Following a TikTok addiction, I found truthful irony in the joke that “TikTok made me gay” as I learned about non-binary culture really for the first time, finding empathy with transgender creators discussing their day to days. I even screwed up the algorithm enough that I have lesbians saying “If you like women, you’re gay!” at least a few times a week. Outside of this app, I’ve followed some great people sharing their stories, and somehow finding that kind of friendship online made me feel more comfortable exploring. 

It kind of started with Happiest Season (2021), where a bunch of people took to Twitter sharing how they felt about the coming out story. In the film I found myself recognizing aspects that I more associated with being autistic. It’s the feeling of hiding your true self around people, awkwardly stumbling through a day until you can escape to a safe space. It was a funny, charming movie and one of the few new Christmas movies that I actually have seen multiple times. Of course, the scene that sought to do the most good for me was Dan Levy’s speech about the importance of being accepted for your identity. To some extent, it’s an expectant monologue, but one that I needed to hear at that time.

The exploration of autism and sexuality eventually crossed over with a Yo Samdy Sam video on demisexuality, which changed my perspective even more. I even tracked down a podcast where she discussed for an hour how autism and demisexuality overlapped. I even did the exhaustive research, eager to learn as much as I could. 

So by January 2021, I technically announced on Letterboxd how I identified myself. Upon a rewatch of Disobedience (2017), a film that spoke directly to my heart, I had some personal revelations that came from, of all places, a lesbian love story:

“I think another thing about watching this film is that it comes at an interesting time in my life. It's a very internal one and I doubt anyone really recognizes it externally. Because I've been alone a lot lately, I've taken that time to think of who I am what I want from my life. In some respects, the answers are underwhelming because thought and practice are two different things. Also, while I've craved intimacy I don't really know how to achieve it. This makes me believe that I'm demisexual, which even then is secondary to that trope that autistics have trouble making friends. Given that everyone's telling me to stay home, I don't know how to do that.

I think some of this stemmed from the fact that I've found queer cinema lingering with me more. I see their humanity much clearer, their desires more authentic. Sure, every love story has some affectionate tool that I can latch onto, but I see McAdams removing her wig, the walls breaking down, and I noticed the portrayal of loneliness and desire. I am not someone who picks up on visual symbolism so clearly, and yet I can always tell when someone desires connection. Maybe it's because of how discreet queer cinema has to be in a heteronormative world, but I find it relatable.

It's been confusing reaching a "conclusion" that satisfies me (for now). As far as I know, things will change again. However, I'm convinced at the moment that my interest is something about me outside of sexuality. Oh sure, the story is brilliant and I admire these characters. However, I'm beginning to think it's all something subliminal about being autistic, a neurodivergent who has always felt just that bit off from the world. I still don't know how I masked (adapted to neurotypical society) as a child, but I know that I did it. I think I'm numbed to it now, but every now and then I'll find myself relating to the idea of actors or performative techniques who feel disconnected from their world. How do I let my guard down to these people?

This is obviously a broad overview. There's a lot of personal details that make this a confusing journey that may continue to grow. Still, I think this is the closest revelation I've had. I will by no means suggest that the queer and neurodivergent experiences are mirrors. I'm sure I've missed out on a lot of discrimination because I didn't realize my condition until fairly recently. Even then, I do empathize with the queer experience and think everyone deserves fair treatment. Everyone deserves to be loved, to have that passion of someone who you trust on an unconditional level.”

It is not a full commitment to queerness, but in hindsight my subconscious was realizing things about myself and placing it in a context that I could recognize. I would go on to learn about neuroqueer, which is the cross-section of neurodivergence and queerness. I’m still learning what that means but as the months have carried on, I’ve become more accepting and interested in this definition. While at times I’ve felt the term makes me isolated and likely to die alone (not true), there has been some satisfaction in discovering myself now, in a period where I have access to so many message boards, YouTube videos, and media that provides a richer context of what it means to be human. Do I wish I accepted it earlier? Sure, though at the same time realizing I’m demisexual is more anticlimactic than discovering you’re gay at 30, where you missed the chance for frivolous, naïve ecstasy. By comparison, I sound like a front desk secretary. 

That’s the thing. My revelation has simultaneously been about being happy for myself and feeling kind of lame. It’s the self-effacing humor that protects you from any hurt. So what is demisexuality? I’ll just let this TikTok video tell you since she has a whole dance to go with it.

@mikaelahappas

Demisexual! 🤍💜🖤 (Again, I am BISEXUAL, I am making these sounds for you guys!) IG: mikaelahappas ##fyp ##lgbt ##demi ##demisexual ##pride

♬ Im Demisexual - Mikaela Happas

Now, time to get nerdy!

As I’ve mentioned before on The Memory Tourist, demisexual isn’t so much about the who as the how. To break down the etymology: demi means half, so half-sexual. This means that it falls between asexual (as in little to no attraction) and allosexual (regular attraction). To me personally, demisexual means that you are only attracted to people you have a close bond with. Before you argue that everyone does, it’s more that there needs to be a deep level of trust before anything sexual enters the equation. This isn’t to say that people can’t be beautiful (aesthetic attraction) or that I don’t have some urges (arousal or libido), but there are different ways of handling it.

I’ll start with the latter. For years I didn’t think I could be part of the asexual spectrum because of certain things I liked watching. You can guess what. However, it becomes more complicated because it isn’t real life and I’m more attracted to the implicit energy and passion. I am not as likely to feel similar to someone I meet in person, or again until there is something in them that I connect with. As a teenager, I often formed crushes over people’s personalities, finding their chic outsiderness cool. For instance, I wanted to be with Elliot Page or Kat Dennings because I felt they exuded confidence in their witticisms. I wanted to be their friend and more fantasized about that. I never got “shipping” culture (see: Captain America and Bucky Barnes) because I didn’t want to see characters boink so much as team up for fun weekend activities (it’s actually weird knowing how much fan fiction just veers into bad erotica). Friendship meant more to me than any of those perceptive intimate relationships.

Of course, there’s astigmatism towards being asexual. Looking at films like American Pie (1999) (fun fact: shot at my high school), one can understand how much pressure a young person has to have sex, to experience some coming of age ritual. It was okay if it was awkward, but you needed a fun story to share if you wanted to be taken seriously as a man. I suppose to some extent I kept waiting for that sensation to kick in and sometimes I think I forced the urge as I better saw sexuality’s great perversions throughout my youth, but again I was more interested in making friends. I would think fondly of stories they told me, realizing how cool I thought they were.

Obviously, it should be noted that asexuals are capable of love. They are able to have marriages and live a normal life. Asexuality doesn’t always mean one is entirely opposed to sex, but it’s not a top priority. On one end, there’s sex-repulsed and the other sex-favorable, sometimes performing acts to please partners. Others will enter queerplatonic relationships and live pleasant lives. I don’t know where I fall in there. This grey area is more commonly referred to as greysexual and fluctuates more between asexual and allosexual.

The other major point was attraction. As mentioned, while some asexuals don’t favor sexual content, there are still those who have a functioning libido and use it to move through those urges. It doesn’t mean that they have a desire to roll in the hay with just about anyone. 

There are actually many forms of attraction, and I think it’s important to point out the differences between the two major ones. The stereotype with asexuals is that they are cold and robotic, possibly even psychopaths. In reality, this is just a response to a misconception. The split attraction model suggests a divide between romance and sex, suggesting that one can be very romantic with someone without feeling that sexual desire (or reverse, which would be aromantic). I personally would love to love someone deeply, and it’s often what I’ve chased more between these two. 

Many other terms exist, but it’s difficult to differentiate them all. What I will say is that it makes sense why I dived deep into this topic. Autistics are notorious for obsessively researching things that interest them. In fact, it’s inspired me to be more sensitive and aware of events in the LGBTQIA+ community. I don’t know what it means to be neuroqueer quite yet, but I do believe that there’s plenty of overlap, and nowhere is that more obvious than in the simple fact that the man who made gay conversion therapy also made A.B.A., and both have psychologically damaging impacts on trying to change people’s brains (“corrective rape” is a real thing). Both groups remain misunderstood, often ignored by mainstream outlets and representation is at times poor.

If I’m being honest, the hardest part about being demisexual is describing it. It’s why I’m not particularly mad if you just want to lob me into asexuality. The only time I’ve ever heard it referenced in media was on Netflix’s Why Are You Like This? and it was mostly a joke about how a lustful bisexual wanted to hook up and was annoyed by him. 

In other places, I’ve grown frustrated by coded characters. Considering that sex is often taboo, I feel like more characters get considered asexual for convenience's sake. I personally don’t believe it’s particularly clever to consider most Disney characters asexual because they’re all about neutering so that the youngest audience member won’t feel confused (also their LGBTQIA+ representation is atrociously offensive). Even then, realizing that you could label Elsa from Frozen (2013) as either autistic, asexual, or lesbian shows how common the traits are, but also how much you’re reading into them. While there is room for overlap, I’ve learned in such a short time that autistic and asexual characters (usually conjoined) are often infantilized because they don’t know how to write three dimensional personalities or that they’re capable of normal friendships. 

On Chesil Beach

The other trope that I’m not particularly a fan of is the belief that asexuality’s lack of sex drive stems from past trauma. The most noticeable example that I’ve seen is On Chesil Beach (2017) where a newly married couple fails to have passionate sex. It’s slowly revealed that she had past conflicts that make the act horrifying to her. Similarly, Rue from HBO’s Euphoria has been speculated to be asexual while being a recovering addict. The show is chock full of interesting takes on teenage sexuality, but I definitely think Rue has more important conflicts to deal with besides sex that keep me from caring about this read. The only other read of asexual characters I dislike is that one of very few confirmed movie takes includes Ozymandias of Watchmen (2009), who wants to destroy the world… FUN.

Also, it only feels right to address asexual erasure. Much like any other orientation being removed from the narrative, it’s mostly done for convenience and to “normalize” a character’s narrative. The most famous example of this is The CW’s Riverdale where Jughead Jones became something more resembling straight. In the comics, Jones is a confirmed asexual and I respect those who are disappointed in the show for ignoring this. Even then, the show is a fantastic mess and once featured Jughead singing Hedwig and the Angry Inch (mixing transgender anger with teenage hormones), so don’t get too angry. 

For most people my age, one of the pivotal depictions of asexual came a few years ago on Netflix’s Sex Education. In the scene, a character talks to a sex therapist about her asexuality before receiving a speech about how she’s not broken and that her feelings are normal. I wasn’t aware of that part of myself at the time, but I recognized people sharing that video, feeling a validation that radiates through smiles. There was also Netflix’s BoJack Horseman with Todd Chavez, though I was indifferent to it as a plot point at the time. Finally, SpongeBob Squarepants is confirmed asexual by creator Stephen Hillenburg, but again I don’t know that obsessing over kids characters this way is anything but a lazy, easy read. There’s also apparently a superhero named Prime Earth who is asexual in the comics, so I’m curious to see what she’s up to.

What’s strange is how much asexual representation has emerged in the past 12 months, at least in my periphery. It’s true that one can recognize gay and transgender characters more clearly and I’m happy to see them dominating media. However, it’s interesting to notice how asexuals have to try much harder to stand out, if just because it’s harder to notice inactivity than a full-on passionate kiss in The Prom (2020) or something. At best we sometimes get John David Washington giving us a random shoutout in Malcolm & Marie (2021) amid a toxic masculinity tantrum.

Selah and the Spades

That may be why I latched onto Selah and the Spades (2020) so quickly. It was a character intentionally written as asexual, discussing how sex just doesn’t interest her. This isn’t to say that she lacks agency and confidence. In fact, there is something intimidating by how much power she holds. This isn’t a high school movie about deceitful relationships, but power struggles. Selah is awesome and probably the closest to representation defying stereotypes that I’ve seen in my short six months of being demisexual. 

The other appears on Freeform’s Everything’s Gonna Be Okay. I initially watched the show because Matilda was played by an actually autistic actor named Kayla Cromer. To be honest, it’s some of the most groundbreaking representation I’ve seen just in how it explores autism’s connection to human behavior. Among them is a relationship with Drea (Lillian Carrier). At the time of starting the show, I had no expectation that this neuroqueer couple would feature an asexual partner, so by the time I found out it felt amazing. Not only was I getting one of the rare explorations of autistic sexuality explored on TV, but here was evidence that asexuals could be in a relationship with allosexuals and be seen as normal. There’s a whole episode where they hang out in a cabin alone and it’s one of the most affirming things I’ve seen this year as far as representation.  

Everything's Gonna Be Okay

The truth is that realizing that you’re demisexual in some ways reveals how much you’ve been inundated with an oversexualized world. Unlike some, I am not opposed to it as I’m for self-expression. It’s honestly curious how humanity functions the way it does. In a lot of ways, I don’t feel as pressured about this offending me if just because I’m more attached to my autism. Also, I frankly find some of the more explicit songs, like Megan Thee Stallion’s album last year, to be funny. If I listen to music, I’m more narrative driven, finding longing for accomplishments and discovering the inner lives of these characters. I like some love songs, but I’m never as engaged as when a pop song decides to focus on a character sketch like Courtney Barnett does.

I write this in June because it’s Pride Month. While I’ve been aware of its existence, I never felt a personal connection to it before. This isn’t to say that I don’t support people sharing their rainbow-tinted avatars, but at best I was an ally, always eager to learn more. I personally want to learn about the queer history that goes beyond the 20th century. There’s so much more that I want to know. The same could be said for myself, though at this point it’s about coming to terms with the romantic side of the equation. What does that even mean?

So again I’ll say hello. I’m Thomas and I’m demisexual. Thank you for reading and understanding, allowing me to be in your life in some capacity. I hope we can accept each other and better understand what makes our individual experiences worth celebrating. I don’t think I’ll be at Pride Marches, if just because I have social anxiety and fear what people will think if I stare (especially since the pro-kink brigade is VERY vocal on Twitter right now). As it stands, I’m still trying to figure out if buying a small flag would be worth it. I have a box of Lego. I made an asexual and rainbow flag out of bricks. It’s a very small way I express myself.

To be completely honest, another thing about being queer is that I feel too modest compared to the stereotype. My fashion is mediocre and I’m not drawn into high drama or divas. Sure I get it as entertainment, but the idea of being outgoing is a trope that sometimes intimidates me. I want to be happy in a quiet way. It’s just how I am. I want to show some pride, but not in a flamboyant way. I know this way exists, but the extroversion at points really doesn’t connect with my personal approach. 

My personality is still largely private, not shared in part because it feels like too much of a headache to explain. My small way of expressing myself is to wear more purple, which was a color I felt bullied out of liking as a child and feel fits my existing aesthetic in a way that isn’t too stark. I’m also considering getting a shirt from The WNBA’s Las Vegas Aces as a cheeky in-joke (as Ace Hardware doesn’t fit me at all) and hope they’re a good team this season. I hope that people in the asexual community accept me and that I can fit into the LGBTQIA+ community somehow. Again, I don’t know if I have to fill out papers and mail them to the courthouse or what. To be honest, queerness for decades always felt like something you needed to perform a ritual to be accepted into. Nobody’s really validated my cards yet, so I’m just assuming my place at the back of the line. Though in a moment of being cheeky, I did make a TikTok account on the first annual International Asexual Awareness Day, so I hope that means something.

Happy Pride Month and thank you for being awesome in your own ways.