I Am Your Something Sexual

I’m glad you felt like you could tell me—was the response I gave on our third date when you opened up to me about your sexuality. We had a milkshake each, after our first round of bowling — chocolate for you and mint for me. We sat in the bowling alley just across from the centre of Dover’s town, choosing a window seat to watch the world go by. Five PM turned to seven PM then nine PM and the moon’s face began to show. We got some drinks and poorly stacked burgers and too-salty smelling fries. I searched for the bathroom. Concentrated hard on every step, to discover two cubicles. One of the doors had been removed from the hinges— possibly an act of violence or lack of funding. The lock on the cubicle was faulty, so I opted to use a urinal. You see, I wasn’t a newbie. I was prepared for each date — a notes app armed with conversation topics. I often get nervous around women and fumble my words. I vowed not to seem ridiculous in front of you, Helena. We’d already talked about our colleagues. Working in retail is something we have in common. What was next on the list? Travel. I expected you to say you’d been interrailing across Europe as a teenager or on an all-inclusive family holiday to Tenerife. You brought up your sexuality again — I thought the conversation would progress naturally through my list of questions rather than go off script. It followed an unexpected progression.

When I first heard the words ‘demisexual’ and in explanation, ‘demisexuality’ fall from your mouth on the date, my initial thought was that it was an invention. An invention drilled into you; something human with a proposed biological explanation. But I’ll give it to you, Helena — you got me thinking. Do humans truly like each other for genitalia? Is that what the word straight means? You said you could be biromantic, but does that mean that being straight is not about romance but about lust? Would I still be into women if they didn’t have breasts and a vagina I can enter? Presumably so. But you wanted companionship. So why date? Why not live with a friend? I asked you. You said you dreamed of living with a friend, but people said that’s code for lesbian. You grew up constantly confused about your sexuality because you’ve always viewed men and women the same— you don’t really like either of them but the person themself. It’s easier to just say you’re straight when someone asks because it’s hard to explain that it would take a lot for you to fancy anyone. Everybody is attractive in some fashion, but only ever aesthetically and emotionally.

The window by our table was dirty. Still transparent, nevertheless, but if I put a camera up to the glass, even in the daylight, there wouldn’t have been much to see. Did that daunt you? Stars were visible usually but with pollution, starlight wasn’t common. Only lamp-posts and man-made creations lit up the Earth then, as it does now. The table between us was sticky from spilt drinks and lack of care. A section of wood had been recently scratched off, judging by its condition. Why do bars not provide coasters? To allow the table to get this wet, this ruined, feels improper. Your elbows are leant on the table, Helena, as if it didn’t occur to you it was sticky. Perhaps you noticed but you didn’t mind. For our second round of drinks, we are sharing a bottle of local white wine. Your legs were crossed under the table and relaxed to the right, but your chest faced forward and your deep amber eyes met mine. I heard that if your date’s belly button is facing you, chances are they’re attracted to you. Or just more open towards you. I’m unsure of the truth in this statement, but your body language doesn’t lie.

If you recall, I asked you about travel.

‘Travel?’ You said. ‘I’ve been to Bellano several times. I haven’t travelled much for pleasure, though,’ you told me, nursing your third drink as if bringing the glass to your lips would shatter it and you’d be covered in the dark liquid of your choice. But, of course, the glass did not shatter and your skin, untouched.

‘So why did you travel? Let me take a guess.’

‘I’ll give you two,’ You smiled as you relaxed back into your chair. It was hard and wooden but you didn’t seem to mind.

‘Two guesses. You’re doubting my first guess?’

‘I was just being generous.’

‘Ok— first up, an ex-boyfriend lived there. Maybe you met him online and went to see him, realised he wasn’t everything you dreamed of and let him go.’

‘No.’ You sat up a little straighter and brought one knee over the other to cross your legs.

‘One more guess.’

‘You’re seeing a long lost relative?’

You shook your head in false pity and a slightly immature noise croaked from your throat, imitating some kind of game show buzzer. I laughed anyway.

‘So what was it? You can’t just say no and leave it without telling,’ I told you. Your eyes slightly twitched. You shifted your seated position; your right knee sat crossed on top of your left.

‘I stayed with my Aunt in Bellano every summer from about year nine to the end of sixth form. Suddenly everything was about bodies. Everyone talked about them. How they look. How they collide. I didn’t want to go to the beach with my friends when they judged the way mine looked.’

‘How come she moved there?’

‘She got sick of Dover. I remember her at the time — she was sweet to me. She wanted to stay, for me, actually, but she found beauty in travel. She said that a life without travel, for her, was a life without a beating heart. She got a small place in Varenna and met her girlfriend there. They moved to Bellano after a while and started running a B&B.’

‘Do you miss her? You speak as if you do.’

‘I really miss her. She wants me to live with her. Maybe I will, someday. But I like exploring. That’s how I ended up working on the ferries. My passion for travel is from her. I inherited it. She’s not my parent but our minds are most alike.’ I remember the way you smiled, Helena, when you spoke of her. I had the idea of the houseboat at that moment— we could’ve lived together on the waters near your aunt.

‘As a stewardess, I am constantly on the move. There’s no invasive questions. People assume they no longer know me— to the people from school and my family I am an evolved creature— I don’t get asked what I’ve done and haven’t done. I won’t correct them— I don’t exactly want to go shouting about the fact I am inexperienced for a twenty-two year old. The world is sex-obsessed. Although, I guess,’ you chuckled to yourself, in an ironic looking fashion, ‘that misogynists like their women pure.’ Your cheeks go a little red and you laugh because I did not immediately reply. It was a bizarre thing to say. Did you feel awkward, Helena? There’s no need to feel awkward around me.

Time and time again you brought it back to sexuality. Why? Even now, I ponder each day why this world is so obsessed with sexuality. Who you fuck or don’t fuck does not make a difference to my life. I have not thought much of my own sexual nature. I was not as focused on such things as you appeared to be. But I told you I understood. You smiled. You were oh so glad you found someone that appreciates and values you. If things are difficult to understand, they are so naturally misunderstood. Don’t let me misunderstand you. But what were you doing with me, Helena, if you did not truly want me, with every part of your heart, your body and soul? If we went through with this, I would’ve yearned to have you. I would’ve yearned for your hands. Yearned for bravery in your fingertips, to undo the button of my trousers and seek the shapes below. Yearned to capture every sensation our bodies have to offer us — for pleasure and sensation are not only found in the skies. Bodies can be particularly beautiful if you allow them the title. I understood why you informed me of your sexuality. But what would come of us? Who would make the sacrifice? I would have a tension— ever present, unfulfilled, granted, but would that fade? Does attraction fade, as love does? Could I love, without lusting? They often go hand-in-hand but you may never have gotten there with me. You finished your drink— I was waiting for you to do so. I stared at the level of swishing liquid until it was gone; trying to calculate the millilitres left in the glass and how much you have swallowed. Only the stench of the drops remained. We had a second, more competitive game of bowling— it took you several attempts to get a strike. I got several. I told you I’d practised bowling a lot, but truthfully, I just have a strong hand and a sufficient aim.

‘Do you see your parents a lot?’ You murmured after sitting down at our favourite table, tilting your head slightly to the right.

‘Way to change the tone,’ I replied, half-smiling. ‘No, I don’t see them much. ‘ ‘Why?’
‘Is this a quiz?’
‘No. I’m just curious. I told you about my family.’

‘Hardly.’
‘I told you about my Aunt. She’s pretty special to me.’ ‘Okay.’
‘My mother has brown hair, much like your own, I suppose. It’s the colour of seeds.’

‘Seeds?’ Instantly I thought you were offended but you chuckle a snort-like laugh when tucking strands of hair behind your ear.

‘Or nuts might be a better descriptive word.’

‘Way to make a girl feel special.’ You laughed to yourself. ‘Hair the colour of seeds.’

My voice was mistakenly monotonous when I said ‘almonds’; your eyebrow raised into a more defined arch. I quickly added ‘but I like almonds,’ and I hope that made it better.

‘Almonds.’ You nod in agreement, not as if it was a ridiculous conclusion, but mere fact. Perhaps that was one attribute I enjoyed most about you — you entertained my nerves and mistaken words.

‘Anything else about her, that isn’t hair colour?’ You uncrossed your legs and your feet touched each other. You leant forward in your chair, closer to me. You were almost in my space. It is hard to determine, when two people are sitting at a table, who’s space is who’s. If you had belongings — say a water bottle, perhaps, and you put it on the table. You’d put it on your half and claim the space in front of you. You wouldn’t put your water bottle in front of the other person. You know they wouldn’t drink from it but that is of no concern. It’s a kind of social commitment. You don’t want to be near their saliva beneath the lid of the bottle. You don’t want to be in collision with the cells from their mouth, the cells one might swab from the inside of a cheek, or the air that they breathe. If the other person had to move said water bottle, they would collide with the plastic, or, indeed, metal, of the bottle, and pick up germs, and go on to touch a million different things that day. And it’s even worse if the bottle’s owner has a common cold or contagion. And to cross this limitation — would this be considered making a move? Nothing was on my side of the table but I remember you leant over like shared space rules didn’t exist and you wanted to be in mine.

You asked me again about my mother. ‘She was kind. She was kind in the way that she would apologise after screaming at me. Not kind enough to stop doing it, though. Didn’t believe in gentle parenting. She would buy me things. She would control how I used them, though. Too much and I’m obsessed, or I don’t spend enough time doing other things. Too little and it was a waste of her money, time, and generosity. I guess that’s what parents do, though, I’m not special in that regard.’ I threaded a hand through my hair. It was a little wet from sweat so I wiped it on my trousers.

‘I don’t know.’ You said, voice quiet and almost melodic. ‘I think my parents had a good balance. They’d tell me to get down from a tree but they wouldn’t stop me running through the woods. They’d coddle me when I fell. But they wouldn’t stop me.’

‘My mother told me I was a pain. That all young boys were.’

‘I’m sorry.’
‘It wasn’t you.’
‘I know, but it still sucks.’ ‘It happened and it’s over.’

You leant even closer to me; analysing you, I might have sworn your eyes were bigger than they were before but that doesn’t happen. Facial features don’t grow in pity. A table of middle-aged men nursing pints across from us said ‘oooh’ in a childish voice; they knew it was a date. You ignored them impressively, Helena. They turned their attention to a game of pool shortly after.

‘My mum would say I wasn’t growing up fast enough.’ You admitted. I tried to focus on your words but my head whirred and my eyes fell upon your collarbones and how pronounced they were above your tank top.

‘That’s a weird thing to say to your daughter.’

‘I don’t know, I guess she just always wanted me to be different. She had a theory that I didn’t have a boyfriend because I was immature, or wasn’t interested in the right things. Boys were a grown-up interest.’

‘But— why? Why would a mother want her daughter to grow up?’

‘Teenage love meant everything to her. But I shouldn’t complain. She looked after me, fed me, bathed me, she was good like that.’

‘You can be good without being perfect. I guess my mother was a bit like that.’ I confessed and frowned at myself once I did. Immediately you read my discomfort.

‘D’you want to get another drink? This one’s on me.’ You said, getting up in a fashion probably too fast for your alcohol-infused brain to comprehend. You fumbled in your pockets to find crumpled-up cash, before I told you I would get them. I said that potentially too abruptly because you winced when I shut you down. ‘Same again?’

‘Sure.’

Drinks in hand, we chatted about family, work, a bit of the weather but not too much, we’re past that. I nodded at the barman, a gesture of thanks. You suggested tipping him for making so many of our drinks. I said that was his job, he was already getting paid.

‘S’pose you’re right,’ you said. We gathered our belongings and got up to leave. We waited for each other to use the bathroom before we continued through my list.

‘I wanted to get married when I was a kid.’ You told me when I asked about marriage. ‘I loved romance. That changed when I realised most people want physicality. But not just kisses. More.’ Your hands spoke differently to your words; close and dangling beside my upper thigh, far closer than on the table before.

Despite what you’re saying about your body, my body, and ours, intertwining— love is what I wanted with you. A blissful, perfect redamancy. I wanted to hear every aspect of your day. What time you woke up and what you ate for breakfast. To be in love is to be in anticipation. The sentences you would tell me each day, sweet-nothings or personal events. The words wouldn’t change but your expression would. Each saying would have a revelatory candor neither of us would deny. That’s what love meant to me. Your voice, so sweet-sounding and mellifluous, is the volume I yearned to hear to centre monogamy itself. Wanting to only hear your voice is what love was, and is, to me. You seemed to want a love that is simple, gentle.

We listened to the 2p machines sort the coins rhythmically. After a while, the coins were the type of deafening I needed to shield my ears from. My attention was fixed upon you. There weren’t any children around, so I murmured ‘so you like kisses?’ The lighting darkened in the duration of our date; we saw the world through a violet vision that made my allure even stronger for you.

‘I do.’ You had a magnetic glint in your eye. Your lips were naturally soft, inviting. I kissed you at that moment and you welcomed me. Our bodies were close together, my torso coming closer, pressing against your chest. Your lips upturned slightly into a smile. How could I not have smiled back at you? You had a pretty smile, Helena. I’ll never forget it. In that moment I pulled you into my chest. There were people watching us but we had only eyes for each other. We were in a state of girlish intoxication — everything was funny and we were — are, more or less, in love.

Your hand was in mine when we left the building. It was a little sweaty, but if you were nervous, I didn’t mind. To the left of you there was a river, but I needn’t paint the scene. At that time of night there was a slightly stronger current — the water flow would crash into the riverbeds and break down the banks. You said something about liking the calming sound of the water at night. The trees were towering, primarily horse-chestnut and linear, either side of the river and footpath. In their presence, we were just another being in the world that releases carbon dioxide. Perhaps they looked at us the way a small child would look at a toy that functions without their contact.

We took the walk beside the river slowly, my head was buzzing and I’m sure yours was, too. You staggered quite a lot upon recollection, Helena.

‘Will you come back with me tonight?’ I asked you. Your eyes turn cold and glaze over in a way I have only before seen in movies.

‘I don’t know about that,’ you mumble, eyes averted.

I reassured you. ‘You don’t have to stay the whole time.’

‘Did you listen to me?’ You ask, voice small sounding.

‘Of course. I listened to everything you tell me. You’re fascinating, Helena.’

‘You’ve listened to everything I said, about myself and what I want. Yet you still invited me back?’

‘I think we get on well— come back with me.’

‘I have to go. You’re clearly not listening to me.’ You trudged in the opposite direction, fast and faster, still. The rain grew in intensity. When I caught up with you, the droplets on your face were a precise art. In the dark they had the slight appearance of crystals on your cheeks, dampening your eyelashes so droplets fell from those in unity with your hair. Your hair loosened out of the style and shape you intended it; but of course, you still looked beautiful. The water would have feared the entrance of your tears; your tears would transform it to make it brighter, happier, even more blue and cherished. But it was night-time and I reached out to brush your cheeks dry with my thumb, but you pushed me away and told me to leave. Forgive my drunken ramblings, I was ecstatic our date started well.

‘Please, Helena — don’t run off. Come back.’ I told you, with more force than I intended. Every time you pulled away from me, I hurt more and my hunger for you grew greater.

I didn’t intend to strike you, only to catch up with you. I didn’t intend to watch you fall and certainly I should’ve helped you back up. I hit you— what I thought was gently but you slipped from the stability of the bank into the river. Your third finger is almost as long as your second. I could’ve held that hand within mine to pull you up from the river. Granted, it was not a long fall but the waters were icy without the sun. Intoxication is the difference between judgement and misjudgement. It is the flitting of the mind and the way it spirals— to have judgement, as I did, truly, when fixated upon offering help. Your skin faded to a much paler colour than before, as the chill turned it almost porcelain— I couldn’t see the rosy blush of your cheeks the liquor had given you before. Should I have offered you my hand? And you, taken it? If I had helped you, your shirt would be wet and dripping, clinging to your torso and your jeans, weighed down with the weight of water. Misjudgement is the acceptance of wrongdoing. There is no attempt to make ethical judgement, with a lack of consequence. Upon recollection, I didn’t offer you my hand. I did not think you, with your hearty pride, would take it. I looked around desperately for someone to help you— you wouldn’t let me touch you again and it felt wrong to go back on my word and help you out. It was my force that pressured you in— how could I have been the rescuer to pull you out? You looked at me like a child would a monster — but was I? Your eyes were wide and you shuffled to the far side of the river as the current forced itself into you. Your delicate, shaking fingers sat on the side of the bank to pull yourself up. I didn’t stay long enough to watch what happened to you. There were a few other people around when I left— did they help you? Give you a towel after you pulled yourself from the river? I don’t know what to think now, Helena — were we ever an ‘us?’ We went on a date. Kissed. Argued. You fell, I left, and that was that. You may struggle in love, should you have the opportunity to love again. I will find someone. I will love someone in every way they want to be loved. Whether gently, passionately or suffocatingly. I must admit, Helena, I am sad it could not be you. I will never be able to reach out and touch you again, or hear the moment of silence, your embarrassment after you snort-laugh. I don’t know if another man will hear it, and cherish it, as much as I. It was whoever that got to you next that decided your fate. They might not have listened when you told them your story.

 Hello! My name is Lara and I'm a recent Graduate of English Literature with Creative Writing. I write mainly drama and romance and love to read anything and everything.