story time

"You say you're touch starved, but only the cat can touch you, and not me? Ouch."

The hurt showed on their face. I got stuck trying to answer. There was something there that was off, but I couldn't put my finger on it in the moment. I went for it anyway, and missed.

"It's not... It's not about you... it's kind of a thing that a lot of ace people experience..." This wasn't it. I kept going and missing and digging myself into a hole. "I just... and what you're referencing was about ace awareness day, so that's why I said it."

“What about you? How was your first kiss?”

I grinned sheepishly. 

“It was with my first partner. We went for a walk at night and ended up on a pier. We stargazed and counted satellites and made out.”

“Boo, you suck.” 

“I know,” I laughed, “it’s stupid.” The stories of firsts continued but I zoned out thinking about that night, that person. It was stupid, but not because of how John Green it was. That wasn’t actually my first kiss. I didn’t lie on purpose - I genuinely forgot the other firsts.

---

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No,” I said, but my eyes were closed and I was so comfortable tucked into the crook of their arm. I was as good as asleep. Falling asleep would have been the softest most intimate thing I had done with someone, but I wasn’t really thinking about it in the sense of firsts.

I felt them pull my hand from the center of their chest up to their shoulder. I opened my eyes to look at them. 

“I... what?” 

“I like your hand here.”

I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do. “Ok?” I asked, moving my arm back to where it was. “It’s more comfortable here?”

They sort of laughed, so I closed my eyes again. 

Oh, hindsight.

I was dozing off slowly and peacefully, thinking about our hike earlier - standing on the lookout tower, finding landmarks of places we had been, how we liked being up high for different reasons. I like the reminder of how small I am, compared to the world.

Then I was interrupted by something on my mouth. It was there for less than a second. I opened my eyes, confused. They were settling back into the couch, looking at me.

Did they... did they just kiss me? They must have, right? Like what else would that have been? 

I wasn’t about to ask for clarification, though. How would that have gone? I probably would have said something like, “Um... did you... did you just kiss me?” They probably would have responded with “Uh, yeah, you couldn’t tell?” And then I would have been too embarrassed to say anything else. 

Not that I really thought through that scenario in the moment. Or about how you probably shouldn’t kiss someone for the first time when their eyes are closed and they’re making no verbal or physical sign of wanting to kiss. I was still physically comfortable, and tired. Reciprocating didn’t even cross my mind. I closed my eyes again.

---

“I should probably head back.” 

“Ughgh, ok.”

I had a four hour drive ahead of me. I’d actually be in a bit of trouble with my parents if I didn’t head out in the next minute. I gathered my stuff, put my shoes on, and made my way to the door. I didn’t really know what to do with my body, around someone I liked, who I cuddled with for hours, who kissed me (I think??). We hugged, which was sort of awkward around my backpack. I stepped backwards toward the door. “Talk soon?”

“Yeah.” There was just the slightest hesitation, then: “Can I have a kiss?”

I didn’t really think about whether or not I wanted to. I just stepped forward to meet them for a quick peck. It was a little sloppy, but not long enough to notice. They grinned from ear to ear and told them to let them know when I got home. I said I would, and stepped out the door, a little grin on my face as well. Why, though? Because I knew that a kiss was a sign of some sort of wanting, and that it meant someone wanted me?

After the door shut, I heard them say “Yes!” through the open window. I never told them, though. How would that have gone? 

“So... you know how we kissed before I left?” 

“...Yeah?” 

“Yeah, the window was open.” 

“...” 

“...” 

“Ohhhhh.” 

“Yeah.” 

I'm not sure I could actually recognize them in a crowd. I stopped mid bite as I tried to remember any details about their face. Eye color? Nothing. Sometimes they wore glasses. Freckles? I don't think so. How does their hair sit on their face? I think everywhere? But mostly pushed back. Like purposely messy.

I guess we were just casually seeing each other. Wait - even "seeing each other" feels too strong. Casually messing around feels more accurate.

Still. For all that and the conversations we had, I sure didn't spend a lot of time actually looking at them. I didn't think they were looking at me, either. Is it that eye contact is too personal, too intimate? Is eye contact to flings as kissing on the mouth is to Vivian Ward?

I kept eating. I didn't really have to think about them since we hadn't talked in awhile. I never told them about being asexual and about why I have specific boundaries. A couple times I mentioned: I have a story to tell you at some point. What a weird way to try to bring up sexual boundaries. A story?

I think I said it that way because my order of operations was off. First, make consistent - but not too much, can’t creep them out - eye contact. Get to know them. Then, let some walls down. Come out as asexual. Our order of operations went something like, little to no eye contact, tipsy conversation, finding out we're both queer, finding out we both felt fucked up by the church, messing around, falling asleep, not talking until the next time.

I stopped before the elevators at the absolute pile of left behinds - things people didn't want any more, or at least didn't want or need enough to bother moving out with them. I hardly ever found anything I wanted, or that I would risk taking. One bit of bad luck with a second hand chair and I'm paranoid about bed bugs for life.

This time, though, I found 2 plastic containers, a cutting mat, and a piece of wood shelving I intended to paint on like a canvas. All things that were easily cleaned, and would definitely be helpful.

I took the next elevator up with my left behinds, hoping I wouldn't run into anyone with this odd collection of things that I clearly took from the pile. No one has ever stopped me from taking things, but it did feel a little taboo.

Every time I stop to look, I'm reminded of them, looking meticulously through the whole pile.

"I grew up poor," they said later, "the habits don't go away."

I nodded. I sort of understood. I knew I wasn't as poor as they had been, and I think my parents did a good job - for better or worse - of hiding their financial stretching from us. They framed things we could afford as a genuine choice rather than a sad compromise. Getting hand me downs was a fun surprise. We danced over the line of reduced school lunches, and could pick a special hot lunch to have one day of the week when we stopped qualifying. We read book after book from the library instead of paying for cable TV.

"I kind of want to go back to look though the shoes," I added. There was a whole section just for discarded shoes. I would have to put them through the wash, of course, or figure out some way to clean them.

They grinned. "You get it."

throwing out Christmas letters

making plans for January 1st on December 31st

writing about people who are still relatively in your life

talking on the phone while pooping

snapchatting while pooping

“You feel so real.”

They had a hand on my side, so I figured they probably meant something along the lines of like, having a “real” body. A body that didn’t starve itself on purpose, a body that could just “be themselves.”

“I don’t know, does that make sense?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t feel like talking about “real” bodies, so I took it in a different direction. 

“I don’t know. I think it’s kinda funny, because most of the time I feel fake.”

They froze a little, and I realized I needed to elaborate.

“Fake like, I’m not actually in this body. None of this really exists. Do you ever feel that way?”

TW: allusions to and mentions of sex

"This is... finished? Partly finished?" I didn't want to assume that the piece was incomplete just because pencil lines showed. I let pencil lines show sometimes. It just seemed like it wasn't quite done.

"Yeah, no, that's been like that for over a year now."

"Oh. Are they planning to finish it?"

"No. Well, I doubt it. They said they were going to paint it, started it, and then left all their supplies here. I haven't heard from them since."

My brain went in several directions as I tried to curb my excitement for potentially free art supplies. I guess they could tell, because they asked:

"Why? Do you want to finish it?"

YES.

"Yeah, that'd be cool. Do you know if they had a plan for it?"

"I mean, I don't care how you finish it. Anything you do will be better than what it looks like now."

Flattering.

"Cool! I can send you layouts for ideas. Once I have ideas, I mean."

"You don't have to do that. I'm sure whatever you do will be great."

I could tell they were looking at me out of the corner of my eye, in that way that made me feel like I needed to put another wall up. Instead, I imagined the canvas covered with a starry purple sky and a large astronaut beaver floating to the left. Was it intended to be sexual from the beginning? I still don't know. Or maybe it's more accurate to say I haven't decided yet.

"Ok. I'll probably send you layouts anyway. Just in case."

"Ok, whatever you want." They smiled - I could dig a moat as well - and we went back to their room to pick up where we left off.

---

It was cold on the day we met. For summer, at least. I inspected my pants for stray hairs while I waited for them on the steps outside the bar. We went in together, ordered a couple beers, and walked through the bar to sit in the back. We talked for awhile. Or, they talked, and I mostly listened. I'm used to being the listener - I don't like to fill the air for the sake of filling it. I don't mind silence. Some people do, so they fill it, and I listen.

We got food and one more drink and then walked to their house. We played a game for... I'm not sure how long. I was a little crossed. It was late, though, and for all the talking, I couldn't tell what we wanted from each other. Or what I wanted from them.

I did know I wanted to sleep.

I said as much, and checked the bus schedule. They didn't do anything to stop me. Just gave me a short side hug on the stoop.

I'm not sure I'll see them again? I wondered on a loop on my way home. Or maybe we could be friends? I'm not sure if I care? I'm not sure I'll see them again? Or maybe we could be friends? I'm not sure if I care? I'm not sure if I care?

I slept like a rock.

---

"This is the stuff they left behind," they said, plopping a plastic bag onto the counter. "I'm not sure how much paint is actually there, but I can buy more if you need it."

"Sweet, sounds good. And thank you!" The bag felt pretty light for the amount of paint tubes in it. Still, paint is paint. I set aside the colors I would need, and then checked to see if they were still usable. You could hear dry paint shaking around some of them. How old was this paint? Just a year?

"What do you think?"

"Yeah..." I started. I didn't like feeling like I owe someone something, especially when communication about boundaries is lacking. But I was the one finishing this massive canvas so they didn't have to look at it like this! And for free! Yeah. "I'm going to need more paint."

We went to a hardware store together, a break from me muttering to myself about what order I should paint things in. I was still a little surprised that they were ok with the astronaut beaver. They didn't even blink.

In a moat building effort, I stuck to the far side of the sidewalk from them with my hands in my pockets. I hoped that my body language communicated I don't know how I feel about whatever it is that we're doing, so don't try doing anything cute. I had high expectations for the amount of detail and tone my body could convey, even though I already knew my body wasn't great at communicating. My tight lipped stiff kisses didn't seem to deter much. That was maybe because the rest of my body said other things. For whatever reason, opening my lips to use words seemed out of the question.

I took my hands out of my pockets to air them out briefly before shoving them back in. I couldn't tell if they noticed.

---

I was surprised when I heard from them again after our first... hangout? Date? It didn't matter. We watched their favorite movie, each sitting in our own chairs about five feet apart from each other. Yep, this is classically a friend thing. They asked if I just wanted to sleep over since it was so late already. That'd be nice. Still a friend thing? We laid next to each other, not even touching hands. I was flat on my back. Still a friend thing, I thought. And then, abruptly, not a friend thing. At least, not a friend thing by my understanding. The situationship wordlessly shifted, and I didn't know to where, or why. I kept my lips tight in uncertainty.

---

“Do you mind if I play music in here?” It wasn’t a question of whether or not I would be listening to music, more of a question of how I would be listening to music. Ear buds or speakers.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” 

“Cool.” I had two playlists downloaded, one a little slower and sadder than the other. I started with the other. 

Everything I needed was on the floor in front of me. I had lightly drawn a general layout of things on the canvas, and had a plan written out in my sketchbook. Black layer first. Then purple. Then blue. Then light blue. That would be most of the painting, actually. The rest of it was just the astronaut beaver, and then adding star stuff at the end. 

I sang as I worked, painting almost the entire canvas black. This really was easy work, as long as I followed my plan and adapted as needed. They hovered around for awhile, ducking in and out of the room, asking questions about the process. I didn’t mind any of this. In hindsight, it would have felt weird if they only watched me the whole time, or if they didn’t stop in at all. Somewhere in the middle was nice.

At one point, they stepped closer and hugged me around the waist from behind. I was pleasantly surprised, but tried not to show it.

“Oh. Hi.” It was nice being hugged - I craved that innocent human contact. But I was working now. My hands were covered in paint and several brushes would have needed cleaning. I kept working. They left without a word.

---

“Yeah, it was nice meeting you too, I’ll see you around.” I brought myself back to Earth from my buzzed daydreaming. I was enjoying my own little silence while they talked to a friendly stranger outside the bar. As they talked, I noticed they were having a soft power struggle with each other, mirroring the other’s posture, one upping their service industry horror stories. I laughed to myself and enjoyed my constructed silent space.

“Ready to go?” 

“Yep.” 

We walked back to my apartment, wandered up the stairs, and flopped down on my bed in a cuddle puddle. It wasn’t late, but I was sleepy anyways. We talked about random non consequential nothings. When there was a lull in the conversation, I sighed and filled the silence. 

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not really into sex. I’m asexual.” 

“I kinda figured. At least something, like when you kept saying wait.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. It’s just, sometimes it’s hard to tell when to tell people, or how to tell people. And it’s more complex than a lot of people realize. It’s not all or nothing. Not for everyone.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Like, asexual just means that someone doesn’t feel sexual attraction. Anything after that, like if people only sometimes feel sexual attraction, or have sex, or masturbate, or have relationships, and why, and with who, or how many people - that’s all different for everyone.”

I let that take up the air space for awhile. They let the silence be.

“Have people like... I don’t know. Do people respond well...?”

“Do you mean have people left because I’m asexual?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Some have.”

A breath of silence. 

“I um... I kind of have some extra walls up because of it. Like I assume that people are going to leave when I tell them. So it’s easier... or I guess it feels safer to just not let people in that far.” 

“That sucks.”

Thanks?

“Thanks.”

Another breath of silence. 

“But you like making out, and stuff?”

“Yeah. Making out is fun. Most of the time. I’m not really into much else though.”

“Hm.”

I hoped they wouldn’t ask me to clarify. I knew I needed to practice communicating the “much else,” because the “much else” changed from person to person and how comfortable I was. But the “much else” was currently covered in several layers of shame.

“When we hang out... do you hope that I’ll touch you?”

My breath of silence. Will they ask me for specifics?

“Yes.”

They didn’t.

---

“I think it’s done,” I announced, already gathering up brushes to wash them. They wandered in, taking in the canvas from my point of view. I had stopped looking at it - any flaw that I noticed at this point would be a part of it.

“Looks nice.”

“Glad you like it. I’m not the one who has to look at it all the time.” They grinned. 

“You know, I have another, much longer canvas that I was going to commission someone to paint. We should do it instead!”

I raised my eyebrow at them.

“I mean, you should paint it.”

I started putting paint away.

“If you want to.”

“Hmm,” I kept looking down as if I was focused on gathering supplies to clean, but really I was avoiding eye contact. I didn’t want to do it, and I didn’t want to say no to their face so immediately. Maybe I should have.

“I don’t know,” I said instead, “Maybe.” 

“Yeah, just let me know.” 

The thing was, I finally put together how I felt about whatever it was that we were doing. I didn’t like not being asked if they could kiss me. I didn’t want to kiss them. I didn’t like them telling me what I should do. I didn’t like listening all the time. Sometimes silence can just be silence without needing to be filled. I didn’t like how neither of us communicated the important things. And I didn’t know how to communicate that. 

The first, an invitation to hang out. It felt like less of an invite to me, and more of them inviting themselves to hangout with me.

I'm sorry, I texted back, I'm out of town. I might be back sooner, but I'm at the end of my socializing rope, so I won't be able to hang out then anyway.

Oh, they replied, that's ok. And I feel bad about this, but I didn't mean to text you that.

Oh... I mean, ok.

It's just that I knew you were out of town, and that you need time to recharge, so I wouldn't have asked you to hang out anyway.

I guess... it just feels like you didn't need to share that with me. I don't really know what to think, because there is so much missing in the tone and the hours that passed between messages. So I leave them on read.

The second, a random ass picture shortly followed by, NO, and, I did not mean to send you that. Which is nice, because I had no context for the picture to respond to anyway. It also stings a little in the wake of a retracted invite. Not you, the picture laughs at me, I don't want to socialize with you right now.