Art

I like making art.  I like creating pieces which evoke a response- be it emotional, reflective, or simply "Hey wow, that looks neat!"  Honestly, most of what I do is geared toward that last one.  I admire folks that create with political or social commentary at the forefront, or who really pour their heart and soul into pieces.  But most of what I do comes from a place of "Haha, I'll bet this will look cool!"

This is why I'm no good at writing artist's statements.

But anyhow.  Once in awhile I do shoot content that comes from a more personal place.  This was one of those photos.  I shot it in the fall of 2010, and it was a visual representation of my relationship with sex at the time.  Not so chipper.

Through a somewhat convoluted series of events, this piece ended up in an erotic art show.  I was rather surprised and thrilled by this news (given than I hadn't, ya know, actually submitted the piece to this particular show).  And also somewhat bemused.

This photo came from a place of such frustration and resentment toward sex.  It didn't matter how much I wasn't into it, or how much I was just going through the motions- the show must go on, baby.  So to have a piece with so much negativity tied into it be accepted into a show celebrating eroticism?  I'll admit, I was giggling on the inside as I framed and shipped the piece.

Why is this on my mind now, a year after these events?

In a turn of events that has me giggling once again, the photo that I use for this blog was accepted into an erotic art show.  Asexually erotic, FTW.

The Gray in Gray-A

There's a reason that I identify as gray-a, rather than strictly asexual.

It's because the kinds of sex that I like, I like a lot.  A whole freakin' lot. 

I haven't figured out the exact formula for good sex, by my definition.  It comes with some combination of general attraction, having the right kink buttons pushed, and a general feeling of safety, both emotional and physical.  And then on top of all of that, there's some magical, generally elusive special sauce.

Sometimes I feel like I've painted myself into an asexual little corner.  In most cases, I don't want people to view me as a sexual creature.  I don't have that special sauce (or whatever) with them, and at this point I'm pretty burnt out on having people write sexuality onto me when it isn't there.  I've experienced it from partners, from friends, from strangers who see my non-sexual nudie photos on the internet.  And I'm sick of it.

So I just say, "I'm not into genitals most of the time" and leave it at that, rather than leaving perceived openings for negotiation or wiggle room or exceptions or whatever else.

But really, I sure do miss having sex that works for me.

Awkwardness as a Social Strategy

I'm not new to the use of awkwardness as a social strategy.  I never really figured out how to do the small talk thing.  After many years of crushing social awkwardness, I finally figured out how to spin it in a way that was entertaining.  Yay, social success!

What is new for me is publicly identifying as asexual-ish.  In doing so, I also gave myself license to be the most spectacularly awkward person- ever, pretty much- when talking about sex.  Complete with flailing.  Complete with extended pauses and unconventional language.  And complete with air humping, for when flailing just isn't adequate. 

I don't viscerally get sex in the way that it's usually talked about.  I mean, I get the mechanics of it, but I don't hear about something and think, "Oh yeah, that sounds like something that I'd like to try!"  In the past, I've either done mental gymnastics to relate conversation back to sex in a way that I do understand, or more often, just nodded along.  Oh yeah.  I totally get it.  Uh huh.  Super hot.  Definitely.

No more!  I came to own my social awkwardness, and so I've come to own my sexual awkwardness, too.  So bring on the sexy conversation.  I know what to do now!

Identity, as Assumed by Others

Okay, you know how in that most recent post about orientation and whatnot I was all, "Hmm, I don't know why I consider myself sexually active and apart from the LGBT community"?  It's true that I didn't when it first came to my attention, but by the time that I got around to clicking the publish post button, I had an inclination.  I just couldn't find a way to work it into the post without disrupting the flow.  Call it stylistic dishonesty.

But hey, now is my chance to come clean!

I think the default assumption of women in my general age range in my culture is that we are not an active part of the LGBT community, and we are sexually active.  For whatever reason, I just haven't gotten around to doing the internal fact-checking on those points.  Society says that I'm straight and sexually active, so I am!  Woohoo!

Of course, there's more nuance to it than that.  I don't think that I can reason my way into feeling like part of a community, and I'm pretty sure that there are some emotional hang-ups (along with maybe just a little bit of holding out for impractical crushes), that are keeping me from declaring that I'm sexually inactive and taking myself off of birth control.

So where next?  Well, I'm still not sure.  But I do have a better feel for where I'm at, and why I'm here.

Orientation

I've filled out a couple of surveys about sexuality as of late.  One was for the Westword, Denver's weekly newspaper.  The other was for the upcoming Asexual Awareness Week.  The two surveys brought some really interesting realizations to my attention.

Although I've had sex with boys and girls, I regularly play with boys, girls, and people elsewhere on the gender spectrum, and am romantically attracted to people all over the gender spectrum, I don't consider myself part of the LGBT community.  Left entirely to my own devices, I identify my sexual orientation as "ambivalent" or as I'm fond of saying these days, "I'm mostly disinterested in everybody."  Of course, neither of those options are ever available on dropdown menus.  The closest that I can ever get is something like bisexual or pansexual.  Or asexual.

In any event, in spite of having an abundance of reasons to identify myself as part of the LGBT community, I just don't feel it.  I'm on the periphery, with frequent overlap of social circles and events.  But I don't feel that it's my community.

Another unexpected revelation: In spite of having only had sex a dozen or so times- and that's being generous- in the past year, with absolutely zilch for the past five months, I still consider myself sexually active.  And not just in the sense that I'm sexually active with myself.  For whatever reason, I still think of myself as having one foot in the sexy pool.

I don't know why either of these things are as they are.  Using even a very, very small amount of logic makes it obvious that I fit neatly under the LGBT umbrella, and that I am not sexually active.  So why the discrepancy?  It'll be something that I mull over, that's for sure.

Small Forest Creature

Back in the days when I was trying (unsuccessfully) to make sex work for me, I often felt like my libido was a small forest creature.

I'd be walking along a trail through the forest of life when I would suddenly hear some rustling in the bushes.  I pause and look.  Is it... yes!  Yes!  It's libido!  We have confirmed its presence!  It was a rush of joy, followed by... panic.

Oh God, don't scare it off!  Avoid eye contact, no sudden movements.  Wait for it to come closer, don't crowd it.  If I do this just right, I'll bet I can get my libido to stick around long enough to actually, ya know, do something with it.  We can get this party going, yet!

Of course, this strategy rarely worked.  In my frantic attempts to stay calm, I'd quickly lose any sexy inclinations that I'd had.  This series of events, this frenzied internal monologue, repeated itself many, many times.  It was not a pleasant time, but it was an important stage along the way for me.

I don't hunt my libido anymore.  It comes out from time to time, on its own terms, and that's okay.

Villains

Relatively little of my journey into the exciting world of asexuality-ish-ness has happened alone.  Partners, sweeties, lovers, friends, and play partners have all joined me along the way for various lengths of time.  I've learned quite a bit from these experiences, and my time with others has been hugely important in shaping how I identify and relate to sexuality today.

Some of the experiences have been delightful.  Others have been painful, for me and those involved.  Many formative moments have been particularly painful.  But because they were formative, I'm compelled to write about them.  Before doing so, I do feel that it's important for me to put a qualifier out there.

There are no villains in this story.  There have been many people, myself included, who have done the best that they've known how to do.  And sometimes we've hurt each other along the way.  That doesn't make any of us villains.  It just makes us human.