100 followers. Nifty.
Welcome to the Awkward Asexual Blog! My name is Ellie and I'm, well, awkward. My goal for this space is to share my experiences as an asexual woman, to provide space for others to share and to allow non-asexuals to explore asexual perspectives on stuff. I will probably post pertinent articles and such about asexuality here as well.
100 followers. Nifty.
Confession: When men at bars or parties or whatever try to flirt with me, I don’t respond to it, but I also don’t stop talking to them. So, instead of getting what they want out of the situation, they end up getting to know me instead. I’m not really sure how they feel about it later, but I usually feel pretty awesome. I mean, I got to talk about myself for an hour and someone at least pretended to find it interesting and I didn’t have to pay them. It sure beats having a conversation with myself in the car.
Although I write all the time, I rarely come up with a poem that is super relevant to the purpose of my blog. I think this one right here is. It’s a creative reflection on some stuff that I let happen to me before I knew who I was.
Girl as Decor
The year I woke up fifteen,
boys began to find me. The backyard
at night seemed to fill with their hands.
Summer breeze became hot breath
on my neck, a sticky bouquet of cigarettes
and mint. Even the ground prickled
with their evening shadows. My parents
didn’t notice the change, conveniently turned
patio furniture at the sight of dandelion stains
on my nightshirt. My hair grew into a basket
of leaves. My fingernails: tiny shovels. My skin
became clay. In the dark, the boys pressed
themselves into me, each trying his best
to leave handprints, something to bring home
and show his mother.
At first, it was manageable. A flattened toe,
a missing eyebrow, a turned wrist. Then,
there was the morning I woke up with no feet.
I had to use most of my stomach to remake
them. Though I relished my new waist, I began
to fear collapse, so I filled myself out again
with beeswax. The boys next took
to switching my eyes, my ears, my breasts.
Unable to hold my shape, I left for college
a cubist sculpture, wondering if they would
follow. What if I didn’t have a yard anymore?
Would I look better as an ironing board?
A casserole dish? A decade passed before
I realized I wasn’t looking for them, have never
looked for them.
And then grad school happened and my brain got so full I couldn’t think about stuff for my blog anymore. But, you know, I still identify as both awkward and asexual. So there’s that.
Today, I casually complained to my therapist that the TV in the waiting room is always on some channel where Pat Robertson is pretending to be a news anchor. It’s a student counseling center at a public university. Apparently, I am the first person to complain. *face palm
Hold up, are there actually people who think the A stands for Allies? What in the ever-loving fuck is that about? Have these people not heard of asexuality? How can you be an ally and not know about asexuals? Are there no limits on stupid???
That moment when you discover a new, better term to describe yourself and it fits perfectly and you’re super psyched and then it occurs to you that no one outside of tumblr will know what it is.
That moment after you’ve used a body scrub and put on fancy lotion and all you want to do is sit around and feel your skin.
There should be a show for aromantic asexuals. I picture something like Dawson’s Creek, except with slightly older characters and no romance or anything. So basically just a bunch of people having super serious conversations and maybe sometimes having sex because it feels good.