Page 49 of Every Step She Takes
Then she tilts the camera so I can see one of the pictures. It’s both me and not me, with a half smile and a patchy sunburn and a dorky hat shoved over my short hair. I don’t look like I’m posing. I’m just…being.
It’s like I’m looking at myself through Vera’s eyes, and she somehow sees me more accurately than I do.
“You’re an amazing photographer,” I tell her. I take in the whole image of Vera: her big glasses with their beaded chain; her Velma haircut; her moisture-wicking hiking turtleneck. She looks like a slutty librarian Halloween costume. Or like Rachael Leigh Cook inShe’s All That. Like she’s waiting for someone to rip off her glasses and prove she was hot all along. Except Vera seems perfectly happy without Freddie Prinze Jr. and the popular girl makeover. How does anyone feel that comfortable being totally and completely themselves?
“Thank you.” She repositions her Canon and takes a few more photos of the sheep.
“Can I ask you something kind of embarrassing…?” I start as Vera angles her body back toward the path. “What does aroace mean?”
She swivels toward me with a look of alarm on her face. “Oh.”
“Sorry. Is that a stupid question?”
“No! Not at all. I just didn’t expect it.” We fall into step with each other as Vera considers her answer. “Aroace stands for aromantic and asexual, which means I don’t experience romantic or sexual attraction.”
“So, you don’t date or… have sex?” I hear how the question sounds as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “Wait. Sorry. That was really invasive. Don’t answer that.”
“Thatwasan invasive”—she laughs at me—“but I actually don’t mind answering it.” She pauses again, this time to take a photo of a hawk drifting across the placid blue sky. “There are aromantic people who date, and there are asexual people who have sex, but no, I don’t do either of those things. I don’t feel any need to do those things.”
Her words feel like a splash of cold water trickling down from the crown of my head. I’ve always hated dating, always run away from the possibility of sexual intimacy, never even felt the desire to have sex with anyone.
There was this time, senior year of college, when I decided I wanted to have sex, just to get it over with already. His name was Josh C., only ever Josh C., because we already had a Josh in our marketing seminar study group. One day, I misguidedly feigned interest in his lengthy tirade about Zack Snyder’sWatchmenadaptation, and he invited me over to watch the director’s cut with him.
Just the two of us. He made that part very clear.
Everyone else in the study group agreed. This was obviously code for sex.
I absolutely did not care aboutWatchmen, but I figured Josh C. was my chance to lose my virginity. So, I waxed everything, bought a new bra, wore a low-cut shirt and did some light googling. I went to Josh C.’s dingy apartment off the Ave and braced myself to have sex.
And… he genuinely just wanted to watch the director’s cut ofWatchmen.
The closest we got to anything physical was when I said I was cold, and Josh C. put a blanket over both our legs.
Afterward, when I debriefed the night with the girls in my study group, I couldn’t make sense of what I’d done wrong. Why didn’t that horny twenty-two-year-old want to touch me? I blamed myself, assumed there was something wrong with me.
Only now am I starting to wonder if Josh C. didn’t touch me that night because he could tell I didn’t want him to.
Men have kissed me goodnight, and I’ve had my fair share of unwanted, drunk tongue on a bad first date. The occasional boob-honk or ass grab. But no one has ever kissed me like they wantme, no one has ever touched me with passion or longing or a burning need. But I’ve never had a burning need to touch someone else, either.
“Can I ask you another question?” I turn back to Vera. “How did you figure out you’re aromantic and not just someone who hates dating?”
“Well, I’ve never dated at all, so I don’t actually know if I hate it or not.” She shrugs as we stop again. I’m not even sure what she’s taking a photo of this time. “But I don’t need to date to know I’m not romantically attracted to people. It’s never appealed to me. I could never understand why my friends wanted to hold hands with boys or why our friendship wasn’t enough for them. I can’t imagine needing any of that.”
I think about all the times I’ve told Vi and my mom that I don’t mind being single, that I’m okay focusing on work, that I don’t want a relationship. I’ve said it so many times, I’ve convinced myself it’s true. But is it?
“And, um… the asexuality thing?” I mumble. “How did you, uh… how did you know that?”
“It can be tricky, because people often confuse asexuality with a lack of libido or sex drive, but I have a sex drive. It’s just not directed at anyone.” Vera stares at me through her camera. “Are you questioning if you might be asexual?” She asks it so plainly, so devoid of judgment. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m talking to a black lens, but I find it easy to speak plainly too.
“Sort of, yeah, actually.”
Vera takes another photo of me, but she doesn’t speak. Her silence is like a door that’s been left ajar. I step through it.
“I feel like I’m too old to be questioning, like I should have the answers already.”
“Why?” she asks, still behind her camera. “Are you going to be tested on it later?”
I sigh. “No, it’s just… I’ve only ever dated men, and I’ve never been attracted to any of them,” I confess to her camera lens. It click, click, clicks. “So I could be asexual, but I could also be…”
