No parades or public
flare. If demisexuals had a flag maybe half gray,
half a bedazzled glittering fuchsia swirling in streaks of orange. The percentage of gray varies by person. Not oppressed; mainly incognito. The prefix confers partiality, a limitation,
a line or border, between asexuality and whole sexuality.
As an over 35 Generation
X’er, high school had no internet. Even
now most videos are nascent millennials contemplating petri dish dating and not
the rusted razor blade of post-divorce monthly-mortgage adult. The path to realize one is missing that
component of physical sexual attraction to navigate the universe of the rawest
human drive and why, how, and what fills that space is a perplexing entanglement
and a gorgeous unravel. The dormancy of
preadolescence and the advent of pubescence appear normal to the viewer. The need for a focal device to this slant of
sexual stigmatism is not apparent.
Demisexuality
implies one finds sexual attraction only through an emotional connection. A common redress is “Oh you have to get to
know people first. Oh that’s me
too.” Ah, not quite. This is not a choice; forming relationships, coquetry as a man is problematic.
Demisexuality means the trigger is not there. It is as
if god was handing out flints on admission to puberty-island and one was given a
bucket of wet sticks to fiddle around in the dark. There is an animalistic drive to fuck another
human body, spread legs, sphincter, mouth, or nontraditional erogenous zone
physiologically connected to a parameter of symmetry, connotations of health
and endowment to leapfrog optimum genetic half-sies. That drive is present, but locked in a
labyrinth behind an avenue of witnessing being-hood rather than body-hood.
There are elements
age, gender, to a degree the same derivations commonly denoting physical health
that attract most humans to one another present. One can recognize attractiveness but does not
feel attraction unless unlocked through a maze of emotional connection. Finding applicable
conversation on the subject, as demisexuals finding one another, has a white porcupine quality
to the affair as demisexuals are not seeking each other in some rodeo of lascivious
emotional fetishism, rather pleasant in happy logs and burrows.
One looks at a bar full
of women and sees a gray canvas of baubles holding expansive universes cradling
bigger internal worlds than any imaginable measurement device could
register. It is the overwhelming
bombardment of stimuli that neuters.
The massiveness of that commotion infers the human connection to
everything and creates a fog.
A man could view her as
attractive, but to be attracted there has to be this ineffable emotional
mathematical bridge that is unwieldly, unpredictable, and a
recipe for faulty decision making due to the ostensible illusions of the human
mind.
The reason, logic,
or maze-wanderings to trigger attraction typically takes a Red-Bull moto-X type
attention to detail of gear, angle of approach, and focus to leap such
handlebar salvos without the not-so optimum steel-dervish misfire and mangled
limbs careening into spectators. The
entire process is nothing but a series of blind hurdles with a vague idea of a
payday. The voided gray feeling thing
has this indefinite dormancy period that could be one hell of a non-sex
evening, a few dates, or a month or never.
There is a capricious fickle finger of god aspect to the reactionary
ordeal to lift the fog. This disparity
of mathematics brings a Batman-like belt of gadgets to circumvent self-sabotage to appear interested like a burrowing mole to titillate a firebug
of emotional connection before a time bomb terminates the folly.
It is sort of like
placing one’s hand into a never-before-entered darkened room logically knowing
where the light switch should be, but isn’t, while the party-goer you are
attempting to seduce is cat-like in twilight content to fuck your silhouette
body in the pitch. You need a glimpse
first, then the darkness. Otherwise
fornication feels like fondling an unfamiliar bus depot transient. A demisexual may like to talk to you, spend time, be
friends, but is not attracted nor wants you to play slop hockey with their naughty bits without a palpable emotional inch of moonlight. This is not confusion between sex and love;
this is a necessary sexual trampoline for the gymnast to perform the
vault. One can try launching through the
air summersaulting without one but a libido will likely lie down on the runway
and go read a book.
Covert demisexuality
has the side effects of the other person thinking you like them far more than
you actually do, because what you have to do to figure out if you could be
attracted to them is to try to get to know them on this intimate emotional
level that gathers the devils of appearing prematurely overt, preoccupied, or
the ick-fest of creepy. For hetero
demisexual women this is less of an issue, but for adult men the alternative of closeted austerity is an inferior alternative.
If you attempt to
date or fuck a demisexual please give her or him time. Demisexuals are generally turtles. Please do not treat demisexuals like some kind of
porn-house scavenger hunt challenge toying with our vulnerability as a bucket
list of carnal conquest like banging an albino kudu to your post-notches. A demisexual probably felt like a platypus alien-type
creature during sexual awakening and are good now without the gawking.
Demisexual emotions are
generally eidetic and once formed anchor in an oeuvre of expression. Thus when you break up with one please afford her or him a bit more elongated window compared to the non-demisexual former lover as the demisexual is not merely untethering from any actual element such as love or you as a
person, but this additional sexual addendum that bears a gravity commensurate
with the accreting investment it took her or him to form the emotional connection to
you. The demisexual is also breaking up with this
emotional forest seeded and navigated.
This may require you to a pour a delicate pitcher of empathy.
In the beginning it
is not that the demisexual does not like you as a person or that he or she is not potentially
attracted, it is that for the most part demisexuals are clueless. Demisexuals are a clueless lot of bastards who get
horny, masturbate, and think about sex within a spectrum. When primed they will fuck you from your
cerebellum licked down your fourchette to your commissure and uncage your soul
like a flashpoint and explode reverberating orgasms to echo into the unbound
universe. That is the upside.
For some emotional
connection is like a nuclear plant mutant power. Fucking Jean Gray, Professor X
shit. Some demisexuals border closer to
asexual, disinterested in sex; there is a spectrum. When demisexuals connect with you and this can be
independent of you actually connecting with them, demisexuals just have to believe it in their labyrinthine interpretation of sexual reality. At that point the demisexual has done so much god damn
work to get there she or he are going to repay themselves and/or you, however you may
perceive the currency exchange, in throttling your body with an armada-like
inundation of carnal bombardment.
A demisexual may be gentle, rough,
play with toys, or whisper poetry into your neither regions spelled out in
letters across your clit. All sorts of
amorous indulgences may be available, but to get there, to spark without the
flint, demisexuals are an enterprising band of prurient conquistadors searching for
emotional gold as the first step to try to figure out if they even want to plant their flag.
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