PRIDE MONTH

Demisexual: Why I Didn’t Know My Sexual Orientation Until My 40s

Life in the gray

It happened to me countless times in my 20s. We’d be at a bar and one of my girlfriends would whisper “Oh my God, he’s hot!” I’d look over and see someone conventionally attractive. No question, a good-looking guy.

But I’d feel nothing.

All my life I’ve had crushes on guys and felt romantic attraction, so I assumed I was a garden-variety heterosexual.

But I was also a little different. Unlike my friends, I didn’t have that immediate physical attraction to people. That “Who’s that!?” sense of potential and need. I’d watch my friends spot a guy and immediately stand straighter, eyes wide, smile wider, trying to get his attention. I had no idea what they were thinking.

I’d assume my friend just felt a need for attention and validation. Surely you can’t develop an attraction that quickly?

And then there’s flirting. So many people love it, but I didn’t get it. A guy would try to engage me in witty banter and more often than not I’d wind up getting annoyed. It was all so awkward and often felt way too intimate, too quickly.

I’d chalk these things up to the fact that I’m an introvert and the sensitive type. Overt sexuality wasn’t my way of relating to someone. I like quiet conversations where you find moments of connection. Shy, easy smiles. A casual hand on the back as a goodbye.

I assumed I just wasn’t into the bar scene.

But even in more casual settings, I rarely if ever felt physically attracted to someone I just met. Friends would notice a guy liked me and try to push us together. No matter who he was, I immediately felt repelled by the idea. I’d make the least effort possible before I was able to make some sort of credible escape.

People could never understand this, and frankly, I wondered about it, too. If someone was interested in me, why did it immediately give me the ick? Anyone showing too much interest too fast would have me running.

All my romantic relationships have been with people I saw regularly and got a chance to get to know in an unhurried, unpressured way. One day I’d realize I liked his sense of humor. Another time I’d appreciate how he was calm under pressure. A week later I’d notice how cute his smile was. Slowly, the tingle of excitement would start.

Since that’s how it works in most romantic comedies, I assumed this was everyone’s normal. You get to know someone, then when you’re falling in love you become attracted to them.

People who did it the opposite way — i.e. slept with someone and then eventually developed feelings for them — mystified me. I’m not a prude and I don’t care who sleeps with who, but I couldn’t figure out why you would even want to sleep with someone unless you had feelings for them.

The whole idea was off-putting.

It’s a lot easier to enjoy slowly getting to know someone when you’re younger and you see the same people all the time at school or work. But when you graduate and work freelance, there isn’t an endless pool of men available to slowly fall for. There’s my concierge, but I think he’s married.

That’s when online dating came into the picture.

I’d been in relationships, but never really dated. By the time I got together with someone, we were just so comfortable there was no need to go on a date. We were already hanging out, so why not just Netflix and chill?

Attempting to date was the thing that made it clear to me that I was different from a lot of people. I couldn’t understand how people would know they were smitten with someone after a few dinners. I was also uncomfortable with the social convention of sleeping together after the third date.

And that was before this era of Tinder hookups.

I’d come home from every date and tell my friends “he’s really nice. I wish he was my co-worker.” Meaning, I felt comfortable with him, thought he was interesting and would want to spend more time together in a low-pressure setting with no expectations.

They, like me, assumed I was just picky. That I hadn’t met “the one.”

I knew what it looked like to meet “the one.” I remember my mother meeting my stepfather for the first time. She breezed in after a marathon dinner date, her face the picture of joy, and declared “I’m in love!”

My best friend in university returned from her first date with her now-husband so smitten she was already planning how many kids they’d have.

I know it doesn’t happen that way for everyone. But most people can recount some story of when Cupid swooped in and bam! They only had eyes for that person.

I’ve never had that experience. Nothing even remotely close.

There were times when it felt really lonely. My friends would talk about feeling rejected or not chosen. That was never my problem. There were guys who wanted to date me, so why didn’t I want them?

It got so bad I wondered if I was asexual. But no, I’ve had crushes and boyfriends, all of whom I was emotionally and physically attracted to.

So what was wrong, exactly?

What is demisexuality?

I was in my mid-40s when I first heard the term demisexual. I can’t remember how, but I know it involved the Internet.

Demisexuality is when someone can only feel sexual attraction once they’ve developed an emotional connection with that person.

It doesn’t mean I’m attracted to everyone I have an emotional connection with, but that a connection is required for an attraction to develop. It’s the baseline.

Note that I didn’t say “can’t develop feelings” until they’ve developed an emotional connection. That’s the case for many people. No, people who are demisexual can’t feel physically attracted to a person until they know them on a deeper human level.

Hearing about demisexuality for the first time, I had the proverbial lightbulb moment. It was like getting the answer to a puzzle I didn’t even know I was trying to solve. Suddenly, there was a solution to why I am the way I am.

I was so excited, reading voraciously, devouring other people’s experiences, many of which were similar to my own.

In many ways, I’m glad I reached adulthood before the Internet became such a pervasive force. But there are exceptions. I really wish I’d known about demisexuality earlier. I wouldn’t have tried to force myself to fit this mold of someone who can meet guys at bars or via dating apps.

I wouldn’t have wondered why I couldn’t do what others seem to do so naturally.

Suddenly so much made sense. The way I got into relationships, how I found flirting with strangers unappealing, how I disliked set-ups, and why I had so many workplace crushes. All the times I’ve said on dating profiles “I like to get to know someone slowly.” How I never had a “meet cute.”

It’s weird to find out something so fundamental about yourself in your 40s. It didn’t really reframe my sense of self, but it legitimized it.

I’m not just picky. I’m not just weird. There’s a word for that.

What now?

So now that I know, what’s changed? I’ve released the pressure on myself. I don’t force myself onto apps anymore, or feel badly that I have a hard time making a romantic connection with a stranger. I’m putting my life together in a way that makes me feel fulfilled, just as I am.

By the time I realized who I was, I’d gotten to the point where I really like my life the way it is. I’m always open to love in all its forms, including romantic love. But then, I already have a lot of love in my life. I’m happy.

I accepted a long time ago that romantic comedies sold me and many others a faulty dream. Real love is like real life, complicated. Everyone has their own stuff to navigate. At least now I know what my stuff actually is.

Am I part of the LGBTQIA community?

I published this in June to coincide with Pride Month. Demisexuality falls under the umbrella of asexual, which both makes sense and seems strange since I’m not asexual. I get it, but also not.

Technically, I’m a member of the LGBTQIA community, but I still identify as an ally. It doesn’t feel right to claim membership. A demisexual person doesn’t have the same experiences as any other group under the rainbow flag. We don’t need to “come out” if we don’t choose to. We don’t face rejection, oppression, persecution, or even violence in some cases.

I have felt a bit nonconforming and othered for my romantic habits throughout my life, but it doesn’t seem like I’ve truly earned any reason to show my Pride, so to speak.

So why address it in Pride Month? Quite simply, because representation matters. No one really knows how many demisexual people exist out there, and there are probably many who, like me, just think of themselves as a bit unusual in the love department. They may also feel isolated and misunderstood. I’ve been there.

Someone reading this may just have their own lightbulb moment, and it would make me happy to give it to them.

Happy Pride, everyone.

Here’s a piece I wrote about sex and romance in the digital age as a demisexual.