Demisexuality - The Real Life Demisexual

Demisexuality is an ironic orientation, at best. You’ve been blessed with a perfectly healthy libido, but you're rarely going to find anyone, of either sex, attractive. Then, when you do eventually start to find yourself drawn towards that rare person, you’ll be so deep in the friendzone, you won’t stand a chance. It's the sexual orientation of loneliness. 

Demisexuals, like asexuals, feel no physical attraction towards members of their preferred sex. Instead, they grow attracted to as they get to know a person and develop a bond. Because a demisexual is inclined to reject premature sexual advances from a potential mate, the chances of them ever forming a bond with someone who also finds them attractive are greatly diminished. In short, it sucks.

Whilst psychologists and academics bicker amongst themselves trying to work out if demisexuality is real, I’ll tell you about my personal experience of living with it. It’s real enough for me to blog about, anyway, so take that as you will.

*  * *

I was a normal young teenager on the surface, as hormone-driven as the rest. I chased the same boys my classmates did, with varying degrees of triumph and heartache. 

It was only in retrospect I realised I wasn’t chasing them because I found them attractive. I was chasing them because my friends found them attractive, and therefore I believed that they must be attractive somehow.  It was this same flawed logic that led me to follow musicians around the country when I turned 14. When so many thousands of other girls found these men attractive, then surely they had to be attractive.  These formative experiences set my path in life, and I remain deeply entrenched in the music industry some 20 years later… all because I was running around after men I had zero sexual interest in.

It finally clicked when I was 21.  I’d been in a relationship for three years by that point, and it struck me that I’d never once been physically attracted to a guy.  I was going through the motions, with a man I didn’t even like so much, just for the sake of appearing normal.

The sexual crisis began. Was I gay? I didn’t think so – the thought of sleeping with a girl turned my stomach at the time.  The closest definition I could find was ‘asexual’, but that didn’t quite fit either, because there had been some degree of attraction in my life with certain men along the way. I settled on the definition ‘low sexual intensity’.   Where the average person would maybe find one person in ten in some way sexually attractive, I was lucky if I met one person a year I felt even a hint of attraction towards.   

My sex drive was just fine.  Instead of deriving pleasure from the partner I was with, I’d derive pleasure from the act and sensation of sex itself, or the psychological aspects of intimacy.  I could even get pleasure out of pornography by focusing on the act instead of the actors.  When I realised I could get sexual pleasure out of sleeping with just about anyone, I went ahead and did that.  Then, when the novelty and freedom of promiscuity wore off, I had another relationship with someone I wasn’t even slightly attracted to, just because he was attracted to me, and the sex was good, and we got on well enough to have a relationship. That one lasted 8 years.

It’s only over the last 5 years I’ve fully identified as demisexual, and even then, I feel like I’m cheating the label a bit. A pure demisexual will feel no physical attraction at all towards their preferred sex, and in my defence, I didn’t for 30 years. As I’ve grown older, there have been odd occasions where I’ll find someone I don’t know attractive, and it is getting more frequent with age. Once or twice a year now, I may recognise a certain spark of passion or uniqueness in a man, something non-conventional that draws me in. It soon fades and dies unless the emotional bond is formed, but I can no longer say that ‘it’s never happened’.   

Is there hope for the future?  I’ve been trying out a few strategies lately.  I joined a dating website, spent hour upon hour swiping left until the faces I’d already seen came around again.  Out of 74K potential mates in my local area, there were 5 I thought I may be able to grow to find attractive if I got to know them better.  Out of the 5, there were 2 who were attracted to me. We’re undergoing negotiations – I believe some people call that dating.

I’ve also started reaching out to people who I find interesting for whatever reason.  Getting out more, and fielding the comments of the random guys who express an interest.

I’ve memorised this line and I use it:  

“It takes me a long time to grow attracted to someone.  I’m not playing games, I have no idea if this will work, but let’s go out for a drink sometime, anyway.”

I’m going out for a drink, sometimes, anyway, and that’s better than I’ve done for a very long time. 

18 Months of Being A Victim - The Killers in Liverpool

Last night is up there: up there with the best gigs I’ve seen in my life. Brandon ain’t the type of guy who says "You’re the best audience ever" to every audience, in fact I’d never heard him say anything of the sort before.  When he does say it, he says it with caution, like he doesn’t really want to commit to it, for fear of offending previous audiences, or setting the bar too high for future audiences to live up to. He had a point, though: nearly every member of that crowd sang every word to every song – along with singing the keyboard parts and the guitar parts – and they started before The Killers even hit the stage (see the video below). Everyone danced until they were soaked through with sweat (it reached 33° inside according to my phone – not as if I was checking it regularly), and even the cynical hard-core Victims were muttering praise as they skulked their way out of the Academy.

I’m almost ashamed to admit that I’m one of the audience who didn’t sing every word, because there are still so many songs by The Killers that I’m not familiar with. I didn’t come late to the party, exactly: I was one of the early adopters. I was also one of the early abandoners. I thought (and still think) ‘Smile Like You Mean It’ was a terrible song - and I’d lost interest before getting round to buying the first album. And so it transpired, I didn’t go to my first gig by The Killers until 2013, after a chance meeting with their road manager secured me guest-list for three of the Scandinavian shows. In the last 18 months, I suppose I’ve seen them 20 times.  Considering it had been just over a year (to the week) since I last saw them, I crammed an awful lot into 6 months last year.

I had planned to see The Killers once before that. It was around the time of Sam’s Town – they were playing a gig at my second home - The Borgata in Atlantic City. I’d unceremoniously missed 95% of the set because I’d made the money in a poker tournament; however, I’d stood up by the merch stand and watched the encore through the doors of the venue. I wasn’t impressed with what I saw – there was no energy and the vocals sounded awful. I felt relieved I’d made the choice to carry on playing cards, and predicted that their career would fizzle out along the way. Maybe I’d catch them playing their (then) limited handful of Greatest Hits in a club in a few years’ time?  I was almost right: 8 years later, here they are - playing their Greatest Hits in a club – but it’s a warm-up gig before they go on to headline one of England’s biggest festivals.

That night at The Borgata was also the first night I’d met Brandon. I’d found him charming, although he came across as very shy and a little nervous.  The way he’s grown with the band is one of the things that hooked me in: he has this quiet confidence about him now, and he’s the most humble “rock star” I’ve ever had the privilege to talk with. I don’t ever hang around to say hello, and I’ve never had any long meaningful conversation with him, but he clocks me every single time, and he always seems inexplicably thrilled to see me there. Seeing him light up when he spots me in the crowd is one of the things that makes going to see The Killers such a kick for me.

Thanks to YouTube, not only can I reaffirm this actually happened, and was only slightly-exaggerated in my imagination, I can relive the moment from each gig over and over again, and get teenage-excited about it. Last night it was during Spaceman – the second song of the set. He’s singing “I might have just flown too far from the floor this time” – he spots me as he sings the word ‘flown’ and appears to get crazy happy as he sings the next few lines to me.

I also finally made him laugh in the middle of a song last night. He didn’t crack up and lose his place, like I managed with so many others, but I got close. He’s getting the audience involved in “Here On Out” – and he catches my eye on the fourth round. I put my hand to my ear and mouth “What?” at him, and he giggles, everso slightly, you wouldn't even hear it unless you were listening for it, as he’s singing “Here on”. As indiscernable as it is, it’s still enough to make my entire month complete. (start at 2m9s)

You’d be forgiven for thinking The Killers was a Brandon thing for me. It’s not at all – Ronnie’s the man, in my eyes, and Mark & Dave are two of the best songwriters out there. The Killers is a “The Killers” thing for me: it’s an adventure that has, unlike so many other adventures of the same nature, bought me nothing but overwhelming happiness. And it may be the end of the road for these guys for a while now, but I’ll be eternally thankful to them for dragging me out of the deepest rut of my life, and reminding me what it's like to feel a part of something that's bigger than yourself. The opening theme couldn't have been any more fitting: All you need is love.

Under Contract

I decided to take on a contract this week. Most of all, as a way to get myself out of the house every week day. When I'm not working, I can happily stay inside for months on end, fiddling around on 'projects' and ''creative stuff' - surfacing only when I run out of Duty Free cigarettes, and need to fly to the US or Norway to pick up some more.

I often forget how to converse with to people during these long periods of self-exclusion. I have to look after Mom on a daily basis, but that's just functional talk: "Have you eaten?", "Have you taken your pills?", "Are you ready for bed now?".  Occaisonally I'll venture to: "What's this programme on TV you're watching?" or "What are you reading?", but it never leads to a long conversation.  

I needed to practise being around people again. Realising it had been three years since I had anything even resembling a 'routine', and that the only given in my life was that I always seemed to be awake at 7pm, I decided to venture back into the world of contracting. 

Contracting has always worked well for me.  I simply don't have the staying power to stick at one job for more than a few months without getting bored, so knowng that I'll be able to leave at the end of a fixed period is ideal. Because of the risk and uncertainties involved, contracting pays about three times as much as a regular job, which is also a bonus - the way I see it, it means I can work for a year, then take two years off as holiday - and that's pretty cool.   

It's also extremely high pressure: this particular contract is with a Government organisation, so I'd planned to come off all social media for six months to focus on the work - I created the SixMonthsofSolitary hashtag, and told those who needed to know I was going off the grid.

It didn't quite work out like that, though. The first responsibility I'm given is to monitor Twitter activity.  Like I didn't spend 18 hours a day doing that anyway. Then, I realised the office hours weren't so bad, either. With an hour for lunch, and the gym next door,  it feels like I'm barely working at all.  

I'm just having to get up early to leave the house, and occaisonally I have to talk to people. I'm actually quite enjoying it. And, by December, it'll all be over, and I'll be many thousands of pounds richer. You can't get better than that.

The Issue of Insecurity

Other people’s insecure partners are the bane of my life.  I’ve never understood the issue.  When there isn’t a guy on the planet I want to sleep with right now, you can pretty much rest assured that I don’t wanna sleep with your boyfriend or husband.   Even if he wants to sleep with me, which I very much doubt, it isn’t happening.

Still, there’s this whole bunch of other women who are scared of me, which annoys the crap out of me, because, what the hell is there to be scared about? I’m a forty year old who lives with her mother, for fuck’s sake.  Sure, I can be smart and funny sometimes, I have this weird cosmic child-of-the-universe thing going on that some guys find attractive (and, okay, it is my house that we’re living in)… but that’s the sum of it. I’m a moody, unpredictable, narcissistic bitch, and you’re probably not. There’s nothing to see here.

I like men; I like the friendships I have with men, I like the dynamics, the rapport and the different flavour of playfulness they offer. Yet, I just found out there’s someone else who’s been banned from talking to me because of the Lil Miss Insecurity hanging on his arm.  I’m so fucking angry and upset about it, but what can I do?  I’m not talking a once or twice thing here, this has gotta be the twentieth time or more it’s happened, and it sucks; it fucking sucks, and I’m the one who ends up getting hurt and losing a friend every single time. 

I have so much respect for Anna, and this is yet another reason I think so highly of her.  No matter how weird things got between me & John, (and boy, did they ever get weird), she somehow knew that neither of us would act on it.  They got together so young, he was 24, she was 21, I really didn’t expect it to last. She seemed the opposite online: her profile picture on Facebook always had John in it, and the majority of her statuses started with ‘we’ rather than ‘I’. She was an infatuated kid in my eyes, and I was sure I had this one in the bag. but I needed to know for certain

I insisted and insisted that John introduced me to her, until, eventually and reluctantly, he did. And she was so beautiful, and charming, and intelligent, and so goddamned perfect in every way, I wanted to smash his nose into his stupid face for ever starting our strange flirtation (hey John; hope you’re taking notes here).  I only met Anna once, but I simply cannot imagine either of them with anyone else, ever again.  Even if he got so wasted he persuaded reception to give him a key, and I found him naked in my hotel room bed, it wouldn’t happen…  (hey John; hope you’re not having any flashbacks here). 

The two of them were meant to be, and no matter how tempted I may have been at times, there was no fucking way on this planet I could ever consider messing that up. They've been married for 5 years now, and even though things still get awkward between me & John sometimes. I've no doubt whatsoever that they'll happily celebrate their 50th anniversary without either one of them having strayed.

Not everyone is like Anna though, and I’m left in the suckiest situation I can be in. Seems like the only thing I can do is wait for the relationship to end. If you’re dictating who your other half can and can’t talk to, at least that’s the one thing I can hold onto with some degree of certainty: your relationship is gonna end. And, when it does, I’m gonna be there, laughing - ready to welcome him back into my world.

…I did mention I was a bitch, didn’t I?
Try a little trust.

The Most Important Man In My Life

That was the main reason my long-term relationship broke up. I'd fallen in love with someone else. Love at first sight, I didn't even think that existed: I'd asked him to marry me and let me carry his children within 10 minutes of our meeting. It didn't matter that I'd been living with someone else for five years. It didn't matter that I didn't know his surname at that point, or his age, or what he did for a living. I just knew that I loved him more deeply than anyone I'd ever loved before.

He, however, had a girlfriend he was relatively faithful to, and my feelings weren't reciprocated - in fact, to this day, he probably thinks that I was just drunk (I wasn't) - so nothing happened that night. Except for me laying the groundwork, nothing happened for another two years.

Three years later, carrying his child, whilst still in the same stagnant relationship, I realised the guy I'd fallen in love with was far from the ideal man. He'd decided the best way to handle my pregnancy was to ignore me. Ironically, it was my partner who talked him round, and bought him back into my life. And how… to this day, neither he nor my then-partner will tell me what was said, but he came back into my life loving me as much as I loved him. I didn't even feel the pain of leaving my eight year relationship behind, and to be fair, neither did my partner. I'd found true love, and I was happy like you couldn't imagine.

The cracks began to form so quickly. He was young and lost in the world, trying to make his way. I remained pretty sure of my place, established and confident. He was a realist; pragmatic and practical. I was a dreamer; spontaneous, impulsive, with my heart clearly worn on my sleeve. He was the most talented composer I'd ever known, but he had no love for music... could there have been a clearer sign than that?

For five months none of this mattered. Then, when I lost the baby: everything mattered. I'd already lost my brother, and my father had died just a week before. Suddenly, he'd become The Most Important Man In My Life.  When he failed to live up to my expectations of that role, I made him jump through hoops to prove that he loved me, even though I always knew he did. I chipped away and chipped away at him until what was once the purest love turned into a chaotic dark energy. It was destroying both of us.

He made the break. I spent the best part of a year in physical pain and psychological torment, blaming myself for what had happened. Recovery was slow, and it was only through blocking him from every aspect of my life I managed to heal. Then, just a few months ago, I decided I was healed enough, and I let him back in, as a friend.

Every single thing I posted on Facebook, he 'liked'. When I left Facebook, the emails started up again. Eventually, I started writing back. It felt comfortable - comforting, even. There was calmness between us that had never existed before. Every word was like a reassuring hand on a tired shoulder; friendly and encouraging, with nothing hidden between the lines.

I had no intention of meeting up with him when I was in Stockholm last week, but in the end, we drifted together.  Without even realising it, we recreated our first date - we ate in the same restaurant, we went to the same bar, then we sat outside the library, smoking cigarettes and talking until the sun reminded us it was time to part. 

I wasn't in love with him anymore, and he wasn't in love with me anymore, but I love him more deeply than anyone I've ever loved before. And although we'll never be together in any other sense again, he is The Most Important Man In My Life. There isn’t a thing he needs to do to prove himself. I know he feels exactly the same way.

Performance Anxiety

I've never been able to sing in front of an audience.

That's a bit of a hindrance when you're the lead singer of a band, as you may imagine. When we started out, I'd have to down an entire bottle of vodka before I could get on stage. Some people loved that - the drunk teen forgetting the words to her own songs, falling over, and making no effort to hold a tune. For them, it was all part of 'the experience'. I hated it, and then I got all butthurt when people dared to hint that my performances were shambolic.

Even at that age, I was fully aware that I wasn't drinking for fun. If I was drinking for fun, it'd be 5 bottles of Diamond White. I was drinking to forget myself, forget the situation, forget I was about to be under the scrutiny of people I didn't actually know. In the end, and thankfully for my liver, I just stopped doing it. I didn't have the 'mettle' or whatever it is that it takes. Instead, I devoted myself to learning about this new thing called the internet, and if I wanted to put a song out - from 1994 onwards - I just did it online. 

The strange thing is I sing all the fucking time. I'm on the introvert side, but I'm not THAT introverted. I do sing in front of people. I sing on the train, in the shops, walking down the street... It's only when I'm aware that their focus is on my singing, as opposed to anything else, that I start to freak out. It isn't conventional stage fright: I've never understood what my problem is. 

People always come back with: "What about in the studio?" - honest answer being, I've never set foot in a studio. I'd lay down the basic structure of the song, the lads would go in and record their parts, then I'd do the rest at home. I recorded my vocals for the last 15 tracks on my iPhone. Prior to that, I used a digital video recorder. Prior to that, I used a cassette tape and a microphone. We probably ended up calling it "lo-fi" simply because I couldn't work with other people.

That was the whole reason I forced myself to do the TV show before my 40th birthday. I felt this anxiety was something that had profoundly changed the course of my life, and I was determined to overcome it. I'd always said to my friends that I'd do it before I turned 40, never believing the show would last 10 years; and when 10 years rolled around they held me to it. 

I sent in a video online. That was all I was gonna do, there wasn't a chance in hell you'd catch me queuing up for a 'shot at fame'. I worked with some really famous people when I was in my 20s - I saw the pressure they were under from all sides, and I saw who'd they'd become because of that. It was the last thing I wanted...even with our extremely small fanbase, I'd had 'problem fans', and I'm not that great with people anyway. I couldn't imagine how I'd handle that being amplified by 'X' amount.  The video was sent to show willing, nothing more.

What came next, I didn't expect: they loved the video, and I was put through to producers round, which meant there was no queuing or any of that malarkey. The next step had begun. I refused to mention to the producers that this was the very first time I'd sung in front of someone since I was 21 - I had no intention of becoming "storyline auditionee". - I took a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and I sang.

Of course, I need to point out here, I'm not a good singer, anyway - when you're recording with unlimited time and unlimited takes, you're going to get a decent result eventually. But regardless of how mediocre I sounded, they liked me. They liked my personality. They put me through to the celebrity panel.

I began to warm to the whole idea. Not because I'd finally found my courage, oh no. Because, I remembered that - somewhere in the archives - I had a song I'd written about one of the judges. He'd said back in season 2 or 3 that no one had ever written a song about him, so I'd written him one that night. Fully intended on recording it and sending it to him, but another song came along, the way they always do, and it never happened. This was my chance to breathe some life into a long dead project.

On the counter side, I still had to sing. They'd booked me in for three recordings on the sister show, so it was almost given that whatever I sang would appear on television. The idea of 10 million people potentially seeing me perform gave me more than one restless night, and I ended up chickening out in a way. I developed a little plot in my head where I'd get to do the audition in front of an audience, but it would never screen.

I ended up playing on their music runner's slight inefficiency. I had an inkling something was amiss when he'd double-checked that 'the words and melody were my own'. I told him they were, and mentioned in passing it was a registered work. (which, of course, it wasn't until 3 minutes later). I knew I was dry and clear when he never responded to that. Then, when I dropped him the cue sheet information after the audition, he actually asked me - God's honest truth - "What's a cue sheet?". Yet he'd worked on Britain's biggest music show for 5 years....

Turns out , in all the years they've been going, I'm the only artist they've ever had audition with a song of their own that was already registered with a performing rights society. They couldn't get publisher clearance in time (ahem) and the audition never screened. Still, I did what I'd set out to do. I'd auditioned, in front of an audience & played one of the judges his very own song.

I thought I'd got away with it. Then, about three weeks ago, they called and asked if I'd come back this year. I said no initially, but then I thought up a new plan, and I said 'yes'. Sometimes, to destroy the machine, you have to act like a cog.

This year's strategy is to sing songs that are well known in other countries, but not in the UK: my lead song is Paris (Ooh La La) by Grace Potter and The Nocturnals - I almost threw it out as a choice, until I saw the incredible Brian Fuente give it his all on The Voice USA, and I was sold. Quite incredibly, 9 out of 10 takes, I can totally rock it. My other songs are similarly unknown in the UK. I believe I know the show, and I know there is no way in hell they'd risk screening an unknown song to a primetime audience.

I'm still as anxious as I ever was. I haven't sung in front of people again since last year. I've lost a lot of sleep, I seem to live on Twtter, and I'm having the craziest dreams of my life. Still, I'm finally facing up to the judgement of Simon Cowell. And even though I know I'm not up to standard, I don't really care anymore. It's the taking part that counts.

Reclaiming Health

When you're under a lot of stress, you let certain things go.

I've put on 30 pounds since the miscarriage. It's not like my diet changed; I didn't start comfort eating, or anything. I just didn't do anything. I've had other horrible physical symptoms too, which I won't go into here. Basically, I'm in a mess, and that needs to be sorted out.

When I say "I'm in a mess" - compared to other people, I'm having an easy ride. I've never once - not in my life - felt compelled to post a Facebook status outlining my ailments; I figure you have to be in an awful lot of pain or distress to do that.  Just, personally, I don't like not being at my best. Just because I'm 40 now doesn't mean I should sit back and accept the failings of my body.

First stop was the doctor. She's long suspected that I'm diabetic, and that my symptoms were actually a sign of diabetes. However, my biggest phobia in the world is needles, so the blood test took me 6 months longer to get done that it should have.  Guess what? Not even close. No deficiencies, no diseases, I have perfect blood - as if the mosquitoes hadn't told me that already.

With that out the way, I drew the conclusion that my current physical state is mostly down to my own laziness and apathy. Therefore I'm the one who has to sort it out. I'm lucky that I can "carry weight well": I don't look like I'm on the verge of obesity, but I am. Diet won't help me, it never does: the next step on this road to recovery is to get myself into a decent training routine. If I can knock off just 1 pound a week, I'll be back in shape by the first week of 2015.  The plan is to start off at home, and move it back to the gym at the start of July.

There's a few self-dictated rules I have that will help. I never really drink alcohol in the summertime. I get dehydrated very easily, and even a couple of drinks can bring on a headache, so I don't really bother. My rule used to be that I'd allow myself to drink if I was out of the country - but I ended up out of the country so often, it didn't make much sense. The new rule is I'll allow myself to have a couple of drinks when I'm outside of Europe. Sure, I'll have a glass of wine if I'm out to dinner abroad, I'm not that strict with myself, it's just a nice little bit of self-discipline.

I'm still smoking. I had intended to quit that before turning 40, but I haven't. I bought myself a new style electronic cigarette, but I lost it the day after I bought it. I think that's my biggest demon: if I can even get it down to one pack a day, it'll be progress.

One thing I have going in my favour is that I've discovered I can cook. Right up until my late 30s, I had no inclination towards it. Now, I have a fully stocked freezer with healthy meals that I've prepared myself, and they taste - dare I say it - amazing.

I'm not going to become a fitness bore: there'll be no posts from me about the ups and downs of this particular battle, I won't be checking in online every single time I go to the gym, or every time I hit a milestone.  I'm just going to get my head down and get to it. Sometimes it's the only way to win.