Wavelength (in progress)

Attraction is a rare and precious mineral—I assumed this was true for everyone. Only recently did I realize that when people start acting funny and lines blur, it might mean they want to have sex. Cool! But unless someone explicitly says, “Want to have sex?” I assume the weird vibes are just me being strange and off-putting. I also figured most people only want to have sex with about 1 in 1,000,000 people they meet—and then have a lot of sex with that one person or few people. Apparently, that’s just me.

Turns out, I know nothing.

It’s embarrassing to be this smart and still this inept. The ineptness makes me self-conscious, so I hold myself back. This is why I don’t initiate: I’m operating at a huge deficit. There’s too much risk. I am two years into recovering from relational risk, right at this moment.

Meanwhile, my strangeness makes me seem resistant to indirect pickup attempts—even when I want to be picked up. And since I can’t access subtext well enough to initiate directly, I assume people desire sex at a rate of 1 in 1,000,000 (like me) and will say so when they do. To be less of a problem, I’ had started being upfront when I’m interested in having sex. Oy. Mostly, it’s been another lesson in my own difference. I assumed everyone could have sex without attachment and took “no strings” problematically too far. Now I’m two years chaste. In this time, I learned that I am (probably?) demiromantic—meaning I can’t form a romantic attachment without an emotional connection. I love a situationship with a bit of security. Unfortunately, if I have sex before I form that attachment, I get what social media calls “the ick.” This is something I am actively working on.

So, there’s no rush. There can’t be. My processing delay is so severe that I’m only now, at 35, starting to understand sexual subtext. I finished high school at 16, looking like a doe. You can imagine how that went for me.

Enter: my wavelength.

For a first date, I know it’s a date. If not, you’ll feel a bit rejected. In any event, you come back for a second pass. Or you’re willing to take the risk of rejection. I’m slow, not stupid. That’s a humble way of saying: I might be worth the wait. And—sorry for making you wait. By the time I’ve made you feel rejected, I’m falling hard.

You’re confident, not intimidated by me at all. You don’t feed my ego. You’re better than me at many (most) things, so my total of two talents aren’t a source of tension. I like to watch you work. You make things that make me tilt my head and smile. I ask questions and learn a lot. More often than not, I am your student.

You’re direct about your desire, upfront about your intentions. You know I can’t access subtext, so you deal in directness because you know that’s the only way this will happen. You want it to happen. You work with my processing delay and maybe even find my ambivalence or obliviousness to sexual subtext a bit compelling or “cute.” You’re not trying to change me. I’m not a project. Not your manic pixie dream them.

We eat soup sitting cross-legged on the floor when we should be at work.

You have your old friends and let me have mine. We don’t have to share everything (except soup).

We make public spaces uncomfortable with sexual tension, so we spend most of our time in private. People wonder what we’re up to, but you respect my need for privacy. In public, you like that our private life puzzles other people. You might like being in public just fine. I am a retreat.

You respect my lists—or at least tolerate them.

You’re sneaky.

You don’t mind sneaking around a little. My kid goes to bed around 8. This is going to be different and clunky and scheduled for a minute.

You’d like me to take better care of myself. At minimum, you don’t get in the way of me taking better care of myself.

You’re not a drunk. You can handle your shit.

You’re not trying to be perfect at anything. We are against purity. You can have a drink, you know? I don’t mind. Do you.

You don’t put me on a pedestal or idealize me; in fact, you find me quite annoying and maybe a bit daft. Again, in my experience, my lovers categorize this as “cute” despite it being the source of a lot of social suffering for me. You lend an assist and let me struggle.

You don’t abuse my loyalty.

We get really good at tying knots together. We could get a laser boat or maybe a pony with a lot of attitude. You’re in charge, but I’ll play along.

Your hands feel new.