date: 2020-01-15 weight: 8
So if sex makes you feel anxious and confused, how does being asexual — or, as you say, autochorissexual — make you feel?
Other than uncomfortable and itchy? I think that’s how I described it earlier.
Yes.
I guess it makes me feel anxious and confused, just in different ways. It’s comfortable enough for JD and I to not have a a sexual relationship. He’s still a gay guy, for the most part, so for me to have transitioned to the extent that I have means that we don’t really click on a sexual level anymore.
He’s not my only partner, though. Robin is still sexual. Barac is still sexual. Colton is still sexual. I have all these sexual people in my life, and they’re all people I’m attracted to and with whom I’ve shared sexuality in one way or another, but with whom I mostly feel disinclined to have sex with for any number of reasons.
You enjoyed it.
I did, that hasn’t changed from what I mentioned before. Sex can feel good, physically. It feels better now after surgery than it did before, too. Sometimes, I think, “Aha, this must have solved it. Now I’m able to do what I never was before.” And then, when confronted with the reality, everything is still problematic.
It’s just that, having had surgery has only removed one aspect of the anxious and confused grossness that goes along with the act. It only removed the dysphoria (and of course the complications of phimosis). It didn’t fix my other hangups.
What are the other hangups?
The discomfort.
The mess.
The guilt.
The imperfection.
Imperfection?
The sense that were we doing something else, we might both be happier.
The sense that, no matter how smoothly I might move, I must surely be doing a bad job, I must be falling short in some way.
The sense that, no matter how many times I ask the other person whether something feels good or is allowed, I must be somehow betraying their consent by gaining pleasure from this act.