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aromanticismSo, here's how this whole discovering-I'm-aro thing has gone for me.
Five years ago:
My brother’s housemate has recently broken up with his girlfriend. We’re all at a house party, there’s a fair bit of alcohol going around, and Housemate and I have been getting pretty close on the sofa. I wander off to find another drink, and bump into my brother and his girlfriend.
“So,” Brother says, grinning. “What’s happening between you and Housemate?”
I’m tipsy enough that I can’t be arsed beating about the bush, so I tell him outright, “I’d be up for fucking him, but I don’t want him to get the idea I want anything more than that.”
Brother and Girlfriend pause for a moment, then Girlfriend screams down the hallway. “HOUSEMATE!!”
Housemate wanders in. Girlfriend points at him, then turns to me. “Tell him what you just told us.”
I do. Housemate is very much okay with my proposal. We end up having some pretty great sex over the next few months, until he finds another girlfriend. We’re still friends now.
Three years ago:
I’ve moved countries again and have been reconnecting with a bunch of mates I knew at uni. A few of them are guys I’d hooked up with once or twice; one of those turns out to still be single. One thing leads to another and he comes over to my place.
Afterwards, when we’re in bed making idle conversation, he jokes, “Still haven’t met the love of your life, then?”
“I dunno,” I say. “I’m beginning to think I’m just not a relationship person.”
He bursts out laughing. “[Name],” he says, “I could have told you that ten years ago.”
One year ago:
For some reason a few mates and I have ended up at a bar we don’t usually go to. It’s getting on for last orders, the sort of time when conversations turn unusually earnest, and I’ve been listening to a good friend of mine talk about his frustrating experiences trying to find a romantic partner. At one point he seems to sense he’s monopolising the conversation, and asks about my love life.
I shrug. “I mean, I do keep saying that I’m just not that interested in the whole relationship thing.”
He considers this for a moment. And then he says:
“You know, I’ve been thinking. If you look at how much has changed in how society sees relationships, and expectations about them – we’ve more or less accepted same-sex relationships, and all that – maybe the next thing is recognising that not everyone has to have a relationship? Because at the moment you’re still seen as some kind of failure if you’re single.”
I hesitate, then figure what the hell. It’s that kind of night. “Well,” I say, “there’s actually some growing recognition of the idea of being ‘aromantic’, as in not wanting romantic relationships at all. The same as asexual people don’t desire sexual relationships.”
My friend raises an eyebrow. “So, what would you say is the difference between that, and how you feel?”
I don’t have an answer for him. And that, I realise, means I should probably have a proper think about the question.
Six months ago:
These days it seems like every Skype call with my mother will at some point come around to the inevitable question of whether I’ve “met any nice boys lately”. With my grandma on the call as well, I’m fully expecting a two-pronged attack.
I tell Mum yet again that I’m not looking, and not really interested besides.
“But don’t you want to get married?” she asks. “Start a family of your own?”
My grandma responds before I can, and I brace myself, but –
“Oh come on,” she says. “Look at the life she’s leading! Jet-setting around, working on all these exciting projects – if I were [Name], getting married would be the absolute last thing on my mind!”
I manage to restrain myself from cheering, but it’s a near thing.
My grandmother was married at 21, and had her first child at 23. She’s the last person I would have expected to support my attitude to relationships. But with her on my side, there’s a good chance we might actually win Mum around someday.
Two months ago:
It’s a typical Friday night at my local. A dozen of us are crammed around a table meant for six, trying not to knock over each other’s pints, catching up on gossip. By far the juiciest tidbit is that two of our friends have recently gotten into a relationship together – one that very few of us had seen coming.
“All right, all right,” one of my mates says over the chatter. “Let’s hear it: Other than those two, what’s the most unlikely romantic couple out of everyone we know?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Me with anyone,” I say.
“Well, that’s obviously cheating–” my mate tries to object, but he’s drowned out by half the table bursting into laughter.
“Am I wrong?” I ask, but the conversation has already moved on; I’m the de facto winner of the game before it even properly begins.
Five years ago:
My brother’s housemate has recently broken up with his girlfriend. We’re all at a house party, there’s a fair bit of alcohol going around, and Housemate and I have been getting pretty close on the sofa. I wander off to find another drink, and bump into my brother and his girlfriend.
“So,” Brother says, grinning. “What’s happening between you and Housemate?”
I’m tipsy enough that I can’t be arsed beating about the bush, so I tell him outright, “I’d be up for fucking him, but I don’t want him to get the idea I want anything more than that.”
Brother and Girlfriend pause for a moment, then Girlfriend screams down the hallway. “HOUSEMATE!!”
Housemate wanders in. Girlfriend points at him, then turns to me. “Tell him what you just told us.”
I do. Housemate is very much okay with my proposal. We end up having some pretty great sex over the next few months, until he finds another girlfriend. We’re still friends now.
Three years ago:
I’ve moved countries again and have been reconnecting with a bunch of mates I knew at uni. A few of them are guys I’d hooked up with once or twice; one of those turns out to still be single. One thing leads to another and he comes over to my place.
Afterwards, when we’re in bed making idle conversation, he jokes, “Still haven’t met the love of your life, then?”
“I dunno,” I say. “I’m beginning to think I’m just not a relationship person.”
He bursts out laughing. “[Name],” he says, “I could have told you that ten years ago.”
One year ago:
For some reason a few mates and I have ended up at a bar we don’t usually go to. It’s getting on for last orders, the sort of time when conversations turn unusually earnest, and I’ve been listening to a good friend of mine talk about his frustrating experiences trying to find a romantic partner. At one point he seems to sense he’s monopolising the conversation, and asks about my love life.
I shrug. “I mean, I do keep saying that I’m just not that interested in the whole relationship thing.”
He considers this for a moment. And then he says:
“You know, I’ve been thinking. If you look at how much has changed in how society sees relationships, and expectations about them – we’ve more or less accepted same-sex relationships, and all that – maybe the next thing is recognising that not everyone has to have a relationship? Because at the moment you’re still seen as some kind of failure if you’re single.”
I hesitate, then figure what the hell. It’s that kind of night. “Well,” I say, “there’s actually some growing recognition of the idea of being ‘aromantic’, as in not wanting romantic relationships at all. The same as asexual people don’t desire sexual relationships.”
My friend raises an eyebrow. “So, what would you say is the difference between that, and how you feel?”
I don’t have an answer for him. And that, I realise, means I should probably have a proper think about the question.
Six months ago:
These days it seems like every Skype call with my mother will at some point come around to the inevitable question of whether I’ve “met any nice boys lately”. With my grandma on the call as well, I’m fully expecting a two-pronged attack.
I tell Mum yet again that I’m not looking, and not really interested besides.
“But don’t you want to get married?” she asks. “Start a family of your own?”
My grandma responds before I can, and I brace myself, but –
“Oh come on,” she says. “Look at the life she’s leading! Jet-setting around, working on all these exciting projects – if I were [Name], getting married would be the absolute last thing on my mind!”
I manage to restrain myself from cheering, but it’s a near thing.
My grandmother was married at 21, and had her first child at 23. She’s the last person I would have expected to support my attitude to relationships. But with her on my side, there’s a good chance we might actually win Mum around someday.
Two months ago:
It’s a typical Friday night at my local. A dozen of us are crammed around a table meant for six, trying not to knock over each other’s pints, catching up on gossip. By far the juiciest tidbit is that two of our friends have recently gotten into a relationship together – one that very few of us had seen coming.
“All right, all right,” one of my mates says over the chatter. “Let’s hear it: Other than those two, what’s the most unlikely romantic couple out of everyone we know?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Me with anyone,” I say.
“Well, that’s obviously cheating–” my mate tries to object, but he’s drowned out by half the table bursting into laughter.
“Am I wrong?” I ask, but the conversation has already moved on; I’m the de facto winner of the game before it even properly begins.
