A Bluewater Bay Collection

by Witt, L. A.

  “So you’ve . . .” I shifted in my seat, not sure how much to pry. After all, he was here to answer my questions about asexuality, not his sexuality. Which happened to be asexuality. Right? “You’ve dated men?”

  He nodded. “And women.”

  “Does that make you asexual or bisexual?” I genuinely expected him to roll his eyes or sigh at my dumb, annoying questions, but he didn’t.

  “I’m asexual,” he said. “But biromantic.”

  “Biromantic?”

  “Mm-hmm. Means I can develop emotional and romantic connections with men or women.” He shrugged. “I’m just not sexually attracted to anyone.”

  I blinked. Had that been covered on the sites I’d looked at last night? Oh hell, like I could remember most of that—my brain had turned to mush after three pages. “I’ve . . . never even . . .”

  “Most people haven’t.”

  “Oh.” I started to speak again, ready to fire off another question, but hesitated. “You really don’t mind this, do you? Meeting a total stranger so I can pick your brain?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” He smiled again, and there was something about him that relaxed me. Like every time I met his eyes, the warmth in his expression calmed me down. I was sure I was asking the stupidest questions ever, but so far he’d patiently met every one with an answer.

  “Seems like you know a lot about this,” I said. “I mean, not just from experience. Like, you know . . . all of it.”

  “I did a lot of reading about it. That’s actually why I’m totally happy to answer any questions you have—I’d have cut off my arm to have someone there who was like me. Reading about it, you learn a lot, but then you feel isolated and . . .” He squirmed in his seat. “I just would have had a much easier time if there’d been someone I could talk to. So . . .” He gestured at me. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I . . . Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We locked eyes for a second, but I broke contact and glanced up at the bar. Clearing my throat, I fidgeted. “This is all . . . I mean, you barely know me, but—”

  “Brennan.”

  My teeth snapped shut, and I turned to him.

  There it was again—that subtle, gentle smile. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

  “That’s . . . good.” I chuckled. “I guess I just get so overwhelmed. I’ve been thinking about all this almost nonstop. About being asexual.”

  “Well, let me ask you something.” He sat up straighter, folding his arms loosely behind his mostly empty glass. “Do you think you are asexual?”

  “That’s what I keep trying to figure out.” I surreptitiously glanced around, not sure why I cared if anyone else could hear us. “I guess what it comes down to is, I don’t mind having sex. I just don’t . . . I don’t really care if I do.”

  Dark eyes locked on me, he nodded. “That’s pretty much textbook asexual. Believe it or not, being asexual really doesn’t mean we’re all disgusted by the idea of sex.”

  “Right. I . . . I gathered that much. But I . . .” Rubbing a hand over my face, I muttered a few curses. “It’s so confusing. And weird.”

  Zafir nodded. “Believe me. I get it. ” His cheeks darkened. “That . . . may be why I came on a little strong the other day. It’s not very often someone comes strolling in, wondering why their sex drive doesn’t match everyone else’s, and I realize we have something in common.”

  “No, no. You were fine. I don’t know. I guess it was just a lot to take in. I thought I was fucking up with the women I’ve dated, and it turned out my sexual orientation wasn’t what I’d always thought it was.”

  “Happens to more people than you would imagine.” He brought his drink up to his lips again. “That’s why we have groups, too. There’s one over in Port Angeles and a few out in Seattle.”

  “Groups? Like support groups?”

  “Kind of.” He shrugged and took a drink. As he set the glass down, he went on. “The groups I belong to are just people who like to get together and not go out drinking and looking to get laid.”

  Groups like that exist?

  “Wow. I guess I didn’t realize there’d be that many people like . . . um . . .”

  “Like us?”

  I nodded.

  “More than you think, especially now that it’s getting out there that we exist in the first place. There’s a ton of info on the internet these days.” He paused. “I can, uh, give you my email if you want me to hook you up with some good sites? Or if any questions come to you after tonight?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  We pulled out our phones, exchanged contact information, and put them away again.

  “So . . .” I rolled my shoulders, not sure why I was getting all tense like this. “This whole asexuality thing is a spectrum?”

  “A broad one, yep.”

  “Yeah, I gathered.” I blew out a breath and shook my head. “Seemed all nice and cut-and-dry, and then there’s all this stuff about graysexual, and demisexual, and . . .”

  “Apothisexual, abrosexual . . .” He nodded. “Yeah. It was all kind of overwhelming when I first started looking into it.”

  “But how do you figure out which one you are? I mean, there was so much—”

  “Brennan. Brennan.” He sat up a bit and flattened his palms on the table. “Don’t sweat it. You don’t have to figure out which one you are.”

  “But . . . I mean, it’s . . .”

  “Chill. They’re just categories and labels. They’re for people to look at and say, ‘Hey, that’s me—I’m not the only one!’ But if you don’t see you in any of them, it’s okay. They might not fit, or you might not have figured yourself out yet. I promise—it’s totally okay.” He tilted his head. “So, what else do you want to know?”

  “Well . . .” I played with my straw, racking my brain for more questions. I knew there were plenty in there, but I was still processing everything he’d already told me, and couldn’t quite come up with anything else to ask him. Not directly, anyway. “Okay, kind of off-topic, but I have to ask. Why do you work in a sex shop?”

  Zafir laughed. “So my paychecks make it out the door.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m not qualified for much besides retail and food service. That place gives me a hell of an employee discount, but I don’t have much of a reason to use it.”

  “That’s . . . pretty smart. I probably should’ve thought of that.”

  “Yeah? Where do you work?”

  “Not that far from you, actually.” I gestured up the street. “Skate of Juan de Fuca. The skate shop.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at my board, which was leaning on the table beside me on the bench. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Yeah.” I chuckled. “And no, my paychecks do not make it out the door in one piece. But the store cosponsors me, so . . .”

  “You’re a skateboarder? Like a professional?”

  I nodded. “Semipro. Trying to go pro, but it’s a long road. Getting sponsorships and all that is a pain in the ass.”

  “Wow. My son would lose his mind if he met you.”

  “Yeah?” You have a kid?

  “Oh, absolutely. He keeps begging me to take him to the skate park so he can learn, but . . .” Zafir grimaced. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

  “How old is he?” Seriously? You have a kid?

  “Nine.”

  If I’d been drinking just then, I’d have sprayed it across the table. I could barely fit it in my head that he had a kid, but a nine-year-old? Jesus.

  Not my business, though. “Eh, that’s not that young. I’ve been skating since I was five.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And how many times have you gotten hurt?”

  “Uh, well . . .”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “It kind of comes with the territory, but we do wear safety equipment and stuff.” Err, sometimes.

  That eyebrow climbed even h
igher. “So where’s your helmet?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Okay, we make sure the kids wear safety gear.” I chuckled. “And hey, I’ve only broken three bones as a skater.”

  His eyes were suddenly huge. “Only? Oh, that’s very encouraging.”

  “Being a dumbass, I might add, and not wearing safety gear. There’s a reason all the kids at our park have to wear gear—we’ve all done enough stupid shit, we know what happens.”

  “I see,” he muttered into his drink.

  Typical parent. I’d had these conversations with my parents too, not to mention the parent of every kid who came into the skate shop.

  None of whom look like Zafir.

  Which gave me pause. He had to be about my age, so either he had a super young kid or he’d started pretty young himself. Except hadn’t he just said the kid was nine? And wasn’t he . . .

  Wait a minute.

  I cocked my head and folded my hands on the table. “Okay, back up a second. You’re asexual too, right?”

  Zafir nodded.

  “But you have a kid?”

  “Yep. Paid a little too much attention in biology, I guess.”

  “Paid—” I eyed him. “Come again?”

  He shrugged. “When they were telling us about reproduction and all of that. I was fascinated with the whole asexual reproduction thing. So I concentrated really hard on dividing, and bam! There he was. My kid.”

  I snorted. “You are so full of shit.”

  “No, it’s true!” He gestured at himself. “Why do you think I’m so short? I was six three before Tariq came along.” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “Last time I paid that much attention in school, let me tell you.”

  I burst out laughing. “Idiot.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, okay. The truth is, I didn’t know what I was back then.” His expression turned serious, but the gentle warmth in his eyes remained. “I was dating a girl, and we were dumb, hormonal kids, so . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “We did what dumb, hormonal kids do, and nine months later . . .” He waved his hand. “I’m seventeen with a baby.”

  I whistled. “Wow. You’ve made it work, though. That’s impressive.”

  “Didn’t really have much choice, did I?”

  I didn’t know him nearly well enough to ask why he and the mother didn’t give the baby up for adoption, so I just nodded. “I guess you didn’t.”

  “But yeah, I’ve made it work. He’s a good kid.” Zafir laughed self-consciously. “Not sure where he got the brains, because he sure didn’t get them from me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve never exactly been the academic type, let’s put it that way. My son?” His smile was a combination of shy kid and proud father—broad, glowing, with a hint of red in his cheeks. “I’d go bankrupt if we didn’t have a good library in town.”

  “Ah, so he’s the kid who stays up all night reading under his blanket with a flashlight?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Zafir rolled his eyes, but chuckled. “I’m constantly on his case to put the book down and go to sleep. Which, I mean . . . I want him to read. Maybe one of us can actually get a decent education, you know? But he’s gotta sleep too.”

  I laughed. “I was like that. If he’s anything like me, he’ll figure out how much sleep he can do without.”

  “I hope so. He hasn’t yet, let me tell you.” Zafir shifted. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll let him give skating a try.”

  “Hit me up if you want to. And I can help him get some of the better skate gear.” I wrinkled my nose. “You don’t want him falling on cheap shit.”

  “I’d just as soon he didn’t fall on anything, but okay. I’ll take a look.” He grimaced. “See if I can afford it.”

  I waved a hand. “It’s not that bad. I can hook you up for not a lot of cash. Don’t worry.”

  “Cool.” Zafir smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The conversation fell into a lull, and we both paused for long swallows from our sodas. I sat back, a little more relaxed than I’d been when he’d first come in. He was easy to talk to, so that was a plus. If I could get these questions out of my head, maybe we’d get somewhere.

  “So, going back to the asexual thing . . .” I drummed my fingers on the table. “If it’s not too personal, where do you fall on the spectrum?”

  “I kind of go back and forth between graysexual and demisexual.”

  “You go back and forth?”

  “Mm-hmm. I lean more graysexual—not into sex one way or the other—but sometimes I do get sexually involved with people. I just have to be really into someone emotionally in order to want sex with them. So . . . a little demisexual, I guess.”

  “Oh. So you . . . you do get involved with people? Physically?”

  He nodded. “If I’m in a relationship with someone who’s sexual, then yeah. My ex-fiancée and I had sex all the time.”

  “You—” God, I wasn’t sure how to deal with someone so blunt and candid about his sex life, but then, he worked in a place where shyness probably didn’t fly. I cleared my throat. “You did? Really?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He gave a quiet, almost bashful laugh. “We were polar opposites when it came to sex drives. I could take or leave it, but she had a pretty serious libido. So any time she wanted it, I gave it.”

  “And that didn’t bother you?”

  “Not at all. I wanted her to be happy. Part of making her happy meant having a lot of sex.” He paused. “I mean, it was understood that if I wanted to not have sex, we wouldn’t, and she was fine with that.”

  I chewed my lip, not sure how much of an open book he really wanted to be. I had questions, but we barely knew each other. The fact that we were being this open at all was still kind of weird.

  “For the record,” he said, studying me as if he could see right through me, “no, we didn’t break up because of our sex drives.”

  I blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I kind of wondered.”

  “A lot of people do.” He shook his head and went for his drink again. “Having mismatched sex drives doesn’t make things easy, but no, it isn’t why we split.” Right before he took a sip, he added a bitter, “There are plenty of other ways for someone to make a man feel inadequate.”

  I eyed him, but didn’t push that issue. We definitely hadn’t known each other long enough to go down that road, especially since it seemed like the wound was still tender.

  I cleared my throat. “Have you ever had a relationship end because of . . .”

  Sighing, Zafir nodded. “I’m not gonna lie. Some people think they’re okay with it until the rubber meets the road. But that kind of applies to anything. And even if two asexuals start dating, they might not be sexually—or, well, asexually—compatible either.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, if one falls in love with the other, and it turns out they’re demisexual, so they start wanting to have sex with the other, and the other is apothisexual and is repulsed by sex . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “It might not work, you know?”

  “Can it work if someone’s asexual and the other person isn’t? Like, can it actually work?”

  “Sure. It’s just up to the couple to figure out what works and what doesn’t.” He held my gaze for a moment, and smiled subtly, as if he could see my brain scrambling from trying to process all this. He sat up, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his fingers together. “It’s honestly not as crazy and complicated as it sounds. Think of it this way: people approach sex like they do carnival rides.”

  “Carnival— What?”

  He laughed. “Stay with me. So, you’ve got people who go to the carnival and want to go on every ride a dozen times. They’re the ones who get off the roller coaster, and they enjoyed it so much, they can’t wait to get on the next one. Or, before the adrenaline’s even worn off, they’re back in line to ride it again.”

  I nodded, not entirely sure where he was
going with this.

  “Think of those people as sexual people.” Zafir lowered his hands to the table and folded them, looking me right in the eye. “Asexuals, we’re the friends who come along to the carnival, but aren’t really into the rides. And we’re all different about it. Some get green and feel like they’re going to barf just looking at a ride. There’s no way in hell anyone’s dragging them on. Not happening.”

  He paused, and I nodded. Go on.

  “Not all asexuals are like that, though,” he continued. “Going back to the carnival ride analogy, some aren’t really interested, but, eh, your girlfriend’s going on it, so you go with her, and you do actually have a good time, but after one or two, you’d just as soon go play some games or something. Or maybe you have no desire to go to the carnival at all, but since your girlfriend wants to go, you do too, and you really do get into it. But when you’re single again, you drive by the carnival every day on your way to work and don’t even notice it’s there.” He chuckled. “It’s not a perfect metaphor, but it makes sense, right?”

  “It’s starting to.” I drummed my fingers beside my drink. “Or . . . you think the rides are fun, but you don’t get as crazy excited as the person you’re with, and then everyone tells you you’re doing it wrong?”

  “Exactly. The point is, there’s no one way to do a carnival. And there’s no one way to be asexual. Or sexual, for that matter.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “So, what happened with your girlfriends . . .? My theory is that you weren’t doing it wrong. It’s just not what you were wired to want to do.”

  I stared at the table between us for a while, letting it all sink in. I’d never heard of asexuals until recently, and I’d never thought about any of what he was saying, but it all made so much sense, I couldn’t believe it had taken me until this moment to understand it all. Of course I was asexual. How the hell did I ever think I wasn’t?

  Because I didn’t know what an asexual was before I met Zafir. But still. It seemed so obvious.

  When I looked at him again, he tilted his head slightly, brow pinched with unmistakable concern and sympathy. “So, is this making a little more sense?”

  “Some of the pieces are kind of coming together. Slowly.” I shifted, folding and refolding my hands, and laughed bitterly. “Funny—the girls in high school always said they liked me because I didn’t push for sex. If anything, they were pushing me. I guess now we know why.”