Chapter Twenty-Three

Maeve

We're quiet as we walk back to our hotel and I'm grateful for it. I really did want to talk about sex back there. I really did want to see if I could be more comfortable talking to somebody who knows more about sex than the average person. And I know I wanted to do it because of what that dickhead said earlier.

Prude. Fucking Prude.

Even thinking the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

But talking about it with Loncey hadn't exactly gone as I expected. I'd imagined them telling me stories about the kind of videos they make. I imagined them telling me about the kind of capers they get up to with the people they… fuck. I imagined them having funny and weird and entertaining things to say about all the things I struggle to think about. I imagined myself having to control my cringes and flinches so I could at least look like I was interested and not in the least bit repulsed.

But they didn't. Instead they talked about intimacy and connection and affection. Which was unexpected, yes, and also highly annoying. Triggering, in fact. Because those are words that don't repulse me. Those are words that have shapes and colours and smells in my mind. Those are the things I crave, no, yearn for. Those are the things I'm petrified I'm never going to experience in my life. Those are the things I'm trying to be okay about missing out on.

"Hey, where d'you go?" Loncey's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, thank fuck.

"I'm right here." I give them a big smile.

"Oh no," they say, then point a finger at me. "No, you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Give me that Instagram smile with those perfect TikTok teeth." They waggle their finger warningly. "I don't want that bullshit smile. I want the real Maeve grin."

"My smile's my smile, you dope." I grab hold of their finger and mean to push it away, I really do. I mean to usher it out of my face and keep walking to our hotel, but somehow my grip doesn't loosen and more of their fingers get involved and we end up sort of holding hands across my chest, which has me walking at a funny angle.

"Let go, you fucker," I say, and I mean it to come out softly, but apparently you can't call somebody a fucker gently. Lesson learned.

Loncey drops my fingers.

"Sorry," they mumble, and then they yawn, really yawn and it must be at least the seventh time I've seen their tonsils in as many minutes.

"You really are tired," I comment, happy to ignore their awkward apology because of course I'm the one who should be apologising. "Don't tell me, jet lag."

Their laughter is light. "From my forty-minute drive, yeah, sure. No, I didn't sleep much last night. I kind of got kicked out of my room."

"Your own hotel room?"

"Yeah, my friends, they're a couple and they wanted some privacy."

"Then tell them to get their own room," I point out with a loud tut.

"They're also my exes."

"Both of them? Jesus."

"We were all together at the same time. An open polycule."

"A what now?"

"A polycule is a romantic or sexual, or both, relationship shared by three or more people."

"And you were with them… sexually and romantically?"

"Yeah, I was… until I wasn't. We're still sexual, sometimes, mostly for work. But being with them was when I realised I might be aromantic."

"Oh," I say and I can't figure out if I have a million questions to ask or if I'm way too out of my depth and I should just change the subject.

"But you didn't want to join in their… private time last night?"

"No, I didn't." They yawn again.

"Jesus, would you just take a nap or something," I say as the vast glass frontage of our hotel appears in front of us and we start walking down the circular driveway in front of the building.

"I would love to, but Miko and Harley are still busy in my room and I really don't want to interrupt them."

They're not hinting. Not at all. They are just exhausted and seem thoroughly depleted with it, although how I would know that when I barely know them, I don't know. All this is to say, it's only because of how tired they clearly are that I say what I say next.

"Well, would you just come up and have a nap on my spare bed?"

"Oh, Maeve, no. I can't do that. You need your private time too and I am sure in an hour or two I can go back to the room and it will all be okay and…"

I stop walking just in front of the open doors that lead into the hotel lobby. "Loncey, you look dead on your feet. Even I wouldn't know where to start with those eyebags. And what exactly am I going to do with my ‘private time'?" I use air quotes. "I'm single, asexual and full of a triple Elvis burger."

Loncey gives me a quirk of a smile. "Well, single asexual people do still enjoy private time, although I admit, that kind of private time is the last thing I enjoy on a full stomach."

A lightness lands in my body and I realise instantly what it is. I don't have to explain my asexuality to Loncey. They know that asexual people still have sex and masturbate, and they clearly understand there's a difference between libido and attraction. It's such a comfort to know where I stand, and to know that I'm not going to get quizzed or misconstrued and I almost want to laugh with the relief of it, but I do everything I can to keep my expression neutral.

"Did I say too much? Did I make you uncomfortable?" Worry creases Loncey's brow.

"No." I shake my head and feel my hair move against my upper arms. "But you'll definitely make me uncomfortable if you refuse my offer of my spare bed for a nap. And for the record, all I will be doing is going through my speech for the keynote tomorrow. That's how I was planning on spending today's ‘private time'."

They yawn yet again. "Well, if you're sure I'm not intruding."

"Christ on a bike, no!" I insist and then I grab their hand, for real this time, and yank them into the hotel lobby with me.

*****

"I wish somebody would look at me the way you're looking at that bed," I say, watching Loncey's face as they stand at the foot of my spare queen bed. "You look like you're about to propose."

"I'll propose to you if it means I can fall asleep right now."

I laugh. "No need, just promise me you don't sleepwalk."

"I don't sleepwalk, no, but sleep-talking and snoring aren't out of the realm of possibility."

I roll my eyes as I dump my bag on my bed and reach for a hair band that was on the bedside table. "Just as well I have headphones and after sharing a room with my brother more times than I'd have liked on holiday, considerable experience ignoring noisy sleepers."

"So no noisy ex-partners?"

I'm momentarily stunned by their question. On one hand, I'm curious in a happy way, flattered almost, that they think I've had ex-partners, and this is yet another way that Loncey is not taking my asexuality to mean that I am immune from or unworthy of relationships. But I'm also questioning why they're asking this. Why do they want to know about my relationship history? What business is it of theirs whether I've had ex-boyfriends who were noisy sleepers? And then my mind snags on their choice of words. Partner. They were deliberately using non-gendered language and I like that. I like that because through all my exploration of my sexual and romantic identities, gender is something I'm still not completely clear on.

All this is to say, Loncey has yet again stumped me with a simple question delivered in a completely innocuous and innocent way.

"No long-term ex-partners, full stop," I say. May as well answer honestly.

If they're surprised by this, they don't let it show. And if they have an opinion about it, they don't reveal it as they kick off their shoes and pick them up so they can place them neatly under the desk that's opposite the beds.

"You want a shower or something before your sleep?" I offer as I plug my phone in to charge.

"Is it gross if I say no?"

"So gross," I deadpan. "Digustingly vile. Utterly manky."

"Manky?" They cock an eyebrow. "I swear you make half of these words up."

"What are words if not all originally made up?"

They shake their head as they unzip the hoodie they're wearing and then fold it and place it on the desk.

"I need to watch out for you," they say. "You're smart."

"Smarter than I look, you mean?" I give them a stern side-eye. Having been blonde all my life, I'm more than used to these kinds of assumptions.

"No, you look pretty smart already. I just don't think you always share with the world how smart you actually are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

They have their hands on the hem of their T-shirt, untucking it, and I don't know why it makes me panic but it does. However, they stop moving and level a stern look at me.

"You tell me, Maeve," they challenge and just when my mouth is falling open, the quippy reply I want to give them fails me because they're pulling their T-shirt over their head.

I've seen Loncey's body before. There are the ridiculous number of videos they record without their top on. There was the disastrous photoshoot earlier today. But there is something about seeing them half-naked in my hotel room, in my space, that has my body temperature changing and I have no clue why. I'm not attracted to them, at least not sexually. I don't feel the things that I see described in my mother's romance novels. There's no tightening of my core. There's no gushing in my knickers. I don't feel my nipples harden and I don't suddenly want to be filled or even touched.

But I am aware of a physical change in me as I see Loncey now walk to the bed. I'm aware of the way their muscles move as they pull down the sheets and plump up the pillows. I'm feeling… things as they quickly unzip their jeans, slide them down their legs and, after throwing them over the end of the bed, slip under the covers. I don't know what exactly it is I'm feeling but I know I'm far from neutral about how at peace they look as their head sinks back on the pillow and their eyes close.

"Oh sweet Jesus, that feels good." They sigh.

"Shouldn't you… do you want a wrap or bonnet for your hair?"

Their eyes spring open. "You… you have one?"

I open my bedside drawer and pull out the baby-pink elasticated silk scarf I use to wrap my hair at night. I throw it at Loncey, who catches it.

"Err, why do you, a white Irish woman, have a silk hair wrap?"

I give them a berating look. "Err, because white hair matters too?"

Their face creases into laughter. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Neither can I." I start to laugh too. "I'm sorry. You know I was only joking."

"I do. But I still want to know why you have this," they say as they pull the elasticated part over their head.

"Because silk isn't just good for Black and Brown skin and hair. It's good for all skin and hair types. I have satin pillowcases at home, but like to travel with one of these," I say.

They pull the length of the wrap down their back, feeling to check all of their locs are covered.

"Well, I'm impressed."

"I can't claim full credit. My best friend, Arabella, got me onto silk pillowcases and wraps."

"Well done Arabella," they say as they sink back into the pillows.

I look at them for a few seconds. "That colour suits you."

They flutter their eyelashes at me. "Thank you."

I throw one of my pillows at them as I walk over to pull the curtains closed, taking away the view of the Strip, the grid of streets surrounding it and the desert beyond. "Now go to sleep. I've got work to do."

"On your keynote?"

"Yeah." I come back to my bed and pull my laptop up from the floor. "Feck knows what I'm going to say."

"What have they asked you to talk about?"

"About being asexual, but even I don't think I can talk about that for twelve whole minutes, not without putting half of the audience to sleep, half of an audience who are literal sex workers."

"I'm sure many of them could benefit from listening to you talk about being asexual."

I give them a very insincere eyebrow raise. "Really? You think people who literally post their sex lives on the Internet give a crap about somebody who has a physical revulsion to the idea of certain body parts touching?" My voice gets loud, the pitch high and my neck feels tense. I don't mean for that to happen but still it does.

"Is that what you experience? Does it make you feel sick, thinking about that?" Loncey's question is delivered gently, softly, but still it feels like a sharp poke or jab in my side.

"Kinda." I shrug. "It doesn't make me feel good, I'll tell you that."

They look at me, unblinking, for many long seconds. "I was going to say I'm sorry that that's your experience, but that implies there's something wrong or lacking with your experience and there isn't. There really isn't anything wrong with you feeling that way."

It's my turn to stare at them intensely for a long moment, because I am not fully prepared for how what they just said makes me feel. Or maybe it's more about what I don't feel that has me feeling this way. Because I don't feel ashamed. I don't feel damaged or faulty. I don't feel weird and I don't feel odd.

I feel validated. I feel seen. I feel whole. I feel… worthy.

I don't know why but this also makes me feel like I want to jump out of my skin and run away, or attack them again with another pillow but I've run out of pillows to throw at them and besides, Loncey's eyelids are already half-closed.

"Will you shut the fuck up and go to sleep?" I say and again it comes out a lot harsher than I intend. But it's too late now. It doesn't seem to perturb Loncey, however, who lets their eyes close fully while a small smile pulls their lips up.

"Goodnight, Maeve. Good luck with your speech," they say.

I only look at them to wait and see if they're asleep. I only keep my eyes on their peaceful expression and plump lips so that I can be sure they've slipped into a deep slumber. I only watch their chest rise and fall at a slow, steady pace so that I'm sure they're in a deep, deep sleep.

I absolutely do not feel a strange but not unwelcome sense of contentment knowing they're sleeping peacefully. I absolutely do not study the curl in their eyelashes. I absolutely do not wonder what their lips would feel like pressed up against my own.