Chapter Twenty-Five

Maeve

"If I've made you think about anything today, I hope it's not only that many of the societies we live in need to address their compulsory sexuality but also that we would all benefit from them doing so." I'm standing in my pyjamas at the end of my bed, delivering the closing paragraphs of my speech to Loncey who is lying on top of their bed, their hands clasped behind their head. They haven't given much away during this rehearsal of my speech, but they also haven't interrupted me, or fallen asleep, so I'll take both as good signs.

I drop my gaze back to the last few notes on my phone. "My asexuality doesn't define me, and nor are you defined by the work you do, yet we are all in some way or another defined by a world that sees compulsory sexuality, predominantly compulsory heterosexuality, as the default. The more we challenge this narrative, the more we will all have greater freedom to live our lives in ways that best suit us, and that will benefit the people we love and the people we share space with. I look forward to learning from you all over the coming days at this conference, and I am grateful for you giving me the time and space to share my experience with sex and what it's taught me about the world. Now I'm excited to learn what it's helped you learn about the world."

I look up from my phone and am almost knocked back with relief when I see them beaming a smile at me that's all straight white teeth and stretched pinky-brown lips.

"It doesn't suck monkey balls?"

They sit up and shake their head. "It doesn't suck any kind of balls. It's good, really good."

"Why do I hear a but?" I sit on my bed opposite them.

"I do feel like it's missing something. Something personal."

"Like what?"

"I dunno, just something a bit more about you, rather than these very academic, albeit accurate and important takes. I just find myself wanting to know more about what life is like for you, on your personal journey as an asexual."

I toss my phone to the side. "But you told me not to tell my whole queer awakening, coming out story."

They nod and lick their lips. "I did, you're right, and that's not what's missing. Maybe it's more of looking to the future and what sort of ideal life you imagine for yourself as an asexual. Maybe that would be good to know."

I bring my fingers to my temples and start to massage. "I can't fecking do anymore. I'm exhausted. We've been at this for what, over four hours? Enough already. Do you think it's good enough as it is?"

"It's definitely good enough as it is," they say.

"Then that's how it will stay." I slap my hands on my thighs to settle this matter. "Now, food."

"Really? After that mountain of meat you put away?"

"That was like half a day ago," I say and get off the bed, heading for the room service menu on the desk. I'm busy studying all the available options when I hear Loncey get off the bed and feel them get closer as they grab their bag and boots. I turn to them.

"Where are you going?"

"Well, we're finished with your speech. It's getting late and I just got a message from my friends that they still need some privacy so I guess I'll be going home for the night to get a proper night's sleep. Oh, and oil my locs because that's overdue."

"Really? They still need to be alone?" I feel my top lip curl. I've read about the characters in romance novels having sex for days on end but I didn't really think it was humanly possible. Surely nobody is that resistant to a UTI?

"Yeah." Loncey sighs. "Ah, well. At least this way maybe my mom or my sister can help me with my hair. Get it done quicker."

I lower the menu. "I can help you," I say, and the words feel like a runaway train, unstoppable and very, very inconvenient.

"You?"

I shrug. "I mean, you just need to oil them, right?"

"Yeah, but they're… locs. It's not ‘normal' hair." Their air quotes come with an eye-roll.

"Do you mean white hair?"

"Well, yeah."

"So you think I'm visually challenged as well as an airhead blonde. Charming."

Loncey huffs out a laugh that's more of a sigh. "No, I didn't say that, I just don't know if you know what it's like to—"

I step closer with my arms folded. "You've seen a photo of my best friend, right? My best friend who is Black? 4C kind of Black. I'd be a bit of a shit best friend if I didn't know how to help her look after her hair. So yeah, this isn't my first rodeo." I reach over and push the side of their arm because… actually I have no idea why I just did that.

"But don't you want to… I don't know, be on your own? Rest up before your keynote tomorrow?"

They're right. That is what I should want. But I don't. I really don't. Maybe it's because of how much they've helped me put together my speech. Maybe it's because of what happened at the photoshoot this morning. Maybe it's because I feel something with them that I don't feel with many people: safe. I feel safe with Loncey and I like feeling safe. And I don't know why, but I don't want it to end.

"Jesus, just stay here tonight." I throw my hands up in surrender. "We'll get food. We'll oil your hair and you can continue that good sleep you had earlier."

Loncey's laughter is now much louder.

"What?" I put my hands on my hips.

"That was literally the grumpiest invitation of hospitality I think I've ever received, and believe me I've had some pretty rude offers in my lifetime."

I want to argue with them, but I can't because I heard how cranky I just sounded. I may have even gone to great pains to sound that grouchy.

"Well, your 3A ass is going to have to take it or leave it," I say, lifting my hand to play with one of their locs. I watch as their mouth falls open.

"How do you even…" Their brow creases. "Fine. I'll stay. But on one condition."

"I'll consider it," I say, doing my best to neutralise my expression so it doesn't reveal the little kick of joy I feel at knowing they're going to stick around.

"No room service. I know this awesome deli that make the best chicken kale salads in the State, and they deliver."

"Chicken kale salad?" I am relieved I can now cringe at them to conceal the smile that still wants to reveal itself.

"They do other things. I just need a healthy meal."

"God forbid you don't get your macros today." I roll my eyes but discard the room service menu and walk back to my bed to find my phone. "Go on then, what's the name of this healthy deli?"

"No, Maeve, I'll get this," they say, and they drop their bag on the bed and pull their phone out of their back pocket.

I stare at Loncey's full kit bag on my bed for more seconds than I should. I stare at it and think things that don't belong in my head. Things like how much I'm looking forward to oiling their hair. Like how happy I am that I won't have to sleep alone tonight. Stupid, outrageous things like how a small but loud part of me wishes this was one of my mother's romance novels and we were staying in a hotel room that had only one bed.

*****

"Okay, I take it back." Loncey closes their eyes and breathes out a long exhale. "You do know how to look after Black hair."

They're sitting on the closed toilet lid, a towel around their shoulders, and I'm massaging oil into their scalp.

"I told you. Although Bella has never had locs as long as yours. I don't think she has the patience. She mostly goes for twists."

"She sounds fun, your friend Bella. Do you know her from school?"

"No. From ballet lessons, when we were kids. She's still dancing now too. She's a professional dancer."

"That's right. You told me that already."

"Did I?"

"Yeah, you said you stopped because life got in the way and I found that sort of sad."

"Well, we can't all be prima ballerinas." My instinct is to shrug off their comment even though I have much more to say. But would they even care?

"Hmmm." Loncey tilts their head back even further and lets out what can only be described as a long moan. I find myself giggling nervously.

"You sound… you sound like I'm doing something else," I say, stumbling over my words.

"And what would that be, Maeve?" Loncey asks in a voice that is deeper than their usual tone and their eyes open slowly to pin on mine.

I stop moving my hands. I'm frozen in place. Even breath doesn't move my body.

"Sorry," Loncey says, and their expression softens, their eyes growing warmer. "That was… unnecessary."

I blink at them. I've started breathing again but my hands remain still. "What do you mean?"

"I was… being suggestive. And I shouldn't have been. That was not appropriate."

I take my hands off their head and use one to grip their chin, holding them still as I bend down a little.

"Don't do that," I say.

"Do what?" they ask although my grip on them means they can't move their jaw properly.

"Don't treat me like a child."

"That's not… that's not what I was doing. I was apologising because I was…" They sigh and close their mouth. "You're right. I'm sorry."

I release their face and straighten up again, putting my hands back on their scalp. We're silent for a moment but then I notice them pull their lips into their mouth more than a few times.

"You know, you can make sex noises in front of me," I say. "I won't freak out or cry."

They chuckle. "I'm not trying not to make sex noises," they say.

"Oh really?"

"Okay, fine. I am trying to not make sex noises because fuck me, Maeve, this is better than some of the sex I've had."

"You have bad sex? Aren't you supposed to be a professional?"

They snort lightly. "Well, don't you have bad photoshoots? Like this morning? Does that make you any less professional?"

"Good point," I say, and then I ask the question that's on the tip of my tongue. No, just one of the many questions that are on the tip of my tongue. "What do you do when you have bad sex?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like how do you… how do you feel better afterwards?" I don't want my voice to go thin and quiet, but it does.

Loncey is quiet for a long time. So long and with their eyes still closed that I think they're not going to answer, and I tell myself that that's what I deserve because it was a stupid question. Maybe allosexual people don't feel shitty, after even bad sex.

"I look for the stars," they say.

I stop moving my hands again. "You do what?"

"I go for a drive, leave the city behind me and stare at the stars." A soft smile stretches their lips and with their eyes still closed, they look so content, so peaceful, I don't have the heart to tell them that that's possibly the weirdest thing I've ever heard.

And then I have another thought.

"And you'd paint," I add. "You'd paint the night sky. That's what you used to do to relax."

"Yeah," they say and when they open their eyes, their pupils instantly find mine.

"And here I was hoping you'd say eating a tub of ice cream normally does the trick," I quip.

"It's not really about painting as such, or about the art or even about the stars. It's more about doing something that is so completely different from sex. Something I have always enjoyed doing, even before I knew what sex was, or rather what it could be."

"I get that," I say. "And I'm annoyed at you, you know?" My hands go back to massaging their scalp. I'm fairly confident it's all absorbed but I don't yet want to stop.

"What did I do now?" They raise their brows at me.

"You got me thinking about dancing again," I say. "I even looked up classes for adults, back in Dublin."

"That's great, but I mean, you don't need to get lessons. Just put on a pair of shoes and get dancing."

"Pointes," I correct them. "They're called pointes."

They close their eyes after that and I don't want to say more. I just want to enjoy this moment as I sense they also know I don't need to continue massaging their scalp, that the oil has been evenly spread already so at any moment they will tell me to stop. Maybe they're thinking it's odd that I want to keep touching them like this. Fuck, I think it's odd I want to touch them like this.

"I should confess something," they say, interrupting my thoughts.

"Oh?" I ask before holding my breath.

"I started painting again, recently. After one of our conversations."

"You did?" I don't know why my stomach flips with something like a little kick of delight, but it does.

"Yeah, and it was good. Fun. Made me feel… free."

"Did you paint the sky? At night?"

"I did."

"I'd… I'd like to see it. Maybe you could send me a photo." There's something about making this request that prompts me to lift my hands off Loncey's head finally and move to the sink to wash the oil off my skin. It feels like I'm asking such a personal question and at the same time being so physically close is just too much for me. Or maybe, for them.

"Or you could come by my place and see it?" they offer, coming to stand behind me in the mirror and inspecting their roots. "After the conference is all done, I could drive you back to my place. If you like."

In the mirror, my eyes find Loncey's. In my peripheral vision I can see how my movements slow down as our eye contact intensifies. A warmth rises in me unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's like excitement and anticipation and comfort all mixed up together and it's made of something soft and light, like cotton wool, as it expands and fills my upper body. It has me wanting to lean back against their body. It has me wanting to take their hand and pull them into a big hug. It has me wanting to tip my head back and press my lips against theirs.

"Maybe," I say, and I am stunned by how nonchalant I sound when I just felt what I just felt.