Chapter Four

Maeve

After I wake up I do the first thing I always do after opening my eyes. I have a brief internal debate with myself about whether or not I should check my phone. There are always notifications, new items to actions, and likely comments or DMs that affect my mood, more often in a negative way than positive. And yet, the debate never lasts long. I tell myself that it's my job, not an addiction, and I check my phone. As always, there are more notifications than I can count so before I fall into the rabbit hole that is what's happened on social media overnight, I go to my messages first to see what's there. After reading a reply from Jenna following my text last night thanking her for looking after me in the taxi, I read a quick message from my best friend, Arabella.

Miss you hamster. Got time for me to squeeze the air out of your lungs this week?>

I feel my cheeks bunch up with a big smile and I type out a quick reply. Always, munchkin. I'll call when I'm back in Dublin. Love you.>

There are a few messages in one of the groups I'm in with other social media influencers and I scroll through them, only skim-reading as it's mostly requests for love on their posts as well as someone ranting about a so-called fan who she thinks has started following her.

I type out a quick reply, urging her to take it seriously and report it and then I read the rest of the messages I've missed in various group chats. I'm about to tap out and go to one of my social media accounts, but I see another message from a number I don't recognise. A UK number. Curious, I read it.

I see on IG you're in London. I live here now. Do you have time for a drink? I feel like we are long overdue a catch up.>

I squint at the small circle displaying the profile photo but I don't recognise the picture of a man wearing sunglasses and holding a pint of beer close to his smiling lips, until I tap on the circle to enlarge it.

"Oh, fuck!" I exclaim and drop my phone on the bed as if it just electrocuted me.

It's Dermot Mullaney.

My temperature drops. My breathing stops. My body is completely still but for an ice cold shiver snaking down my back.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I say after laughing out loud incredulously, the pitch of my chuckle high and strangled.

What's it been? Ten years. And now… Why now? When I'm already feeling as fucking shite as I am.

I delete his message and block his number. And then stare at my phone screen, almost expecting, fearing, that he will pop up again.

When my breathing is back to normal and I'm no longer frozen in place, I close my eyes and tell myself I'm safe. I'm okay. He has no clue where I am. I haven't shared my hotel's location. London is a big city.

I also tell myself to get my shit together, and so I open up my eyes and tap open my Instagram app. I quickly search my followers and find a profile called @derm2000 and I block him. That eases a little more of the tension in my shoulders and I decide to busy my brain with the many notifications in the app.

I'm almost disappointed when there's nothing urgent or pressing there so I go into my email, which is a big mistake because there are way too many urgent and pressing matters there, but it's Sunday and I refuse to deal with them now. I've not always been this strict with my phone time but I learned the hard way that I've got to have some rules around phone and Internet usage time.

The last app I go to is TikTok, and as per usual, it's where I have the most notifications. However, even today, I can see that the number I have is extreme. I scroll through them quickly to see that a high number of them are people tagging me in someone else's video. This isn't unusual but when I see the comments they're leaving, I'm intrigued.

@MaeBae. Think you'd agree with this. Aromantic and asexual are not the same, right?>

You seen this @MaeBae? Care to share ur thoughts?>

Okay, now I want to see you and @MaeBae have a chat about this on Live.>

Say less! @MaeBae you have to listen to what they have to say!>

Far too nosey for my own good, I tap on a comment and the video in question starts playing. On the screen is a person I've never seen before. They are topless and their sculpted bronze torso fills the screen along with locs that are tied back but fall over one muscly shoulder. I look down at their handle, @ElBaby.

"Jesus, put a shirt on," I scoff and wrinkle my nose, but then I find my eyes travelling to their face and it's… so pretty. A full pink pout, a straight nose with slightly flared nostrils, and dark, dark eyes framed with eyelashes that have the kind of curl people normally pay for. As I start to notice how white their teeth are and how perfectly groomed their stubble is, I realise that I'm not listening to what they're saying so I to wait until the video starts again and I listen properly.

"…I want to remind everyone that I'm aromantic not asexual… a vocal ally for my asexual homies… aromantic and asexual are not the same thing… being aromantic doesn't mean I don't care… being aromantic doesn't mean I don't want to treat people well, to make them feel good. It means I don't feel romantic attraction to people… that doesn't mean I don't treat my partners with kindness, with care and most importantly with respect to their bodies…"

By the time they're finished and the video is looping again, I am utterly fascinated by this sentiment and I feel a churning of awareness in my stomach. I've made a video on this. As new as I am to talking about my asexuality, I know enough to highlight some common misconceptions. While we're saying the same thing – that being asexual and aromantic are not the same – we're coming at it from different angles and that's kind of… interesting. I want to know more about this creator. I start my investigations by clicking on the comment they're replying to and that takes me to a new video.

Immediately I can tell it's a very different kind of video. The lighting is low, there's soft, sensual music playing in the background and I can see two people pressed close together, rubbing their noses together, pressing their lips to each other's faces, so almost-kissing and yet not quite. There's a woman in a bikini top, tattoos on display across most of her skin and with her is the same person who was talking about being aromantic. They're topless, again, which makes me roll my eyes, but as soon as they settle, my eyes are pinned on the way these two move together. It's so… intimate. And then I hear what they're saying to her.

"You're going to look so pretty when I open your legs, aren't you? You're going to give me what I want so sweetly. You're going to look and sound and feel so beautiful when I make you scream in my arms…"

My eyes widen and I turn my phone upside down. I feel… uncomfortable. And I can't really determine why. Is it because it's so inherently sexual? Or is it because I feel like I shouldn't be witnessing such an intimate moment between two people?

And yet, a few seconds later, I'm picking the phone up and tapping on the creator's profile so I can read more about them.

El, they/them, Soft Dom Switch, Pan, Poly, Aro, Spicy AF.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the holy donkey," I groan and my stomach flips again, but this time with nausea. That's just entirely too many references to sex in one bio.

I scroll down their videos and see some of the titles. "Songs I Like to Duck To." "What is a Pleasure Dom?" "Why I Prioritize Partners' Pleasure." "How to Start With Peach Play."

"Fucking hell, give it a rest, will ya?" I say into the several small moving images of their face, which is still very pretty, but now it just annoys me.

I groan and put my phone down again. I close my eyes and roll over, seeking a cooler spot on the pillow. That already feels like enough Internet for one day and it's only just gone eight o'clock in the morning. Shit, eight o'clock and I don't have any plans until lunch when I will check out and head over to Jake's place.

Sure I could check out earlier, but I don't want to cart my bag all over the city aimlessly, and I don't want to leave my luggage here to then have to loop back and get it. Maybe I could go for a walk before I check out, see some of London, but as if to silence that line of thought an angry wind howls against the window, accompanied by the rattle of rain.

"And they say it rains too much in Dublin," I moan.

I sigh and get out of bed, picking up the hotel robe off the chair near the bed. I put it on over my satin pyjamas and then pad over to the cabinet where the coffee machine is. I yawn as the machine whirrs into life and then I roll my neck, stretching out my shoulders that are always a little bit too tight. As I often do, I think about doing one of the countless stretching routines I've saved on TikTok but never looked at again, but as I just as often do, I say a big mental "Nah" in my head, pick up my coffee and make my way back to bed.

With nothing else to do and absolutely no desire to go back on TikTok after seeing that topless Pan-Aro-Poly-Dom-Switch and no doubt getting more tags in their video, I reach for my laptop and open my emails.

Like they normally are, half of the emails I deal with are spam or irrelevant and I delete them instantly. The other half are a mix of brands reaching out to work together, emails from fans who have somehow got my address, and continuing correspondence about existing partnerships and collaborations. I put the fan emails in a folder that I go through every now and then when I'm in the right mood to send messages back, which is increasingly infrequent these days, and it doesn't take long to reply to the emails with existing partners.

I then start sifting through the new brand outreach emails and archive most of them as not ones that speak to me. Until, that is, I open an email from an underwear brand called SAFE.

Sure look, I've been approached by underwear brands before and I'm not stupid enough to pretend I don't know why. I know I've got a body people like to see in underwear, and I actually quite like how I look in a bra and knickers on a good day, but that doesn't mean I want to actually do it in public. In fact, the thought of it makes the contents of my stomach curdle. But this email is very different. First, there are the opening three lines.

Dear Maeve,

We hope this email finds you well. We're writing after absorbing all of your recent content about asexuality. We have learned a lot and wanted to thank you for sharing your experience and knowledge.

I know better than most how brand outreach reps are told to blow hot air up the skirts of the influencers they're trying to secure partnerships with and I've heard it all, from how ‘amazing' my eyes are to how ‘inspirational' my dull as dishwater GRWM videos are. In other words, I've heard all that bullshit before, but this… this doesn't feel like a load of bollocks. This is… interesting.

I read on. They're a non-profit social enterprise that pour all their profits into providing period products to people who can't afford them across the globe, including developed nations like the USA and UK. They've attached some images of their underwear, which I open. I'd describe it as classic basics with cotton briefs in a range of plain colours, and bralette-style bras that very much look like they prioritize comfort and support over anything else. I'm impressed when I see a handful of disabled people among the models of all genders, sizes and colours.

I go back to the email and read again what it is they want from me. Essentially, they're looking for me to model their products in an upcoming campaign, for me to share the results of that campaign as well as accompanying content about it on my social channels, and they'd also like me to deliver a presentation at a conference they're sponsoring in Las Vegas in November. XXXCon is the name of the event and I've never heard of it. I do a quick search and my jaw drops as Google tells me what XXXCon is.

"One of the USA's largest conferences for the adult entertainment industry," I read out loud. "XXXCon is a convention predominantly for online sex workers, adult content creators and influencers, XXXCon hosts keynote speeches, panels and trade fairs for all those working in the adult entertainment industry and connected markets…"

"I don't fucking think so," I add after clicking back to the email. But as I type I read their requests again.

They want me to deliver a keynote speech to kick off a day of knowledge-sharing panels.

We feel your voice is one that needs to be heard. Asexuality is too often ignored, misunderstood and stigmatized, even within our own queer communities, and we want to support you in doing something about that. We'd love to hear your thoughts on how we can best do that.

Ignored. Misunderstood. Stigmatised. Those are words that immediately speak to me. Because it's true. That's exactly how I've felt on my journey to accepting my asexuality and then sharing it with the world.

I type out a quick reply before I think about it anymore.

Thanks for your email. I'd be happy to discuss this more with you. Let me know a good time for a chat. Thanks.

After finishing most of the remaining emails, I open my calendar and look at the week ahead. It looks… busy. As it always does. I will be ending the week in Paris, working over the weekend for a parfumerie who want me to make my own signature scent to then flog online. I sigh at that. I can't remember the last time I was in Dublin for a weekend. I need to do something about that.

After blocking out a couple of the only available days I have left this month so I have some possible times to meet up with Arabella, maybe pop in on Ma and Da too, I close my laptop. The coffee has done little to wake me up and I find myself sinking back onto the soft pillows, exhausted all over again.

Exhausted and aware once again of how alone I am in this huge, plush but ultimately empty hotel bed.

And I don't know why I do it, but I pick up my phone, go back to TikTok and watch more of @ElBaby's videos.