Chapter Six

Maeve

Home, sweet… holy fucking fuck, my flat fucking reeks.

Fuck. I forgot to empty my fridge the day I left. It had been a quick turnaround, landing from Paris not six hours before I had to be back at the airport with a slightly more summery wardrobe in my suitcase, thanks to a last-minute trip to Lisbon for a photoshoot.

"Fuck!" I say as the stench hits me again and curdles my insides.

I dump my bags near the front door with a heavy sigh and then move through the open-plan, double-height living space towards the kitchen. It's a vast area, filled with light thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room, windows that offer unrivalled views across the Liffey River and Dublin Docklands.

It's central enough that I can access the whole city in under an hour, but sitting on the eastern outskirts of Dublin, I can also escape and be at my parents' place or Marty and Jenna's in roughly the same amount of time. Of course, this penthouse apartment is too big for just me with its three bedrooms, two bathrooms plus seventy square metres of kitchen, living and dining room, but when I bought it three years ago, I imagined I'd be sharing it with someone in no time at all.

That hasn't happened.

I haven't even dated anybody since I moved in.

And I find that both depressing and strangely comforting. Because it feels like when I moved into my own space, I finally allowed myself to be myself. I wasn't trying to do all the things my friends were doing – dating, having sex, starting relationships, getting engaged, getting married, some even getting pregnant – instead I focused on myself. I focused on making my online brand something I could rely on as a source of income for years to come. And eventually, I started to focus on trying to make sense of what it was that always felt off when I dated men.

When I'm standing in front of the fridge, I pause before opening it, bracing myself for what could be inside. My nose wrinkles from the stench that has definitely worsened since I stepped into the kitchen.

"Ah Jesus fuck, please don't be a dead mouse, not in my fucking fridge."

I pull a deep breath into my lungs and hold it as I open up the fridge. Not seeing the culprit immediately, I am starting to feel dizzy from holding my breath when I finally open up the bottom drawer and find a very sad-looking soggy cucumber. As I reach for it, it falls in to pieces and my fingers slip through its mushy flesh.

"Fuck!" I exclaim, dropping it again and holding my hand up as I move quickly to the sink. I rinse my hand, all while muttering more curse words, and then I reach for the roll of kitchen paper on its stand and pull off at least seven sheets.

"That will teach me for trying to be healthy for once," I tsk myself. "Right, you manky cunt cucumber. I'm coming for you."

A handful of held breaths and half a roll of paper towel later and the offending cucumber is out of my fridge and the drawer has been cleaned up.

Just as I slot it back in place inside the fridge, I heave out another sigh.

It's the most ridiculous thing to feel sad about, but I do. I don't want to remove dirty cucumbers from my fridge on my own. Sure, I would like to have someone to do it for me, because I have a tendency towards princess-like moments, I'll admit it, but more than that, I'd like to have someone to cheer me on and applaud me when it's done and to maybe laugh with me as I'm doing it.

I tut as I go back to where I left my bags. If this is what I'm like dealing with a mouldy cucumber, God forbid the depressive episode I slip into when I have to deal with an actual crisis alone.

I need to toughen up. I need to remember how hard I've worked to get to where I am right now, all under my own steam. I need to remind myself that this is likely my reality for the rest of my life; I need to find a way to not just get used to it, but actually enjoy it. Because I don't want to be miserable for the rest of my life, no matter how fucking excellent I am at it.

I'm better than this. I'm stronger than this. I'm braver than this.

And I'm too vain to allow the wrinkles of my perma-frown to take root on a face that I invest hundreds in keeping looking clear and youthful. Not that I'm old. I'm twenty-fucking-seven, for crying out loud. And yet I feel like life is passing me by, or rather certain parts of life are passing me by.

"Ugh!" I groan out loud as I pick up my handbag and roll my suitcase over to the stairs where I'll deal with it later. Right now, I need an action plan.

It doesn't take me long to figure out what I need. I need a cup of tea, a shower and an orgasm. In that order.

It's not everybody's best defence against stress, and it's definitely not every asexual's go-to method to relieve frustration, but it's mine. What can I say? I don't like sex much, but I sure as fuck like the release and rush of happy hormones an orgasm gives me.

I pull my phone out of my bag and take it with me back to the kitchen where I grab a mug and a teabag and then wait for the kettle to boil feeling in my bones how tired and stiff I am from travel. I'm massaging my neck when the kettle clicks off and I reach for it, pouring water into the mug. I use a teaspoon to dunk the teabag up and down in the water while I pull my phone out and absent-mindedly start tapping through social media apps and scrolling through notifications.

It's when I'm on TikTok that I see I now have over one hundred direct messages, and rightly or wrongly, once I get to those kinds of numbers, it starts to stress me out. It's also happened occasionally that interesting opportunities have landed in that inbox, so I open it up and have a look at what's there. I'm not even looking at usernames or profile pictures, which is why one message takes me completely by surprise.

Hi, I keep seeing you getting tagged in my recent video. I'm not ignoring those comments or you, but I don't feel it's my place to comment on them when you're not replying. But I wanted you to know I respect you for sharing your journey as an asexual. I know it will help others. Have a great day. El>

I tap the profile photo to double-check it's from who I think it's from and it's disconcerting how familiar their profile already looks, as I've returned to it a few times over the last week or so. I've watched more than a handful of their videos and while often the content has threatened to make my stomach contents lurch up my throat like an old rackety rollercoaster, I can't deny that some of it is interesting, fascinating in fact. I didn't know sex could be talked about in such an academic and informative way. Honestly, I didn't know that sex could be more than an uncomfortable tangling of limbs and an awkward and clumsy bumping of flesh on flesh. But this ElBaby person, they make it sound like it's something more than that and not just in a lovey-dovey kind of way. They make it sound like a hobby or activity somebody could get very passionate about.

Not me, of course, but somebody else.

But why is ElBaby messaging me?

I mean, the why is clearly explained in their message. They want to acknowledge all the many tags that I'm continuing to get in their video. They want to comment on the tags people are leaving, but don't feel it's right because I'm still ignoring them. They also want to ‘praise' me for my ‘bravery' coming out as asexual. I roll my eyes. What does someone who is clearly obsessed with sex know about being asexual and the struggles that come with it? Nothing.

Sure, they have ‘Aro' in their bio but, as they themselves have acknowledged, being aromantic is not the same as being asexual. A fact I know only too well.

I stop dunking my teabag and start typing a reply.

You can comment if you want. I'll probably ignore it, but if you want to comment, don't let me stop you.>

Jesus fucking wept. They're a grown person. They don't need my permission to comment on their own video.

Without locking the screen, I slide my phone onto the kitchen counter face up.

I'm busy squeezing out the teabag when I see a reply pop up immediately.

I didn't say I wanted to comment. I just wanted you to know I'd seen the tags and wasn't ignoring them.>

Dropping the spoon, I roll my eyes again as I reach for my phone.

Why would I think that? They're tagging me not you.>

Their reply is instant. But it's on MY video.>

I tut and type. But it's MY name.>

Wow.> I don't know why their single-word reply riles me up even more than all this pussy footing around, messaging me for no apparent reason. Surely they have better things to do with their time, like waxing their chest or dragging a small vehicle around a gym.

I pull a face at such thoughts and throw my phone back on the counter, although again I don't lock the screen. I also keep an eye on my phone as I move to the fridge to get the milk.

It takes exactly one quick sniff to realise the cucumber was not the only thing to not survive the three days I was away.

"For fuck's sake," I say as the odour from the carton hits my nostrils. I start pouring it down the sink, and as I do, my eyes seek out my phone. I can see the bubble of another new message from ElBaby and my stomach tightens at the sight. It's not excitement, I tell myself quickly. Why on earth would I be excited about a message from a sex-obsessed stranger living on the other side of the world? But I am curious. What else do they have to say after that passive-aggressive and frankly, unoriginal ‘Wow'?

I dispose of the carton and then pick up my phone. I notice there are actually three new messages.

Maybe we should start again?>

My name's Loncey. It's nice to meet you, Mae.>

I like your content and think what you have to say about being asexual is really interesting.>

I read each message once, twice, and then wait for the curl of displeasure to unsettle my stomach but while I found what they said earlier patronising and a little insincere, I don't feel it now

But it is patronising, right? Why is someone whose job it is to have sex, to talk about sex and be sex-obsessed claiming to be interested in asexuality, something that I have come to learn shines a light on just how prevalent compulsory sexuality is, not to mention how harmful and divisive it can be?

You're taking the piss, right?> I text back, because why not? I'm never going to speak to this person again, much less worry about what they may think of me. It's not like they're…

I click on their profile. They ARE following me.

That's weird.

But still. It's a free world. I'm not following back.

My inbox symbol lights up. They've replied.

So I had to Google that expression because at first I thought you were being hella kinky with me.>

I scoff out loud. Feck off.> I rapidly type and send.

Ouch. I did understand that.>

I roll my eyes again and am about to discard my phone again and focus back on my tea, shower, stress-relieving orgasm plan.

But I'm not taking the piss.> Their reply comes quickly, as does a follow-up message.

Asexuality has a big stigma in the world and is often misunderstood. You talking about it helps a lot of people.>

Something inside me melts a little and my breathing slows. I read that last message a few more times and by the time I'm done, they've sent another one.

I don't know why my saying that would make you think I was joking.>

And just like that, my chest tightens again.

Because, honestly, what do you know? I don't mean to be rude but you literally have sex for a living.> I'm busy typing out another message to follow on but their reply is immediate.

I think you are definitely meaning to be rude You're making a lot of assumptions about what I do and don't know.

That stops my fingers moving and makes my jaw drop. They just called me out and while the hot heat of shame washes over me, I find I'm completely out of comebacks.

I'm about to log off and indulge myself in a little pity party but another message arrives from them

Also, you've checked out my profile?> It's accompanied by a winking face emoji.

"Oh, you can fuck right off!" I declare as if they can hear me.

I saw enough.> I type back quickly.

So you didn't sign up to my MyFans?> They have the nerve to add.

You've got no bloody chance of that happening.>

Hmm, I feel like replying to the comments on my video would have been easier than this.>

You can just put your phone down and walk away.>

So could you.>

Good advice. I think that's exactly what I'll do. In fact, you've just made me stew my tea with this pointless conversation. I'm off.>

And that's what I'm going to do. It's absolutely what I intend to do, but when I see they're typing, I pause.

Wait, Mae!>

For some unfathomable reason, I do indeed wait.

We don't have to be like this. We have common interests.>

I don't know if it's bait, but it feels like it is when I take it. Oh, yeah? What are they?>

I'm aromantic. You're asexual. We could collaborate on some content about the similarities AND the differences of our lived experiences.>

Why would I do that with you? I don't even know you.>

Well, that's kind of on you. I have tried to introduce myself to you. Twice, I believe.>

We don't have anything in common.>

How do you know that when by your own admission, you don't even know me?>

I open my mouth as I look up my previous messages and see exactly two introductions. Fucker.

I make videos about how sex and orgasms are not the be-all and end-all of a fulfilling, joy-filled life. Last week you made a video about how women don't come enough.>

I brace myself for another sarcastic comment about me checking out their content but it doesn't come. I also see they're not typing immediately. There. I've finally shut them up. And fuck, my tea really is stewed now so I tip it down the sink giving the black liquid a disgusted look for good measure as it disappears down the drain With great disappointment, I fill a glass with water and drink that instead before walking to the staircase. I give my suitcase a quick glance but I decide I'll unpack later after I've got rid of the smell of aeroplane from my skin. And after I've made sure I've got rid of this eejit.

As if to check this has been achieved, I'm checking my messages as soon as I sit down on my bed that stands in the centre of my spacious and light bedroom. I know it's basic as fuck, but I love neutral shades and my bedroom is a testament to this with pale cream walls, beige details in the furniture and soft furnishings, and crisp white bedding.

I'm only half-surprised to see a reply from ElBaby.

That video was about the orgasm gap. Which is a real thing. You've heard of misogyny, right? You know it's wildly prevalent in the bedroom too?>

My reply comes easily to me. But you didn't allow for the possibility that some women don't want sexual intimacy or orgasms full stop. Like some asexuals.>

My body tenses as I wonder if they'll ask me if I'm one of those kinds of asexuals. That would be overstepping so many boundaries and would require an immediate block. Sure, I could have done that already but some part of me hasn't wanted to yet and that part of me is apparently also made up of my most stubborn atoms. I also start to feel a little guilty. Because I am an asexual who does like and want orgasms, albeit at my own doing and only under certain circumstances. I find my eyes drift to my bedside table, where my vibrator lives, as the guilt starts to gnaw at my insides.

Out of the corner of my gaze, I notice another text bubble pop up.

You're 100% right.>

That's their reply. I'm right. That's it.

Wait. That's it?

You agree with me?> I text before I can stop myself.

I do, Mae.>

I shouldn't send what I send next. I really, really, really shouldn't. I don't owe them this but for some reason I can't name or get a grip on, I give it to them.

Actually, it's Maeve. My name is Maeve.>

Okay. You're right, Maeve.>

I should let it go. I know I should. They've conceded they were wrong. I should just take the win and close this conversation and get my backside in the shower.

But I don't. Instead, I type. And even with allosexual women, you know that it's wrong to assume that of all the things we want misogyny to not impact, not enough orgasms is nowhere near the top of the list.>

I study my nails as I wait for their reply.

Again, you're right. Y'all want and deserve things like equal pay and an end of rape culture much more urgently. But give me time. I'm working on all that too.>

I scoff again. Wow. A regular superhero.>

Nah, my momma just raised me to be a feminist.>

And that silences me. My lips press together. I look away from the phone and start to think about how I can end this conversation. Because surely, it has to end. But they've sent another message before I can think of an appropriate way.

So how about it? Shall we collab? Do a Live together or something?>

I don't reply. I put my phone down and walk to my en suite bathroom. I get undressed, dropping my clothes in the straw hamper in one corner of the room. Naked, I step into my shower and let the rainfall soothe away some of the aches and tiredness acquired from work and travel. I wash my body and my hair. I exfoliate every inch of my skin with a natural sea loofah. I do half of my skincare, taking advantage of the steam.

And I do all of it wondering what the hell I should reply to ElBaby. No, Loncey.

When I go and pick up my phone, I'm wrapped up in my plush towelling robe, another towel crafted into a turban on my head. I ignore all the other notifications that fill the screen when I open my phone and the app. I open up my conversation with Loncey.

Let me think about it.> I type out and send.