How to write sex scenes. My hand hovers over the keyboard, a bead of sweat dripping down to the desk. I’m a writer. Practically every book I’ve read has a sex scene. I should be able to do this.
“Sex is the purpose of life. You’ll get over this not-having-sex thing, whatever it is.” I roll my eyes, grit my teeth and shut up.
There’s sex everywhere: naked bodies covered in sweat melting into one, naked bodies groping, naked bodies holding onto each other. One gets used to it, after a point, of course. There isn’t an option. But when you look away, you find yourself thinking: Is it really that important? Is it what life revolves around? Shouldn’t I like it, then?
I come across the word asexual on Google for the first time. It’s past midnight, and my phone screen is the only light in the entire room. A wave of relief washes over me on finding a label that fits. I test it out on my tongue by saying it loudly, and smile. It feels perfect.
Maybe the sex scenes are not as important as I thought they were.
The wind is loud and the cars are loud and my friend’s hand is in front of her, waiting for an auto rickshaw to stop.
We’ve been discussing the possibility of me being asexual for a while now, after I found the term on Google and chickened out a day later, deciding I wasn’t sure yet.
She looks at me and smiles, tilting her head.
“How does that change anything between us?” she asks, and I smile back at her, happy.
“Do you want to have sex with him?”
“I’m asexual, actually.”
The girl laughs– the sound of it mocking and sharp– “Oh, it’s just a phase.”
I sigh, turning away.
“How do you know you don’t like sex if you’ve never had sex?”
“I know what I want and I don’t want. I just do.”
Love, to me, is being comfortable with another person and not having to be someone else. It is mutual respect for not only the person, but their decisions and boundaries. It is laughing together, spending time together, knowing each other properly. Sex is secondary. Someday, I might even want to have sex, but if I don’t want to, I will not be forced into it because that is not love. There is more to love than sex.
My tired eyes are watering as I scroll through my phone, looking for nothing in particular. It’s three in the morning, and I’m unable to sleep, when I come across it. The sentence: If sex without love is possible, then why is love without sex impossible?
I don’t have the energy to smile, but suddenly, with that one sentence, everything falls into place.