Demisexuality and My Cliché



I knew he was trouble when he walked in, last year. I saw his cute doe eyed face and just knew that pudgy burgher boy was trouble. Even though he’s evened out now, become fitter now. Become a man now. A man that makes my leather jacket look even better when he wears it around. I like how my friends give him a knowing smile when they see him in my things, and I love how he smiles back, oblivious to the gesture; meticulous-and-prejudiced ‘me’ that doesn’t even let my niece touch my things gives him free reign with my wardrobe. I’ve ended friendships over people who tried on my accessories, leave alone giving him my favourite pair of socks. I’d buy him the world if he’d take it. I’d give him the last piece of bacon in the world. I’d steal chocolate from my mum for him. I’d give him the slippers off my feet, like I did just yesterday. Crazy things I’d never do. Why am I doing what I do? I ask myself too.

Something’s not right here, my friends think. And in a good way they think. And they know better than to address it until I bring it up. The celibate homoromantic demisexual now out and about is something worth celebrating for them.

At first it was the hi’s and the bye’s. The random friend request, the occasional like or comment, till he messaged. Then the hope the conversation carried onto real life. And it did. He was sweeter in real life, more adorable in person. I didn’t see how he stole a piece of my heart every time he bashfully initiated conversations, or carried them on, online and offline when he got to know me better. Then he’d lean on me, hang on me, surprise me with a hand around me, dig his nose in my neck from behind, whisper in my ear. I was hooked in a month. I was so done for with each trishaw ride we shared. Before I knew it, he was everywhere, with me, teaching me how boys do things, although he seemed to be a different kind of boy. A better boy; one that parents would love to point out to their respective offspring and say, “here, why can’t you be like him”, although that kinda falls through when they see him with me, Blue haired, skinny jeans wearing, cigarette smoking, dances with anybody me.

He was amusing. He made me dream again, be a kid again. Find the innocence I lost in my adolescence; he surely kept his in this cold dark place we called home. So we played well, and dreamed well. I dreamed and knew I’d be a king someday, so I promised him that he’d be my prince. I had other kingdoms to take over and add to my kingdom, he was supposed to rule over. He was the robin to my batman, but I really wanted him to be the batman to my superman. He was such a cliché, a king of clichéd behaviour and beliefs. The Derek to my Stiles, or the Stiles to my Derek, the holmes to my Watson, the Kirk to my Spock, the Mike to my Harvey. I don’t care anymore for the make believe, because he’s a part of my reality. He is the dog persona to my cat persona. The mint to my chocolate chip, the tie to my suit, the one other person who subconsciously reads passing signs out loud, the one other person who mixes up left and right in Sinhalese. The man I feel like I’ve waited for all my life. I don’t know where this is heading, but I like this. He can complete my sentences, and I can literally speak out loud what he’s thinking.

He’s stolen public property for me, because it’s made sense in his beer addled mind. I like how he messages me randomly, says he misses me, or makes plans to hang out. I like how he’s better at remembering things I’m supposed to, or can wake up at exactly the right time he needs to without me, and wakes me. I like it when he sleeps over, somewhere I can make sure he’s got the softest pillows, the best home-made dinner, and a blanket I tucked around his sides myself, and creepily watch over for a bit, and make sure his fallen leg gets back on the bed. I need him, and I like how he needs me in some ways.

I want him to be happy, I want him to know how beautiful he is, inside and out… and how his barely there stubble is the cutest, and how he can’t balance his sideburns for toffee. I like how he once just outright wanted a hug in public because he had a bad day. I like how he doesn’t think twice before shouting at me for missing a meal, and forcing me into a chair to forcibly nibble at something. I like how he’d let me have the last biscuit, I like how I can give him the last lollipop or cigarette. I like how he wouldn’t think twice about pulling my pants up for me, and I would for him. I like how I’d ask, and he’d just answer me with exactly what I ask him, without the lies or the bullshit. I like how he’ll not ask me anything I wouldn’t like to answer. I like that I can hug him, and he’d just melt away for a few seconds, and forget all the hurt and pain.

But I’m just a boy who loves him, and he’s just a boy who loves me; but not the same way. I’d look into his eyes, get lost in his smile, trim his beard in a way he’s yet to learn, and help him into my very own leather jacket and smooth it out, and roll the sleeves just right, and he’d only see a really good friend, not a romantic interest. A friend who taught him how to hit on girls, the right way to dance with them, and be confident and direct with them, a friend who will sneak him a drink at a party he’s definitely not supposed to be drinking or smoking.

I’d learnt that friendships and conversations with cute, sweet, funny boys don’t end well for my kind. Especially when they find out… I’m on the prowl for exactly that. But he took it astride, almost confidently. But I should’ve understood better he comes from this magical world where boys are friends with boys, any kind of boy, and boys dressed in a certain way, and girls were girls, girls were strange and beautiful, the outdoors were way more fun, and you walked everywhere. I should’ve known he was going to be trouble, but his inability to understand the situation, made it even easier to go where I went. But it gave me something magical.

A chance to be friends with a boy who never grew up prejudiced or concerned about what my sexuality, or sexual preference would imply. It was beautiful to bump shoulders, and let our relationship be tactile, organic, normal…if that was even possible. But then again, the opposite might have kept me from this predicament. When you’re demisexual, it’s all these things that do you in. You fall in love first, or you have to fall in love first before there is anything more. Sometimes I wonder if we were all like this once… but only few remember it, few want it, and there are those, who suffer through it.

But I believe the universe had a reason to bring him into my space, so against my better judgement, I want to love him. I want to love the cliché way we fit together, work together, live together, love together, even thought it might be other people. Because what is love, that you can’t give it away, unconditionally. One day, maybe he’ll be my cliché. One day we might part ways. And then, the universe will start this painful yet powerful cycle of love and friendship again with someone else, and hopefully it will end soon.