I am Tired of Doubting my Demisexuality

A photo of a woman with long red hair turning her head so that her hair covers her face. She is wearing a white dress and standing in front of some greenery with red blossoms. The background photo is slightly blurry. Over top is the text in white, ‘I am tired of doubting my demisexuality’.

“Ah, hobbies. Well, I just finished grad school…”

I nod at the young man sitting across from me in the small bar, sipping my hard cider and wishing I’d eaten more beforehand. My stomach is in knots. This is my first date in a long time. I tried dating while working the second shift but found it nearly impossible, and the loneliness that surrounded me and pulled me down had become comfortable after a while, even preferred. I didn’t know exactly what I expected from this tinder date on a profile where I had swiped right without reading anything because he had had one photo in his profile where he was with an owl, and I distinctly thought “Well, that’s interesting.” I wasn’t going in expecting anything; maybe just a new friend, maybe some company for a couple of hours if things went poorly. Out of all the tinder dates I’d been on in the past few years, sporadically trying out my luck on self-obsessed men who happened to be on the internet at the same as myself, he was the most interesting man I’d come into contact with. When he’d asked if I wanted to get drinks at a local bar, I hadn’t been expecting much, but I found myself excited and smitten for the first time in a long time. We went over the basics -what were our hobbies, tastes in alcohol, do you have any pets, what kind of movies do you like, how many siblings do you have, etc.

“So I’m straight.”

“I’m pansexual.” I looked up nervously, not sure what to expect. Confusion? Fetishization? The one thing I did not expect was acceptance, and for the conversation to move forwards as if that was the most normal thing to say in the world. A breath released from my chest, but under it, another knot formed. I took a large gulp of my hard cider and half-listened to what he said next, suddenly distracted by the strange decorations that were all over the bar.

It was a good first date. Simple, neither of us trying too hard to impress each other, him completely fine with my utter aversion to small talk once the basics were covered. We agreed to meet up again at the end of the night, and on the way home I went to McDonald’s, feeling hungry from drinking on an empty stomach and giddy that I might have found a romantic connection.

What was nicest to me of all was that he had not asked me for or pressured me into having…