Being an insanely huge introvert, I never liked the idea of going to bars. Well, that and living under a self-imposed rock whereby alcohol was the devil, but that’s beside the point. I’m almost twenty-five years old, have become the best of chums with porters and stouts, and am more than open to catching a nice drink with good friends.
But bars. Bars still cross some kind of a line for me. When I can sit down at a booth I know it’s going to be a good night. The worst that’s ever happened is a drunken guy stumbling to sit next to me and a girlfriend of mine, and with all the air of someone on the hunt apologized profusely for not having our Facebook information and just not “knowing”. Knowing what, he couldn’t say, but “I just don’t know, man!” was the gist of the conversation. And that’s fine with me, because to be honest I feel the same way going into bars. I don’t know how to walk the walk, I don’t know how to talk loud enough; put plainly, I just don’t know how to socialize in bars.
That’s the introvert in me. The asexual in me has a similar—yet more nuanced—excuse for avoiding seedy booze houses. Chief among those reasons is the dancing. I hate dancing. I’ve never been good at it, and being mentally separated from my body from ages twelve to twenty-two left me horribly unequipped to move my body seductively, let alone to the beat of the music. Growing up I didn’t feel comfortable dancing the “girly” way, but now that I’ve been medically transitioning for almost two years I don’t feel comfortable dancing in a “manly” way, either, because it’s just all sexual.
My attempts to shatter this myth have gone horribly awry. One eventful Sunday culminated in two different young women hitting on me; the first one made ignorant remarks about my gender identity and asexual orientation, while the other proceeded to hunt me down on the dance floor. I was leaning against the bar—much more within my comfort zone—and she comes and shatters it by getting in my bubble, grabbing my proverbial (and non-existent) family jewels, and falling wetly on my neck.
I’ve basically written off bars since this event. But specifically I’m becoming increasingly uncomfortable with, of all things, gay bars. Any LGBTQIA friendly bars, at least where I’m currently living, are pretty crappy. Again I say: seedy booze houses. In respecting myself and my asexual identity, I’ve promised myself to avoid these unless I feel up to fending off unwanted drama and sexual attention. Ain’t nobody, not even this twinkish demisexual, got time for that.