Asexual Warrior

On a recent road trip with a couple friends, the topic of sex came up, and my male friend confessed that he found me to be the least sexual person he knew. I took a quick inventory of my appearance at that moment and realized that the seat belt was gently pressing against my midsection in just such a way as to make my stomach look like a freshly baked loaf of bread, crumbs from the obligatory bag of road trip chips nestled sleepily in the folds of my t-shirt, and my mouth was dedicated to taming an obscenely large piece of grape Bubbalicious.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Clearly I was the epitome of sex. I laughed the comment off, admitting that sexuality does not ooze from my pores, and I am more of a sexual black hole, the sight of me sucking the sexual energy from others in my presence. Let’s just say, that if I walked in on an opium-induced orgy, I can guarantee it would be reduced to a g-rated sing-along in less then 20 minutes. I’ve been approached by the CIA.

Though I joke about my natural chastity belt, the more I think about it, the more I begin to worry. Let’s face it: sex is a significant part of a relationship. I can provide a partner with stunning companionship, but what happens when the lights go out? Chit-chatting about the latest episode of The Hills, or my inability to read an entire Proust novel immediately ceases to be endearing when the other person just wants to get it on.