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.

While the thought of being a 22-year-old asexual spinster sounds super awesome, I would rather save the asexual spinster identity for a little later in life when it becomes age-appropriate to wear bold-patterned moo-moos and gigantic ethnic jewelery.

Inspired by my male friend’s offhand comment, I embarked on a survey of sorts and asked other friends if they found me to be particularly sexless. The consensus: I am the Anti-Sex. One concerned friend told me that everyone needs to have their own sexual revolution, and that even me, with my accidentally ascetic lifestyle, could indeed become sexually enlightened and enjoy a full and healthy life of doin’ it.

What a concept! A personal sexual revolution. There is no reason why I should allow my libido to determine my life course. I can wage war against my stagnant loins and emerge victorious, waving a tattered flag emblazoned with a crude depiction of horns. For horny, get it? 'Cause I’ll wanna do it all the time? 'Cause I’ll be so sexual?

The convergence of the beginning of my sexual revolution and my discovery of the show, “The L Word,” was coincidental, and somewhat misleading. After watching the entire five seasons in but two months time, I was convinced that I was a full-on lesbian.

No wonder I hadn’t wanted to have sex; I had been with the wrong gender. How simple, how easily remedied. Wrong. When I confessed this mind-blowing ascertainment to my close friends, many of them lesbians, they told me, after rudely laughing in my face, that the only thing that I exuded more than my asexuality, was my heterosexuality.

Fabulous, so not only am I the most asexual person that my friends have ever known, I’m now also, the straightest person. I might as well just be a cardboard cut-out. A cardboard cut-out giving the thumbs up and wearing a t-shirt that says, “Give me a chance, and I will bore the sh*t out of you.”

While “The L Word” was informative, it was not the key to my sexual revolution. Where do I go next? Marquis de Sade? The adult section of the video store? A therapist? In step with my one-track mind and incessant over-analyzation, I now solely discuss the topic of sex with anyone and everyone I encounter. I’m like Sue Johanssen, except I still don’t like to say the word "clitoris" out loud, and I’m not about to demonstrate the orgasmic merits of a “tingler ring” on national television.

This constant dialogue of all things sexy has shown me, however, that the key to my sexual revolution lies in the growing comfort I feel in regards to the discussion of sex. By addressing my asexuality I began to think and talk about sex, something I have rarely done in the past.

While the fortress of my loins has yet to be captured, the revolution propaganda is being distributed. I figure that if a woman's sexual prime is in her thirties I will be armed and ready to exploit my prime for all its worth, and perhaps even conceive a daughter to whom I can pass on my revolutionary tactics.