photo credit // chiara guercio via unsplash
GoPride Gerry is a column of Gerald Farinas
CHICAGO, ILL. -
I couldn't help but wonder, mostly because someone actually suggested it, what would happen if I started writing like Carrie Bradshaw.
It is a funny idea on the surface. Cosmopolitans, designer shoes, and a revolving door of romantic drama under the city lights. That formula has kept lifestyle magazines alive for decades. But when you give that advice to someone who is asexual-demisexual and happily married to himself, the glamour of a dating column starts to look pretty boring.
Let us look at how that would actually work. The classic Sex and the City model relies on a non-stop chase for the next big romance, followed by long weekend brunches analyzing every single text message. But for me, the biggest red flag in a relationship is usually just the idea of leaving my apartment past eight at night.
As someone on the asexual-demisexual spectrum, I do not get a thrill out of the dating market. For a spark to happen, I need a deep, emotional connection built over a long period of time. A column tracking that pace would not be a whirlwind romance. It would be about as fast as watching grass grow.
This disconnect becomes especially obvious every year around June. During Pride month, the entire world gets covered in rainbows, and the dominant message is all about shouting your passion from the rooftops. It is a beautiful celebration, but it is also very loud, very high-energy, and very focused on who people are dating or sleeping with.
Trying to explain asexuality to people during Pride month always feels a bit like speaking a foreign language. People want to hear a dramatic coming-out story or a tale of forbidden romance. Instead, I have to explain that my pride comes from a lack of attraction, or that I only feel that spark once a decade after a long friendship. It often leaves people looking confused, as if they are waiting for the punchline or the tragic twist. They do not know where to place someone who is perfectly content outside the dating loop.
Explaining demisexuality is an uphill battle of its own. When I tell people that I only experience physical attraction after a profound emotional bond is established, the standard response is a well-meaning nod followed by, "Well, isn't that just everyone?" I have to patiently clarify the difference. For most people, attraction is a front-runner that opens the door to a connection. For a demisexual, attraction does not even exist in the building until a deep foundation of trust and friendship has been under construction for months or years. It is not a moral choice to wait; it is simply how the engine starts.
Then there is my actual relationship status. I am single, but really, I am married to myself. And honestly, it is a great marriage. We never fight over the remote, the closet space is entirely mine, and we always agree on the thermostat settings.
Trying to force high-drama dating energy into my life just does not fit. Instead of crying over a breakup, my major daily conflict is deciding whether to order Japanese curry or continue the latest in my long queue of historical novels to read. Instead of analyzing a toxic ex, I am usually wondering if the neighborhood crows are plotting against me.
Switching to that TV style would not just be a stretch; it would be exhausting. That lifestyle requires a massive amount of energy spent on people who do not even matter to you. When you are genuinely happy in your own company, that endless cycle of searching for fulfillment outside of yourself feels less like a glamorous adventure and more like a chore.
There is a lot of power in knowing exactly who you are, even if it takes a little extra explaining in June. My writing does not need the frantic energy of a singles bar to be interesting. It thrives on the quiet observations of city life, the comfort of a good routine, and a life built on my own terms.
So, while I appreciate the creative advice, I think I will leave the relationship drama to the professionals. I am going to keep my writing exactly where it belongs: independent, grounded, and completely satisfied with a party of one.
It is a funny idea on the surface. Cosmopolitans, designer shoes, and a revolving door of romantic drama under the city lights. That formula has kept lifestyle magazines alive for decades. But when you give that advice to someone who is asexual-demisexual and happily married to himself, the glamour of a dating column starts to look pretty boring.
Let us look at how that would actually work. The classic Sex and the City model relies on a non-stop chase for the next big romance, followed by long weekend brunches analyzing every single text message. But for me, the biggest red flag in a relationship is usually just the idea of leaving my apartment past eight at night.
As someone on the asexual-demisexual spectrum, I do not get a thrill out of the dating market. For a spark to happen, I need a deep, emotional connection built over a long period of time. A column tracking that pace would not be a whirlwind romance. It would be about as fast as watching grass grow.
This disconnect becomes especially obvious every year around June. During Pride month, the entire world gets covered in rainbows, and the dominant message is all about shouting your passion from the rooftops. It is a beautiful celebration, but it is also very loud, very high-energy, and very focused on who people are dating or sleeping with.
Trying to explain asexuality to people during Pride month always feels a bit like speaking a foreign language. People want to hear a dramatic coming-out story or a tale of forbidden romance. Instead, I have to explain that my pride comes from a lack of attraction, or that I only feel that spark once a decade after a long friendship. It often leaves people looking confused, as if they are waiting for the punchline or the tragic twist. They do not know where to place someone who is perfectly content outside the dating loop.
Explaining demisexuality is an uphill battle of its own. When I tell people that I only experience physical attraction after a profound emotional bond is established, the standard response is a well-meaning nod followed by, "Well, isn't that just everyone?" I have to patiently clarify the difference. For most people, attraction is a front-runner that opens the door to a connection. For a demisexual, attraction does not even exist in the building until a deep foundation of trust and friendship has been under construction for months or years. It is not a moral choice to wait; it is simply how the engine starts.
Then there is my actual relationship status. I am single, but really, I am married to myself. And honestly, it is a great marriage. We never fight over the remote, the closet space is entirely mine, and we always agree on the thermostat settings.
Trying to force high-drama dating energy into my life just does not fit. Instead of crying over a breakup, my major daily conflict is deciding whether to order Japanese curry or continue the latest in my long queue of historical novels to read. Instead of analyzing a toxic ex, I am usually wondering if the neighborhood crows are plotting against me.
Switching to that TV style would not just be a stretch; it would be exhausting. That lifestyle requires a massive amount of energy spent on people who do not even matter to you. When you are genuinely happy in your own company, that endless cycle of searching for fulfillment outside of yourself feels less like a glamorous adventure and more like a chore.
There is a lot of power in knowing exactly who you are, even if it takes a little extra explaining in June. My writing does not need the frantic energy of a singles bar to be interesting. It thrives on the quiet observations of city life, the comfort of a good routine, and a life built on my own terms.
So, while I appreciate the creative advice, I think I will leave the relationship drama to the professionals. I am going to keep my writing exactly where it belongs: independent, grounded, and completely satisfied with a party of one.
