Chatting with Sarah, before work, was a nice way to start the day. She was short, from Louisiana, had horses, and sometimes drove her husband’s rumbly truck to work. The other supply clerks started heckling her about her “girlfriend,” me. She gave one of them a shove, and got dismissed for violence in the workplace.

The guys hassled me, saying I was flirting, whenever I’d talk to any female. Looking in the direction of a female was construed as lustful leering. They insinuated that my over-weight, grandma-aged, smelly, female roommate was my lover. I sexual harassed females, simply by existing.

There was a supply clerk I was careful to never look at. Once she came behind me and touched my back, and I jumped away fearfully. Unfortunately, my bay was in front of her desk. She said I was shaking my rear at her when I was working on a truck. I was moved to a shop without women, and breathed a sigh of relief because I became a mechanic to flee the world of women, I don’t like them very much, even though I am one.

A world without women, and subsequently children, is colorless and dirty; it never smells like flowers or sweetness. When a woman disturbs a man-domain, her musical voice pierces through the growls of machinery and grumbles and drones of man-voices. Her presence is like that of an enchanted unicorn in the darkness of the underworld, disturbing the gloom in ripples. When a woman tries to join these man-vocations, the hammer of industry bends her into a low-voiced, drab, dirty, bad smelling aberration. She challenges the civil laziness of women, and the brute pride of men.

- - - - - - - -

“Hi,” said a cheerful and friendly voice that I ignored because friendly and cheerful female voices never greeted me.

“Hi, how are you?” The voice was being insistent, so I looked up, and a beautiful blonde lady was saying this greeting to someone. I looked around, to see who she was talking to, but the restaurant was mostly empty. I was confused.

“Silly, I’m talking to you!” she said. I blushed and tried to smile, and dropped my head again.

- - - - - - - -

The next time I saw her, she was working. She had just been at the restaurant to pick up her check, when she had greeted me before. She went through the whole rigmarole that a waitress does when she takes an order, when I looked up from the menu, she was sitting in the booth, across the table from me, smiling like she was my friend. I was rattled, but tried to act normal when she casually chatted with me.

She looked like a goddess to me. The dimness of the restaurant made her eyes look navy blue. She had an underdeveloped jaw, and a wide forehead. I loved the shape of her face.

“Come in tomorrow, I work from five to ten, and these booths by the window are mine,” she informed me as I was leaving. I did. I tipped the only woman in my world, with joy.

She flirted with me sometimes. This scared me and I would shrink away from her, but after a while, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the woman who brought me coffee and chicken fried steak. I loved the way she moved, her wide hips, her full breasts, her messy hair that bobbed with energy. In the fugue that drew me unwilling back to the restaurant day after day, in the love-starved edges of my confused mind, I began to dream about . . . doing the things people accused me of doing all the while.

She took twenty minute bathroom breaks; escaping into the undemanding oasis of a stall. I imagined following her, and kissing her, but I never dared.

- - - - - - - -

My brother took me to eat at “Foxes and Hounds,” a gay bar, and his favorite place. The mashed potatoes were creamy and yummy, and the steak was thick and juicy. The waiter was cute, dark haired, young, with blue eyes. My brother disappeared for a long time, and when he came back to the table he was smiling and giggling about tipping “the beautiful, beautiful, boy” really well, and making him “a very happy boy.” He had no reservations about following the wait staff into the bathroom, for sex.

- - - - - - - -

I was excited to move to Portland, where there are homosexual people. I thought that I would be accepted, and maybe find love. I’m not hated here, like I was in Texas, and I’ve quit hiding my face from all women, but homosexuals can tell that I’m not one of them, and they aren't always the most inclusive group. I tried to be a lesbian for a few years, and failed miserably, which was disheartening. Lesbian culture has no grace towards gun-shy people who are afraid of persecution, and it demands a full commitment to the lifestyle as payment for annexation.

Then I discovered the “asexual community.” Asexuality is inclusive, nebulous, and has a lot of vocabulary to describe the peculiarities and shades of human sexuality. I am “homo-romantic” in the way I fell in love with the blonde waitress. Between my romantic feelings for a woman that I love, and sex, there is a wide gulf of inhibitions that can’t be bridged with any amount of alcohol. I’m a bold lover within the grey folds of my mind, but a blushing coward outside my imagination.

Recently, I had my first relationship with a sweet guy, showing that I’m not completely inhibited from having sex with men. Under the right circumstances, I’m a heterosexual, but I’m not “hetero-romantic;” because I had no emotional attachment to this guy. When he began demanding a closer relationship, it was easier to let him go. It’s awkward, not to love the one I’m capable of copulating with; and torture to adore the one I can’t stand to touch. It’s best for me to stay single; it’s simpler, and nobler.

I identify as a “homo-romantic, grey (in that I occasionally have sex), asexual,” as a sexual orientation.