Dale Nixon Is Asexual

Jessica over at Feministing has been posting about her upcoming wedding a bit, which got me thinking about my own views on weddings.  The last wedding I attended, in 2006, was for a friend from high school I have sort of kept up with over the years.  He knows I hate social activities that involve families, alcohol, and other things of that nature.

A few terrible things happened: my girlfriend of the time, who I may have mentioned offhandedly before, had trouble finding a dress that fit her well. She was tall, chubby, and very (ahem, very), busty and it became a big issue for her. Eventually, I told her I would go myself because I didn’t want her to spend a lot of money on a dress for something that would just hurt or otherwise upset her. My (our) vegan meals were also forgotten about, which lead to lots of “lol yr a vegan that’s pretty gay!” sort of talk from people at our table.

In general, for a number of reasons, I feel morally opposed to weddings. The idea of linear love is so fucking idiotic. I am supposed to love someone forever? O Rly? It’s a ridiculous idea to have a ceremony which costs tons of money to announce this. Especially given half of them or more end in divorce now with a lot of pain, heartache, and money involved. No thanks.

The ceremony was fine I guess. The church had pretty art and I was greatly amused by a few people I hadn’t seen since like eleventh grade. I was grossed out by how everyone but me knew all the words to the prayers or whatever crap the cult this church belongs to jammed with (thanked mom when I got home for letting me bail on that stuff really young). They said I Do!, he cried (he always cries), and all lived happily ever after. They had a kid last year. I can’t stand hanging out with him because he texts her every two minutes checking up on what she is up to.

I was pretty repulsed by the “announcement” of the couple, Mr. and Mrs. ____. A grown woman, with multiple college degrees, is now Mrs. His Stupid Name. Is this the Borg collective? At least they get cool names like “2 of 8″ or Locutus. Everyone cheered as the announcement of his property arriving came over the PA between disco songs. I heard his younger sister being admonished (scolded!) for not becoming property like Mrs. His Name and retiring to the kitchen to be a good lil breeding machine for a man by their grandmother.

She wants a career! Oh noes, she’s probably one of those feminazis!  You’ll never land a good man!

The Mrs. His Name thing is so sickening to me. Women are not chattel or slaves (unless you’re into that, I’m not going to judge). When I become interested in a women, one of the first things I find out, after whether she believes in safe and unrestricted access to abortion, is if she was married would she change her name. If the answer is anything north of “I’d cut his nuts off if he even asked” I lose interest pretty quick.

(but, again, if it’s a kinky thing, hey I’m not judging. A friend of mine is married and very happy being a good lil Stepford Wife because it is what gets her off.)

(But why is it ok, Dale Nixon, if it is for kink? Isn’t submitting (har har) to a more pornographic version of patriarchy still fucked up?  Even if it makes you happy and you love it?  Good question.  Maybe that can be another weblog post)

So Mrs. _______ was assimilated into his family’s collective and others were scolded for not being bred enough yet. I bailed around 10pm as my “friends” we grew up and used to go to hardcore shows with got drunker and drunker (ah, no one is Straight Edge anymore I see) and begin hitting on anything with breasts whether 17 or 55. My lady friend and I had a long talk that night on AIM about all of this and decided we were both totally against it and that felt good.

She was so great, it’s just too bad we didn’t hit it off in the bed room. But she was the one who showed me I was asexual, so the relationship will always be one I totally cherish.

Growing up, there was a young lady a few years older named Donna who lived up the street. I hung out with her sister a lot, who, much like her, was one seriously awesome tomboy who played video games and sports and took no shit from boys. Donna was older, seemed so much more mature, and was nice to me during a time period in my life when not so many people were.

We used to play street hockey in front of our middle school after classes ended. Sometimes, if older boys were playing, Donna would tag along, sometimes playing even, to hang out. My earliest memory of perhaps some kind of burgeoning asexuality was on a winter day when Donna had brought along another friend. This girl was nothing like Donna; very “valley girl,” as they said back then. She flirted with all the older boys and portrayed the role of patriarchy cheerleader sufficiently.

We used to take breaks for an intermission every hour or so. During an intermission, I was taking off my goalie pads and then sat down on a curb to relax. A group of the boys had huddled around the girl who Donna had brought along. It turned out they were taking turns feeling her up, as the other boys cheered. Donna looked disgusted, but smiled when a boy looked over at her. Each boy would feel the girl up and then a cheer would go up from the approving crowd.

It came to my turn. I got a few pats on the back from older boys. I looked at Donna. Certainly, I wouldn’t do that to her, so why would I fell this girl up. Wasn’t she asking for me to do it, while the patriarchy approved with their applause? She was beautiful, a stunning blond with a nice figure.

I couldn’t do it. My excuse was that it didn’t feel right to touch a girl I wasn’t dating or some bullshit like that. Even at an early age, I was probably 11 or 12 when this happened, I felt like that kind of intimacy had to be at the right time and the right place. On the lawn of a middle school sure fucking wasn’t it.

The boys jeered. One said “I always knew you were a fag, realnamethatisn’tdalenixon.” Most just dropped it because I was already a dork who pissed himself in sixth grade and played video games all day and night. I often wonder what happened to Donna and her sister. Did they give in and conform? To this day, I find the kind of bodily touching involved with romance and sex to be something sacred and not to be taken lightly.

It wasn’t the right time, or the right place. It certainly wasn’t the right girl, not just because it wasn’t dreamy tomboy Donna, but because I realized years later how forced a performance her friend had put on. To receive masculine approval, she had to behave in a certain manner that subscribes to feminine submission and minimizing to a series of parts. Even at 11 years old, no thanks.