The Definition of Insanity
The one thing I've repeatedly learned from my sexual experiences in the past is that I don't particularly like sex. I don't care for it, I don't desire it, I don't look forward to it, I don't enjoy it. And yet, as if I suffer from some mystical sort of selective amnesia, I keep finding myself drawn to individuals, thinking that maybe this one time I could be persuaded to, if not become a sexual being, at least do a passable imitation of one. Maybe this one time I won't find myself recoiling, resentful, from the demands of my sexual partner.
Asexuals like me - who feel physical attraction and who possess a drive for romance and intimacy - sometimes talk about "the exception": that perfect parter for whom we might, just maybe, be willing to have a sexual relationship with. We wonder if one day we might meet someone so understanding, so wonderful, so lovely and charming and appealing, that we'd consider saying, "well, I wouldn't do it for anyone but you, baby."
The rational side of me says this is a pipe dream. I'm no more likely to meet the Perfect Partner with whom I'd be able to tolerate chandelier-swinging sex than an avowed straight man is likely to meet the one Perfect Guy for whom he'd be willing to give up women. Sure, it could happen, but what are the odds?
So why am I still responding to these personal ads? Because the insane side of me can't stop hoping for the odds to turn in my favor.