Meet the writer who makes aromanticism into prose
Written by Constance Bougie (contributor)
Word count: 1230
Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
“I can only define my aromanticism through facts.”
The aromantic community is primarily online. It’s rare to hear about aromantic spaces, real physical places. There’s talk of how we can’t wait to meet in person, attend aro events, and be with one another. For now we communicate and come together on the Internet. That will change, but there’s something to be said about the written word.
Constance Bougie is a writer you should know about. We’ll make it easy for you: here is where you can find their work. It is with great expertise that they position themselves as vulnerable and you, the reader, as someone about to be moved. This talent is a studied one, Constance has a bachelor’s in English with focuses in creative writing. He is also, delightfully, a graduate instructor that aids in aromantic/asexual studies. In the piece to follow, Constance will tell you a little more about themselves.
Hypotheticals
I
On my ideal date, we’d go to that cheap theater in town with asiago bagels in our pockets, living large. The sun would have warm hands on the backs of our necks. I’d wear a turtleneck and brown corduroy pants. People, if they called me anything at all, would call me “sir.”
Standing on the sidewalk with a cigarette between his fingers, my date (henceforth referred to as Wolfgang) would say things like I just read D. H. Lawrence’s introduction to Pansies. Isn’t it a wonderful mix of “let people say ‘shit’ if they want to” and “fuck the police”? I would, grinning, agree.
Wolfgang would wear a turtleneck, too. You wouldn’t see an inch of bare skin between us.
We’d paint the damned town at Tuesday open mic nights. I’d read avant-garde sound poetry while he backed me up on the tambourine or a wet floor sign. We’d have a vow, between us, to never write each other love poems. If I said things felt too intimate, he’d start talking films. He’d like Reservoir Dogs, but only ironically.
That being said, he’d totally dress up as a young Tim Roth, if I asked. He’d roll around in bright, fake blood, pretending to die in my arms. If we kissed, it’d be comedic, maybe melodramatic. We’d refuse to take anything seriously. Two bros, chilling in a hot tub, five feet apart, et cetera. A little gay.
He’d hate words like love. He’d prefer ones like Esperanto. He would say that word again and again, testing it out on his tongue.
II
I’d spend most of my free time alone, drawing pictures of dead writers. I’d have a grip on myself. We (myself and I) would spend our mornings sitting in a rocking chair with mugs of coffee hot in our hands. We’d take our depression meds, eat toast, inject ourselves with testosterone on Sunday afternoons when the weather was nice. We’d talk as we went, reacting to good literature aloud. We’d throw books at the wall and play Doctor Who DVDs while grading papers and kiss David Tennant on the TV screen, pressing a soft mouth to the hard surface of it. It’d be, on one hand, sweet. On the other, gross. Both--always.
On the best nights, we’d get caught up on work and make plans. Our evening would play out as follows:
Smile, relieved.
Shower, excited.
Dress. Something fancy--a skirt and high heels.
Walk into the kitchen, balancing on an edge.
Set tortellini boiling. Drop alfredo sauce ingredients in a saucepan: cream cheese, butter, milk, minced garlic, pepper. Parmesan, grated.
Breathe.
Open a can of root beer. Pour it in a wine glass. Put the wine glass on the table.
Get the candles; turn out the lights. Light the candles.
Hum.
Stir.
Find a book. Put it on the table.
Prep laptop for another Doctor Who viewing.
Strain the pasta.
Read and dine.
Dine, lifting a glass to David Tennant’s red sneakers.
III
I can only define my aromanticism through facts. For instance: I’ve never liked dates with other people. I can only like Wolfgang if he isn’t actually there. When I think about dating, my fingers get shaky. I’m immensely gay for Griffin McElroy’s voice. Every other part of him is secondary.
I’d like to kiss a man. I’ve never done it. It sounds spectacular. It sounds boring. My favorite form of intimacy is the dream.
The current title for the book of poems I’m working on at the moment is On Fear of Impotence. It’s about fear of asexuality and aromanticism, in others and in me. Fear of incapability. Joy in cooking. I like writing about love, platonic and sexual and aesthetic. There’s a satisfaction I get from it, from writing down what I do and don’t feel. I don’t need anything else. One poem, later excluded from my manuscript, went,
“Sometimes I want a man
just to trot him out
at parties.
A free dinner once a month,
a kiss on new year’s, and someone to listen
with his eyes. Soft sweaters and a hard,
flat chest: someone somewhere between
real and symbolic, which might just mean symbolic.Today a nice man with aging hair sold me a fern—
I don’t know if I have any right
to name him, but I call him
him, anyway—maybe, I consider now,
because I, too, want a roommate.I, too, desire house plants.”
IV
More facts.
My body is a rhizome: bouquet of body and mind, asexuality and aromanticism and gender dysphoria, old and new poetry. Everything connects. I can’t write only about one of my identities; they’re all too important. No eclipses. I’ve started hormone replacement therapy. I keep downloading dating apps then deleting them. I flirted with a man for the first time, the other day, on one of them. He asked if I wasn’t down to meet up. I said no, but your abs are wonderful. I stuck the prayer emoji at the end of the message. He didn’t reply. I think I love my dog more than any of my family or friends. One time I tried to kiss her on the top of her head, and she turned and bit me on the mouth. I’ve been listening to The Adventure Zone, a Dungeons & Dragons podcast. I listen to it while I run, cook, and shop for groceries. I listen to Griffin McElroy announce that he is my Dungeon Master, my best friend, my a/romantic non-/lover. I love the name Wolfgang. I’ve been getting into jazz. My vocal cords are thickening. Every minute, some cell in them grows. I’ve been thinking, and I think I’d like to teach high school English after grad school. I have a band-aid on my thigh from today’s shot. I hate sex. I like to dream about things that come close. When I delete a dating app, I can finally breathe. My hands grow steady. I bake cookies. I eat them. I just read the introduction to one of D. H. Lawrence’s books of poetry, Pansies. He offers each of its poems as a separate flower, a lone, walled-off thought, and mocks people who think shit is a dirty word. He laughs at the police. Largely because of this, Wolfgang finds him delightful. Once, at a Renaissance fair, a man in passing called me lord. On my ideal date is a line I can’t finish, only rephrase.
V
Today I looked in the mirror, and saw, to my surprise, that Wolfgang was me.