Not My Type

“Not my type”
Are the words that keep coming to mind
The problem being the implication
That I have a “type”
That the conundrum of who I like and who I don’t
Could be quantified and measured with words like
“Brunette,” “Shy,” or “Riot Grrrl”
Sometimes I wish I was asexual
Then people might at least understand
People like on-off switches
But low-turned dimmers make everyone uncomfortable
I wish there was a fetish to explain it
A way to say,
“It’s nothing personal,
I’m only attracted to amputees in scuba gear and stilettos
…well…just one stiletto, I guess.”
Everyone else seems to have predictable functions to chart the data of arousal
“See? The graph of people I’m attracted to forms a sinusoidal curve
As does the silhouetted outline of my ideal sexual partner.”
Mine is erratic data on a scatter plot
Too disparate to form a graphable trajectory
Too sparse to make meaningful conclusions
I want a way to say

Not wanting to fuck you doesn’t mean I’m not in love with you
Not being in love with you doesn’t mean I don’t love you
Not loving you doesn’t mean I don’t like you
Not liking you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you
Not caring about you doesn’t mean you aren’t worth caring about
I’m pre-programmed with contradictions
And nothing I say or think or do should change a thing about you
Unless you want it to
You aren’t one of the tiny handful of people
Who can make the elevator floor drop out of my heart
And I’m sorry if I was one of yours
I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s a choice between
Hurting you with a “no” and
Hurting you with a “yes” that ferments into resentment
You’re like pepperoni
And lots of people like pepperoni
But I’m the weirdo who wants artichokes
And I can’t explain why I like artichokes, or even exactly what artichokes are
But you’re not artichokes
And you wouldn’t be happy as artichokes
You aren’t less than
You’re just different from
And maybe it will hurt for a while
And maybe it won’t
But in the end, you’ll be free
To be happier than I can ever be.

But that’s a mouthful
And most of it doesn’t make sense, even to me
It always feels easier to say
“Not my type.”

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