Story: Relabeled Chemistry Experiments

This was inspired by an Anonymous prompter and fills the “demisexual” square in my March/April Play-It-Again Bingo. This is 461 words and is just an example of the ways I imagine people might learn such things about themselves.

Mildly sexual language/imagery.

Relabeled Chemistry Experiments

I’m waiting for her at the park, my fingers idly peeling up the rim of my cardboard coffee cup. I’d nervously drank the full 20 oz before she could arrive after her last class, and now I was left fidgeting and staring at the steaming cup across from me that I’d grabbed for her.

We’d been meeting at the park on Tuesdays and Thursdays all semester once we’d chosen each other as lab partners, but recently I’d begun to look forward to our study sessions more than Chem 120 really warranted. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I had a sneaking suspicion I was attracted to her. This had me majorly freaked out. I’d been identifying as asexual since I’d encountered the term in middle school & everyone around me seemed to simultaneously lose their mind over boys, or girls, or boys and girl. I’d made it through puberty & over the other side without so much as a twinge of lust brought on by jocks, cheerleaders, nerds, geeks, or any other available demographic in my suburban school’s hallways. I’d experimented alone in the sanctuary of my own bedroom, and I’m sure I’ve reached orgasm, which felt nice enough, but wasn’t something I found myself craving regularly, and certainly not with an audience.

But now I’ve spent twelve weeks in concentrated proximity to one of the most intelligent girls I’ve had the pleasure to meet and attraction is the only thing I’ve come up with that explains everything this feeling encompasses. It started with her scent. I’d liked it right away, but it wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago, as I indulged in a long bubble bath and most of a Chocolove Sea Salt & Almond chocolate bar “Me Date,” that I’d remembered her smell nostalgically and found my heart rate rising and my fingers wandering down between my thighs. In that moment I realized I didn’t enjoy the smell in a I’d wear that way but apparently, given the intensity of my ensuing climax, in a more I’d like to be rubbing against her while she’s wearing it kind of way. And since then I’ve sweated through several sleepless nights with busy fingers remembering precisely the way she places her palm against my wrist to gain my attention while we work, and reliving the breath stealing sight of her deep lower back as her shirt rides up when she stretches across the park’s picnic table to grab another notebook to pour over as we study.

I tally up all of this evidence as I wipe damp clammy palms down my denim covered hips and wait impatiently for the moment she spots me at our usual park table and her smile lights up her face and my Allison-specific libido.