I.

It wasn’t cool to like the Backstreet Boys while attending high school in the late 1990s, and this may still be true today.

But I wasn’t cool. I didn’t care to get jiggy with it or weep to “Candle in the Wind.” The odes to drugs from Third Eye Blind and Marcy Playground were boring. I didn’t give any real shits about Lilith Fair’s tepid lineup, though I still went, quietly rolling my eyes through “Adia” by Sarah McLaughlin.

Laurel was my best friend and a lesbian who worshiped Amy from the Indigo Girls. I’d made Laurel a zine which included her face carefully taped over whoever Amy was hugging. She wept. When I couldn’t take another hour of “Closer to Fine” during a lazy afternoon draped on her bedroom floor, I demanded a change of music.

Laurel’s eyes narrowed. “OK, but none of that rave shit.”

I liked rave shit. Underworld, Orbital, Aphex Twin, my teenage soul was a pulsing choir of car alarms.

“Then I’d like the Backstreet Boys,” I said lightly.

She guffawed, but I took the CD and put it in the boombox. To further torture her, I set it to repeat a single song, as she had done to me with the Indigo Girls.

The song that played was “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).”

We were both music snobs, but it was hard to reject the wobbly bass line and gleeful harmonies.

Laurel stared at me, her thick eyebrows arched. She was planning to outlast me.

I locked eyes with her and deadpanned, “Gonna bring the flavor, show ya how.”

She broke, dissolving into giggles. We settled back into reading The Metamorphosis.

With each repetition, a single line soured my mood.

On the bridge, Nick and Brian pose three questions, not of the listener, but of their fellow band mates.

“Am I original?” Nick asked, to which his flock of curated co-workers chime in with “yeah-ahhh.”

Brian followed up, in a more pleading tone: “Am I the only one?” (“Yeah-ahhh,” again, ridiculous for a group member to ask. He’s no Stevie Nicks.)

Nick turned it up to eleven on the final question, getting as demanding as a white guy with a coupon. “Am I sexual?” It comes out almost “am I sexs-ual,” the emphasis a lurid brag.

The group responds with the same languid “yeah-ahhh.”

The word “sexual” made me cringe. Why did this simple question cause a sneer each of the forty-five times we played the song?

What would Nick say if I asked him the same?

Am I sexs-ual?

II.

Raised as an only child, I was content being a party of one. No one questioned my chronic singleness until a college semester abroad in London.

Patrick was fine. Not fine like 2003 “that boy is fiiiiiine.” Fine as in he was the only non-fraternity, cis, straight-presenting male in class. He liked “rave shit,” like me. We stayed out all night dancing at Fabric, loitered in record stores, and argued over pints about the superior subgenre of house music. Where our cohort clung to local bars, we based our weekends on DJ sets around the city. It was heaven.

“You must date Patrick,” Sandy gushed. Sandy was the leggy blonde with a semi-professional athlete boyfriend who’d declared me her bestie after three days. I’d shown her how to google UTI symptoms.“You’re perfect for each other!”

The other women cooed “yeah-ahhh.”

I bought into the hype. I liked dancing all night and traipsing around the city until dawn. I liked that he’d talk to various women at clubs, his inevitable rejection fueling us to another dance floor. We could exist in our own world ignoring everyone, sometimes including each other. I was SpongeBob to his Patrick.

“Have you kissed yet?” Sandy blinked her doll eyes. Sometimes I could hear them click open and shut.

“No!”

“Why not? You have to!”

Patrick would soon confess to me, on a pulsing English dance floor, that he did fancy someone in our class: Sandy.

“Are you OK?” he yelled, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“Sure?” A rejection that epic could call for a trip to Ibiza. “Good luck with that.”

He hugged me, the lights around us strobed. “I knew you’d understand.”

I didn’t understand.

I understood when he stopped talking to me altogether and stuck to Sandy like a fart in jeggings.

My last weeks in London were a solo blitz. Even my host mom asked, “Patrick doesn’t call as much, did you two break up?”

I froze. Had we been dating? We’d never kissed. If anything, I was thrilled to never worry about kissing him. But then again, if I were to date someone, wasn’t that exactly what I’d want?

“I’m so sorry,” Sandy told me on our last day. “He should have gone for you. I have a boyfriend.”

Pretty sure they still fucked at our farewell dinner.

The truth is, I wasn’t even angry. I got months with an optimal co-conspirator. I wished we could have gone to Ibiza, but I knew I’d gotten a great deal.

III.

The biggest hits of the Backstreet Boys’ first and second albums are a trifecta of snoozy mid-tempo bops: “I’ll Never Break Your Heart,” “Quit Playing Games (With My Heart”), and the first single from their second, “As Long As You Love Me.”

In all three videos, the band tries to carve separate identities from a single marble slab. Brian establishes himself as the “singer” with a verse in each song. Nick is the youngest and a mannequin for the nadir of nineties fashion and hair trends. Howie is the funny one who brings his guitar everywhere, which we all know is not funny. AJ rebels by wearing his sunglasses in the most ridiculous places: inside a building, outside at night, and (most bafflingly) inside a building, at night. Kevin is tall.

These men had their individuality dismantled only to have it rebuilt by stylists and managers. The trade off to losing themselves was being generic enough that millions of fans could pretend each Backstreet Boy fit perfectly into their dreams.

IV.

A lithromantic is a person on the aromantic spectrum who doesn’t mind feeling romantic inclinations toward another, but is uninterested in it being reciprocated. The object of affection may be real or imaginary. If the entity of interest returns feelings, the lithromantic may find their attraction dissipates.

Like most kids, I had imaginary friends. Unlike most adults, I still do.

Patrick was one of these. Imaginary Patrick never showed up when Real Patrick was around. Real Patrick would walk me to the Tube station, and Imaginary Patrick would ride home with me.

Imaginary Patrick, if I’d been forced to choose, was far superior. He didn’t chew loudly. He was never late. His voting record matched mine all the way down to the write-ins.

Other imaginary friends who would never leave my side (until I tired of them) have included: Cinderella, Donatello the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, the Alien from the Alien film franchise, various classmates, No Doubt-era Gwen Stefani, Edward Furlong, Thom Yorke of Radiohead, and Daria of the TV show Daria. Sensitive males. Females committed to bangs.

I had no interest in being wooed. But I wanted them around. They were often kinder to me than I was to myself.

I like being a lithromancer. It sounds very Blade Runner, very retro-future. If everyone else is falling in love, my lithromancy makes me special. It proves I belong, a twinkling star in an already beautiful sky.

V.

She grew up with verbally abusive parents, did she tell you that? Her first pre-verbal trauma happened within three days of birth. You can’t trust her. She was relentlessly programmed to not react—she walks alone at night, barely startles at gunfire. They made sure reacting wasn’t safe, and she stayed safe. People call her when the world is collapsing because she’ll have the same resting bitch face and mercurial reasoning as on any other day.

Blame it on her adoptee brain. Or her dissociation, the security blanket she never outgrew. Credit the mental illness that may come from her nature and definitely comes from her nurture. But do not, for the love of Dog, believe this whole persona about feeling okay with feeling nothing.

Don’t let her make up words. Please convince her she needs to stop obsessing over the font in Alien and date literally anyone. That word she calls herself pops up with a red line under it because it isn’t real. Just like her.

VI.

Their fourth single, “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back),” smacked of a stylistic sea change. It wasn’t directed at a love interest.

The song begins with a powering up noise, chunky beats, and a notable lack of their usual music box melody.

Then Brian and a tense synth chord strike, evoking a “Thriller” vibe. He’s not doing his usual earnest-yet-constipated alto. When he belts out the prolonged “everybody,” it’s an alarm call. America hasn’t seen such urgent messaging since Paul Revere.

AJ carries the first verse, the first time he appeared solo on the radio. “Oh mah God, we’re back uh-gainnn,” he half-sings, half-cartoons. Even now, it’s clear he’s winking to the listener. Pretending to swoon over every girl at the mall in matching denim pays the bills, but this is fun.

In their previous singles, the Backstreet Boys made no bones about being relationship-driven. But nothing in “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” pretends to be looking for Ms. Right or Ms. Right Now. Any heartbreak or lust is paused for celebration.

VII.

My friend, after surviving a brutal uncoupling, announced we were going to a sex club. “We’re gonna fuck,” she slurred, “everybody.”

Going to a sex club dropped any pretense of being coy. People walked up to me, smiled, and asked if I’d like to x or y or z. They were so honest I told the truth.

“No, thank you.”

They nodded and moved on.

Helping my friend out of the sex swing, I wondered if I needed to push further into kink to find my sexual identity. Was my desire hiding at the far end of the bell curve? If people couldn’t match my intensity, my disinterest would be warranted.

As is the case with so many good ideas birthed in sex clubs, it didn’t pan out. During my first explicit experience with role play, I realized all my other experiences had also been an act. The less I was supposed to be into it, the easier it was. Compliments came in the form of “wow, you seemed downright bored.”

I was tired of all of it. If all things sexy were a glittering buffet, I longed to be next door playing pinball.

VIII.

My body tired of the persistent attempts to be sexual and romantic.

So it went on strike.

My periods were always hell, since that ugly sixth grade day in an Armadillo Willy’s BBQ in Sunnyvale, California. In high school, Laurel had to drive me home when I passed out from cramp pain. I lost jobs because I couldn’t accrue vacation days fast enough between periods. Then, one magical day in my early late thirties, my period decided to never stop.

I don’t mean spotting. I mean a Day Two Shark Week blood hose. It began around my birthday in April, and the following April I broke down sobbing. It was still happening. A year of convincing myself it wasn’t that bad while I’d ruined beds, couches, car seats, restaurant booths, and a platoon of panties.

I could barely work, let alone date. I didn’t have brain space for banter, I was figuring out how long before my pants reenacted the elevator scene from The Shining.

My hysterectomy was in early May. At my six-week followup, my doctor said, “It’s best if you can hold off on sex for another month.”

I laughed so hard the doctor took a step back from between my open legs.

“Did you already have sex? That’s really not a good idea.”

I forced myself to calm down. “No, I promise. I’ll wait.”

IX.

The video for “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” was released in July of 1997.

The band stays overnight in a haunted castle, while their bus is fixed. Each member becomes a classic horror icon: Brian becomes a werewolf, Nick is a mummy. Howie embodies Dracula, AJ the Phantom of the Opera, and Kevin takes Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

The vibe is convivial, a platonic kooky dance party. None of these characters exhibit sexual prowess, Howie’s vampiric thrall undercut by his fangy grin. When Nick posits his titular question of “am I sexual,” he is standing in an open sarcophagus wearing a headband and gauzy mittens. The answer, most definitely, is “no.”

But perhaps grace can be cultivated for the Backstreet Boys, as only the day before filming, they shot another music video, “As Long As You Love Me.” That video had entirely different choreography, of both the group and “solo with folding chair” variety. Even heartthrobs need a goofy video once in a while.

The video for “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” was a huge hit. It netted awards and nominations, winning MTV’s 1998 Video Music Award for Best Group Video.

X.

A compilation of questions from my friends and me, at a restaurant that serves mostly shellfish*

Them: Do you like boys?

Me: What? Of course I do! Like Justin Bieber says, “yummy yum!”

Them: But you're attracted to females?

Me: That’s a strong word. Growing up, my mom was obsessed. You could say I know my way around a clam.

Them: You don’t want to have sex, even a little?

Me: Don’t get me wrong, I’m super excited. For the biscuits. There are biscuits, right? I will do what needs to be done for biscuits.

Them: Polyamory is the next step in evolution, you need to catch up.

Me: One tentacle is kind of a lot for me, what the hell would I do with eight?

Them: But you masturbate furiously, right? That’s normal.

Me: I’m not allergic per say, I don’t get hives or anything. I’m maybe not always a fan of the mouthfeel. Or the flavor. Wait, is that an allergy? Actually yeah, let’s go with allergic.

Them: You need to get on the apps, try new things.

Me: I’ve had them baked, fried, steamed, raw, battered, tenderized in the dishwasher, beaten on a rock, the baby sized, the jumbo sized, the Goldilocks sized, the freshwater, the seawater, the tumbled, the ceviched, the cocktailed. But hey, if there’s a different way to have them, I’ll try a bite.

Them: Have you even been in a “real” relationship?

Me: Honestly, you understand their diet is sea poop, right? Poop and smaller invertebrates that also eat poop.

I don’t know why you’d want to be the caboose on a sea poop-shellfish-human centipede. Every day I don’t wake up in any kind of centipede is a win.

Them: You need to find your person! You’d be so good at Big Romantic Gestures! And you deserve to receive Big Romantic Gestures!

Me: What the fuck does that mean, “we’re out of biscuits?”

Them: Your true love is out there, searching for you. The only real tragedy is giving up.

Me: You know what? I give up. I hate shellfish. I’ve been forced to “try it, I’ll like it.” Then, not only do I not like it, for the rest of the day my mouth tastes like a goddamn sea tampon. It’s not going to change. Me and my unrefined palate are leaving. I’ll be fine, I’ll stop at a Taco Bell.

*Both columns are one hundred percent made up. Can you imagine someone getting so worked up at a Red Lobster? How embarrassing for them.

XI.

The binary of the nineties limited sexuality to “gay” and “straight,” which meant that Laurel couldn’t be bisexual in high school, her love for Amy made her a full-time resident of gay town.

Remember that “riddle” old people told about a doctor seeing a dad and boy coming to the ER and the doctor declaring they can’t operate on the boy because he’s the doctor’s son? The audacity of a woman doctor! The nineties were similar:

A doctor sees a man and woman in the ER and declares he can’t operate on either - they are both his exes.

Cue brains exploding.

Bisexuals weren’t the only ones broadstroked into tropes. Trans representation was shoehorned between a poisonous joke (Ace Ventura: Pet Detective) and violent villainization (The Silence of the Lambs). Polyamory was gatekept by white males pioneering religious cults.

Aromantics had similarly narrow media models. If they dare enjoy sex without romance, they must be heartless sociopathic sluts. Their lack of spiritual enchantment was deemed a moral flaw.

And asexuality?

The best examples were Pee Wee’s PlayHouse and SpongeBob SquarePants, though both seem to display both asexual and aromantic sensibilities. Perhaps it’s destiny that I, too, am driven by deep, premeditated whimsy and fall into chaotic neutral. Pee Wee and SpongeBob were homeowners with good friends, rich imaginations, and snappy red ties.

If these are my role models, there are worse fates.

XII.

Do I need to map out and explain my aromantic and asexual tendencies for those that say I’m broken, sad or wrong? Can I slash the tires of those who discredit what I’ve unearthed about myself? Can’t a lithromancer listen to the Backstreet Boys in peace?

Because you bet I still listen to “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).” As an elder millennial, it’s the hand I was dealt. At least now I can answer Nick and Brian’s questions:

I’m pretty original. The adoption makes it hard to promise, but I don’t think I have a twin or a clone.

I’m not the only one. There are an estimated seventy-seven million asexuals around the world.

For the last question, I slide in an ‘a-’ to make Nick’s query “am I asexual?”

Yeah-ahhhh.

-Shelley Gaske

Shelley Gaske is a disabled and queer adoptee writing in Oregon. Her work has appeared in 68 to 05, The Broadkill Review, Ruby and elsewhere.