Without a script

I’m pansexual, but that word came late.

Not because I was confused, and not because I needed time to accept it. It came late because I didn’t need it to live. Attraction, for me, never organized itself around gender. I noticed people first — their presence, their way of moving, the feeling of safety or curiosity they produced in my body — and only later realized that others were sorting this differently.

Gender was never the axis.

I didn’t experience this as openness or progressiveness. It wasn’t a stance. It was simply how desire showed up: unannounced, unstructured, uninterested in categories. The label helped later, mostly for communication. Internally, nothing changed.

Relationally, I’ve always moved the same way. I don’t follow scripts well. I don’t escalate naturally. I don’t feel that closeness needs to harden into shape in order to be real. Some connections stay where they are and feel complete that way. Others change. None of them need to be justified by trajectory.

Most of my relationships end up being what people call situationships. That word often carries judgment, but for me it describes something precise: intimacy without pre-commitment to a future narrative. I’m not avoiding depth. I’m avoiding false structure.

I don’t fall in love in the way people expect. I don’t confuse attachment with intimacy. I can be deeply close to someone without wanting to merge lives, promise continuity, or define what we are. Care matters to me more than possession. Presence matters more than permanence.

Some of my closest bonds don’t sit neatly in recognizable categories. They are emotionally intimate, familiar, warm, sometimes intense — without necessarily being romantic or sexual. The closeness is real. The care is real. The lack of a label doesn’t make it less so.

Sexually, I’m experienced, but I don’t carry stories about it. There was no sacred line I was protecting, and there’s no list of things I feel the need to confess. Sexuality, for me, is something lived, not archived. It doesn’t need narration to be valid.

If I choose one-night intimacy, I tend to prefer women. That preference isn’t ideological. It’s embodied. It comes from ease, safety, and emotional simplicity. It’s where my body relaxes fastest.

Fantasy exists alongside all of this, but separately. I read erotic literature privately — for language, imagination, and expansion. It doesn’t function as rehearsal. It doesn’t demand translation into action. It’s a space that belongs to the mind alone.

I’m private about all of this not because I’m ashamed, but because over-explanation damages accuracy. The more I try to make my inner architecture legible to others, the more it starts to behave unnaturally, as if it’s being watched.

This isn’t an invitation.

It isn’t a declaration of availability.

It isn’t a defense.

It’s simply how my desire, care, and closeness have always worked — long before I had words for them, and long after I stopped needing to convince anyone that they make sense.