Archer Magazine has partnered with Melbourne Bisexual Network to amplify voices from the bi+ community. This article is part of a series to celebrate Bisexual Awareness Week, supported by the Victorian Government.

You can read the other articles in this series here.

In terms of my figuring out my identity, my pipeline is that of a once-hypersexual, ostensible ‘man eater’, to some kind of ace-questioning, non-binary pansexual with a strong aversion to men.

But how did we get here? Is this pipeline a common one?

To answer these questions, we first have to go back in time.

All photos by: Jade Florence. All artwork by: Cynthia Spleen (the author)

It was the ’90s, a Friday night. My folks and I had just rented Who Framed Roger Rabbit from Blockbuster Video as this week’s film. Little did my 9-year-old self know, there was a queer awakening waiting for me within the plastic confines of this VHS tape. 

We gathered after dinner and pressed play on the VCR. Suddenly, I was plunged into a hybrid world of ‘toons and humans – a film noir melding of fantasy and reality. What the hell was this miracle? It felt akin to the cartoon-like hyperphantasia playing in my head as I navigated through life. Silence fell, and a dulcet voice filled the room. 

“You had plenty money, 1922…”

The curtains opened, and every layered cell and hand drawn frame of Jessica Rabbit burned themselves into my retinas and my heart forever. She was positively unseemly, and I was entirely beguiled. Jessica was an impossibly proportioned hyperfemme fatale – drag-like in her exaggeration.

I was, and continue to be, obsessed. I wanted her, and of course, in true queer tradition, I also wanted to be her. I wanted to embody this femme fantasy that wielded the power to render every mortal ensnared, their mouth agape. 

Watching that scene is one of my earliest queer memories. I remember thinking, “Oh, I guess I like girls AND boys, huh?” 

My pansexuality was undeniable from that moment on. I was in love with this woman. This… fictional cartoon woman. She may not have been real, but my feelings were, dammit! 

The morning after my tiny mind was blown, I got up early before anyone else and snuck down to the living room. 

With utmost precision, I stealthily watched Jessica Rabbit’s scenes over and over again. Her boobs squishing up against Valiant’s chest, the animation of her walk, her pillowy lips, her glimmering beaded dress with the devastating side slit. I squirmed and squeezed my thighs together as I watched. At that point, I had no idea what masturbation even was. I was just innately drawn to rubbing my parts because it felt damn good. 

My fascination with Jessica Rabbit led to me drawing her. A LOT. I would sit at my desk grimacing, excitedly drawing her enormous tits stuffed into a tight dress. I would always draw them first and everything else second. 

It was a special day when I realised I could draw my perversions. 

This was pre internet, yo. Back then, you needed to draw your own pr0nz! I would hide these ‘deeply shameful’ drawings until I could dispose of them in the outside bin, in the dead of night. God forbid anyone found them. How could I explain such things?

Years later, at the age of 32, I’m still drawing Jessica Rabbit and tig ol’ biddehs and turning myself on.

Drawing allows me to explore my sexuality unrestricted by the limitations of this flesh reality. My illustrated fantasies are free from things like inaccessibility, incompatible trauma, communication breakdowns, sensory hellscapes, gravity and the drudgery of modern-day life. 

I don’t need to worry about any of that stuff when I’m curating it all.

I can create the queer relationship of my dreams in the panels of a comic. I can draw my imagined lovers and my different selves in all their iterations, and we can live lives we never could in this reality. 

Reality is hella unreliable, with too many chaotic variables to ensure a perfect fantasy. I see drawing as similar to fan fiction and roleplay – exploring your sexuality and gender by means of make-believe over real life.

Being in prolonged COVID lockdowns allowed me to uncover my neurodivergence, which began a process of unmasking that continues to unravel me. I’ve always been critical as to what informs my logic, but in understanding masking in relation to autism and ADHD, I am realising details I didn’t have language for before.

So far, these are some of the masks I’ve identified: a mask to hide my queer feelings; the mask of the ‘cool girl’, unfazed and sexually available; and the constricting, dysphoric mask of performing femininity and acting like a ‘girl’. I still can’t see all my masks. Some are so deeply ingrained they are automatic and unconscious – ghosts in my machine. 

It’s important to remember the mask serves a function to its wearer, and so taking them all away is not only untenable but dangerous. I’m imagining some body horror Junji Ito face-ripping-off vibes. Masks are formed in response to something. Their functions could be to protect, to escape, to be loved.

In retrospect, I feel my past hypersexuality was fuelled by the gratification of white male validation that had been programmed into my psyche through western media. Not to mention the addictive nature of dopamine and sensory gratification that sex provides (ohai, autism/ADHD). 

What informs my desire has changed considerably the more I unmask, and the more I unravel the patriarchal ideologies I’ve assimilated and held my worth in relation to. 

As a child of the ’90s, I grew up on a steady diet of television and films, spoonfed western heteronormativity in the form of saccharine Disney flicks and rom-com formulas. I learned what was good, attractive and expected in a ‘woman’. I scrutinised my melanated self in contrast to the pervasive whiteness of everything I was consuming. This instilled me with a sense of otherness.

I couldn’t really imagine a person like me in a relationship because, well, I never saw it. The internet wasn’t what it is now back then. I wasn’t exposed to diverse frameworks of romance and love until I was much older.

I inferred my beliefs based on these Eurocentric stories. My desire was shaped by them. Cut to: serial monogamy with a string of smart alec white boys that affirmed a part of me that yearned for recognition. I wanted to be seen as an intellectual equal by them. Their love proved my relevance in the world – an extension of my white assimilation. Their love was proof that I was not an ‘other’, and that I should not be ignored. 

The more these narratives fall away, the more space is made for me to embrace and nurture my queerness.

In unmasking, I started feeling very isolated in my sexuality, questioning whether or not I was ace because what informed my desire had totally changed. The idea of meatspace sex had begun to repulse me. 

I wondered if this experience was trauma-related, or perhaps just the natural byproduct of unpacking the internalised male gaze. Who can say? 

I also wasn’t sure if it was a case of feeling touched too much and past the saturation point. My job as a tattooer means I end up touching a lot of humans – sanitising, shaving, stretching and inking flesh. I’ve tattooed over 1000 humans in my decade of tattooing. 

I’ve also had quite a lot of sex. But wait… I’ve still been masturbating to porn and drawing girls with tig ol’ biddehs. So maybe I wasn’t asexual?

I make TikTok videos, a lot of which help me process my emotions – a pseudo therapy. In one conversation-style video, I talk to myself about my sexuality. It starts with me saying, “I think I might be asexual.” 

The other me (the other Tyra) replies, “But I thought you really liked having sex?”

I respond, “Yes, historically I have been a bit of a nympho…” 

I proceed to go on a stream of consciousness ramble, speculating over the many contradictory elements of my current sexuality: the sensory seeking, the male validation, the unraveling of patriarchal ideology, the oversaturation of porn for the past 20 years. I speak about how I feel repulsed by the idea of having sex in practice, but how, despite this, I’m still masturbating and watching porn and drawing stuff that turns me on.  

I talk about how I mentally checked out the last few times I had sex, wishing I could just be alone so I could masturbate. I even mention my porn preferences, how watching meatspace sex feels too real, and how I’d been opting for 3D Hentai, SFM, Futa stuff. 

When it’s not real, I can watch all sorts of crazy shit that otherwise would feel overwhelming or impossible in meatspace sex. It also means I don’t have to process anyone’s feelings. Real people having sex have real feelings. And oh boy, that’s a lot to perceive.

I posted this video on TikTok, not expecting many people to relate, and feeling good having vented my spleen. But it went off. Suddenly, I was sifting through hundreds of comments saying, “OMG I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE”, and people relating to the more niche elements, like preferring fantasy porn over real-life porn for the same reasons. 

A lot of neuroqueer folx were commenting, saying they had similar experiences of hypersexuality and how unmasking has undone what was informing that. 

I was elated. Here we all were, feeling alone and jumbled in our contradictions. But it turns out, there’s so many of us glorious weirdos. “You might want to check out aegosexuality!” read one of the comments. I hadn’t heard of the term.

Aegosexuality is a micro-label on the ace spectrum that does in fact fit me to a tee. Being aegosexual is akin to being aroused by the idea of sex without wanting to engage in sexual acts oneself – like a spectator who enjoys sports, but has no desire to participate in the game itself. 

For some, aegosexuality can be disheartening. Conceptually, sex may be arousing or exciting, while engaging in sexual acts is a potential turn off – both mentally and physically. It often takes a while for aegosexuals to realise they fall within this category (or within the asexual spectrum at large) due to perceived conflicts between fantasies and physical desire.

Well, shit. Thanks, internet. 

The language and spaces might not exist yet for you to see your own experience reflected back at you. It’s isolating to feel like your sexuality is so abstract that maybe you’re alone in it. But chances are there are likely a bunch of fellow humans out there who feel the exact same way, all invisible to each other until we can have something to point to and say “Hey, that’s me!”.

After all, my TikTok video has 56k likes at the time of writing this article.

To all the glorious aegosexuals out there masturbating to 3D Hentai, fappin’ to fan fic, second life-ing it up in The Sims and being generally weirded out by the flesh world, I salute thee. 

Remember, folks: sexuality is weird and non-linear, and that is totally okay.

And I know what you’re thinking. What about the drawings of tig ol’ biddehs? WHERE ARE THE TIG OL’ BIDDEHS? I understand. It’s going to be okay.  

Here you go, friend.

Cynthia Spleen aka plasticmessiah is an omnidimensional Mauritian scribbler, musician, writer, tattooer and filmmaker living and working on unceded land in Naarm. They identify as non-binary, queer and autistic.  

They have been obsessed with drawing since they could pick up a pencil, spending many hours as a child alone in their room making stories and characters. They are inspired by the absurdity of life, 90s animation, horror, primordial clowns, myth, archetypes, and fashion. They are very interested in the concept of emotional synsethesia and transmuting trauma through art and humour. Presently, they are exploring comics, animation, music, and film stuffs. 

Archer Magazine has partnered with Melbourne Bisexual Network to amplify voices from the bi+ community. This article is part of a series to celebrate Bisexual Awareness Week, supported by the Victorian Government.

You can read the other articles in this series here.