Autistic Dating: The Bedroom Test Edition
We were in the middle of another eye-opening session, and I was genuinely starting to suspect my life coach of witchcraft.
I sat in front of my laptop, stock-still and aghast, while she patiently waited for me to process the information she’d just finessed out of me, an innocent smile on her tranquil face. It wasn’t so much that she did it, but how — as if it was nothing, an obvious conclusion based on a couple of mundane questions. As if it wasn’t a complete and astonishing news to myself (even though we were talking about my own lived experience).
“We could call it The Bedroom Test,” she said after a moment, and I snorted, because my mind was perfectly comfortable being elevated and in the gutter at the same time.
“Let’s not.”
With that, I dragged her down to my level, and she, too, started laughing.
“Okay, The Bedroom Art Test, then.”
“Okay.”
I nodded, and kept nodding for a while after because I forgot I could stop. I was too distracted, thinking about the conversation that got us to that moment, trying to wrap my head around something that was so manifest I hadn’t noticed it before:
I had spent my entire adult life avoiding letting my dates into the bedroom. Not avoiding physical intimacy itself, just having them in what I considered my space. My own. Private.
Even the man I ended up marrying for a time had never seen me in my own “natural” environment. We met in a house that came with the job, then moved in together and furnished the apartment the way his mother wished it, then moved countries and into a corporate high-rise unit filled with spartan IKEA furniture. Anything I added after I kept within that aesthetic. There was not a shred of me in that place. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but I preferred it that way.
A friend who came to visit after the divorce, after I “let” the ex take everything — the furniture, the car, the bedding, the books, framed art, crockery and silverware, the one sad dracaena plant… That friend took one look around, and laughed.
“Here you are!”
She clapped her hands, then waved them around, vaguely pointing to everything at once.
“I always wondered why your old place looked nothing like you. It didn’t go with… With you! But here you are! Here you are!”
And there I was, and stood, blushing and smiling, and letting her see everything, letting her see me.
“Why haven’t you ever let anyone you’ve dated into the bedroom?” the life coach asked, and I grimaced.
“It’s… Private.”
“What do you think would happen if somebody saw it?”
“They’d know too much,” I blurted out as if I expected her to know what that meant. She smiled gently, knowingly. She had me.
Witchcraft, I thought, unable to say or do anything but blink. Then, I tried going on the defensive, deflecting.
“I did let someone in once. He took one look around and asked if I was raised in a prison. Or the army.”
“Why would anyone say that?”
“With my ADHD, the only way I don’t forget what I actually own is if it’s all out in the open. But the only way I can tolerate that with my autism is if it’s all lined up. It can be scary to see for some people, I guess. I cube my sweaters and dove-tail and color-stack the jeans so they make perfectly balanced ombré piles. There’s a system to how I hang the shirts. Even my gym clothes are sorted by type, weight, and style.”
“That’s it?”
She had me and she knew it.
“No,” I said slowly.
“It’s not about the clothes, is it?”
“No.”
“What would they see if they came into your bedroom?”
My mouth grew dry. The next words came out thin and raspy, breathless.
“The art. The pictures.”
“The art?”
I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes.
“It’s personal. It means… A lot. And if someone asked, and I had to explain… They’d know too much about me.”
She didn’t need to say anything more. In that moment, I knew how messed up it was that I wanted to be known, but didn’t feel I could trust anyone with that knowledge.
“Can you see how useful this is?” she asked after a while.
“Is it?” I sighed, crestfallen. There I was, after years of working on my disorganized attachment style, feeling like I’d made no progress at all.
“Yes! It’s excellent. We could call it The Bedroom Test.”
“Let’s not.”
“Okay, The Bedroom Art Test, then.”
“Okay.”
“Next time you feel like you’re interested in someone, just let them see your bedroom pictures. Tell them about yourself. Your real self, not the spartan version. Then gauge their response. If it matches, use that to climb the ladder of trust together. If not, you’ve got your answer. That’s all there is to it.”
“Oh.”
“It’s that simple. It’s excellent.”
“Oh.”
Simple. Excellent.
Witchcraft.
