” Fraysexuality is a sexual identity in which people are more sexually attracted to strangers and people they don’t know well, and less attracted to people they know better. It’s a subsector of gray asexuality, which is a subset of asexuality where people can experience sexual attraction in varying degrees. “
Iqbal stared blankly at the entertainment section of the newspaper, where the face of a popular actress adorned the page with the headline, “Stormers Box Office.” His tea, long forgotten, grew cold on the table. It wasn’t the story he cared about—it was her photograph. Her beauty seemed to pierce through him, igniting a deep hunger he couldn’t tame.
“Hey, Iqbal! Your tea!” the shopkeeper called out, snapping him back to the reality of his surroundings.
Iqbal took a sip, though the tea did little to settle him. He had a long day ahead as a peon at the office. The manager, Ma’am, was a sharp-eyed woman with little patience for mistakes. But strangely, she rarely scolded him, even when others faced her wrath.
At noon, Keya, his wife, appeared at his shared, dilapidated quarters. Her hair was damp, her face fresh with kajal and lipstick. She had dressed herself with care, hoping, perhaps, to remind Iqbal of what they once shared. But when he saw her, all the hunger that had stirred within him earlier seemed to vanish.
Their life was suffocating. The cramped, single-room accommodation they shared with other families offered no privacy, not even for cooking or bathing. Yet Keya had traveled from the village to visit him, carrying hopes that their intimacy might be rekindled.
But Iqbal avoided her gaze. He remembered the actress again—the fantasy she represented, the escape she offered. Later, when he found a moment alone, he searched her name on his phone. The broken screen couldn’t diminish the allure of her images. He couldn’t help himself. He retreated to the bathroom, hiding from the world, from Keya, and from his own shame.
As he finished, the weight of his actions crushed him. He sat on the cold bathroom floor and wept. Why couldn’t he desire Keya anymore? She was beautiful, kind, and once the center of his world. In the early days of their marriage, he had clung to her, losing himself in her embrace. But now, even her most tender advances left him cold.
Keya had tried everything—dressing up, singing their favorite songs, even role-playing—but nothing worked. The sameness of her body, her face, seemed to extinguish the spark that once burned between them. Iqbal felt like a stranger to himself.
At the office, Ma’am summoned him. As he approached her desk, he noticed a young man leaving her office—a common sight. Gossip swirled about Ma’am’s frequent changes in partners, but today, she seemed more curious than stern.
“You look troubled, Iqbal,” she said, her tone unusually soft. “Tell me, what’s weighing on you?”
Iqbal hesitated, but her insistence broke him. He confessed everything—his struggles with desire, his guilt, his growing detachment from Keya. He expected judgment, but instead, she listened intently.
“Tomorrow’s a holiday,” Ma’am said after a pause. “Let’s meet for coffee. I think we need to talk.”
The next day, they met at a small café in Mirpur, surrounded by lush greenery. For the first time, Iqbal saw Ma’am as a person, not just an authoritative figure.
She began, “Iqbal, I’ve been where you are. I married once, but it didn’t last. I’ve moved through relationships, always chasing something fleeting. Attraction fades quickly for me, no matter how strong it feels at first. I thought it was my fault, but I’ve realized—it’s just how I’m wired.”
Iqbal leaned in, hanging on her words.
“There’s a term for people like us: ‘fraysexual.’ It means our attraction fades as familiarity grows. It’s not a flaw, nor does it make us bad people. It’s simply a part of who we are.”
The revelation stunned Iqbal. For the first time, he felt seen.
“But Ma’am, what about the guilt? The shame? How do you live with it?”
Ma’am nodded knowingly. “It’s hard. Society tells us we’re broken, that we’re unworthy. But understanding yourself is the first step to healing. You’re not alone, Iqbal. There are others like us, navigating the same pain.”
Their conversation stretched for hours, a cathartic exchange of stories and suppressed emotions. For once, Iqbal felt the heavy burden on his chest lighten, even if just a little.
As they parted, both carried a newfound sense of solidarity. The pain didn’t vanish, but they left the café knowing they weren’t alone in their struggles.
