Hello!
I’m asexual, and as this post is published, it’s ace awareness week. I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a long time. I not only want to talk about what asexuality is, but discuss my own experiences, partly so that those who know me get a better understanding of what makes me tick, and partly in the hopes it’ll simply make people more aware of what ‘asexuality’ actually means.
So, the basics first of all. To be asexual means to feel no sexual attraction. Asexuals may feel romantic attraction (as I do), either to men, women, or both. That can be a tricky thing for people to get their heads around: to the majority, romance and sex are intrinsically and inseparably linked. Sexual attraction leads to romance; romance leads to the bedroom.
But that’s not necessarily true. People generally get the concept of sex without love – one-night stands being an obvious example – so why not the idea of love without sex?
There are few scholarly articles about asexuality, unfortunately, as the concept is not a widely known or discussed topic, even as other LGBT+ orientations and identities are more accepted and understood every day. It’s important to note, though, that asexuality is a recognised sexual orientation, and not a dysfunction, or the same thing as celibacy.
For my own part, I guess I could be called a ‘heteroromantic asexual’, although the amount of labels in the ace community is something that I don’t think is particularly helpful, and I prefer simplicity. Regardless, this means that I can fall in love with women (and I have), without having any sexual attraction.
I don’t get ‘turned on’. I literally can’t tell how attractive someone is. I’ve never seen a woman or man in the street who’s made my head turn with their beauty. I’ve never come over in a hot flush because of how amazing someone looks. A photo of a naked woman – or man for that matter – generates the same neutral feeling in me as looking at a photo of a cup of tea.
I can tell if someone is good looking in the sense that I can tell the difference between someone who is beautiful or handsome and someone who is not. But I purposely avoid describing people as attractive because, to me, nobody is. Finally, I’ve never fantasized about having sex, and to be perfectly honest, the thought of sex is quite gross to me.
The elephant in the room that you may now be observing: no, I’ve never had sex, and no, I don’t want to. I’m 30 years old, so you’ll have to wait another ten years for your 40-year-old-virgin jokes.
What does all of this mean on a day-to-day basis? Basically nothing. The only way that this affects me is when topics of sex and relationships come up in conversation. I feel incredibly uncomfortable in a way that’s difficult to describe, especially if I’m asked about my sex life. Although I’m ‘out’, I still have difficulty actually talking about my asexuality – this post is pretty much the first time I’ve ever actually done so. I’m open to talking about it, but when people start mentioning their conquests, or celebrities they’d like to fuck, or asking why I’m single…well, I kind of freeze up and find it hard to know what to say.
I don’t want to come across as weird, but I am, unavoidably. Approximately 1% of the worldwide population are asexual. Don’t get me wrong, that’s still a lot of people – because there are a lot of people – but compared to the majority it can’t be reasonably described as anything other than unusual.
Plus, I mean, sex is everywhere. It has – quite rightly – in the past century become more of an openly discussed topic rather than taboo. People are judged by their appearance, and celebrities in particular are favoured for their sex appeal. So many modern pop songs are about sex or contain lyrics related to it. Films and TV shows often have extremely explicit sex scenes. Stories about the sex lives of the rich and famous are all over the internet.
And I don’t get it. Frankly, that’s a hard thing to deal with sometimes, and it gets to me. It almost feels like there’s something missing from my life, some all-important and intrinsic feeling and realisation that I’m never going to be able to share. I go through phases of being really quite depressed about that, and other times where I’m totally cool with it. It’s just something I have to live with.
There are positives to being asexual, too. My lack of interest in sex means, I think, that I see people differently than others are perhaps willing or able to. And it’s coloured my worldview: I consider myself a feminist; misogyny in any way infuriates me. The objectification of women – and men, for that matter – for their bodies is something that disgusts me. I’m a big advocate of LGBT+ rights and my belief is that people should be allowed to be themselves and live exactly the way they want to without judgement or discrimination. People may be individuals, but there is more that unites us than divides us, even as I myself am divided by one incredibly important thing.
I’m asexual. But I’m also human. I may be part of 1% of the population, but I’m also part of 100% of it.
If you want more information about asexuality and related topics, there’s no better place to start than AVEN. Thanks for reading.
Shane Rynhart 