When Sexualized Teen Shows Do More Harm Than Good to Aces

Disclaimer: Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of the real person.

It’s interesting to look back on shows I watched when I was younger. Especially ones that followed a group of teenagers in high school. Like Pretty Little Liars. When it premiered in 2010, it was a mature show for the then-named ABC Family (now Freeform) channel. The show involved a lot of adult-like themes and storylines (blackmail, forbidden relationships, murder, etc) and ran for six seasons.

Now, when I go back and rewatch certain episodes I can’t help but think, In what reality do four teenage girls have the wardrobe they have? Or, in what reality do four teenage girls deal with the insane amount of murder cover-ups and unhealthy relationships?

And I’m not just talking about Pretty Little Liars. How about the CW’s Riverdale? The modernized take on the 1950s comic premiered in 2017. They marketed under the motto that these are not the Archie characters you know and they weren’t kidding. The teens in that show were better detectives, lovers, bootleggers, and gang leaders than their adult counterparts.

Yes, fiction has to up the stakes. It has to give audiences a reason to tune in each week. It wants young girls to buy the wardrobe the characters are wearing even if they can’t afford it.

One thing these two shows had that made them as popular as they were are LGBTQ+ characters. Inclusion has become more standard in modern-day television and movies, but 15+ years ago, it was a different story.

People celebrated the first openly gay and lesbian characters on TV. They cheered when trans characters were actually played by trans actors. But asexuals are still fighting for their moment. Type “asexual fiction characters” in Google and you get some interesting results. Jughead Jones for example, though the Riverdale version might prove otherwise. Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead. Adrian Veight from Watchmen.

Some creators and authors of fictionalized asexual characters have come forward to say, yes, they are, or they can be viewed as such. No offense to these creators, but I don’t want to be “viewed as such.” I want characters who are confident in stating their asexuality and who aren’t forced to endure a relationship for the sake of pairing two actors together because of amazing chemistry. 

We need asexual characters written by asexual people.

High school for asexuals born before 2000 was no walk in the park. There was no manual. No website or forum to turn to for advice. Asexuality is painstakingly lonely when you don’t know that’s what you are. You wind up thinking you’re weird. You don’t know why you don’t think of sex the way your friends do. Yes, you may have crushes, but acting on them doesn’t interest you. You’re happy to admire from afar. And it’s not because you’re scared of rejection. It’s because you’d rather look than touch. You can appreciate beauty, but don’t need to experience it.

And so when aces find themselves in conversations where the primary topic is sex, you may notice we don’t offer much by way of opinion. For those of us who are virgins, we want to avoid telling you so. For those of us who had sex and didn’t see what all the fuss was about, we don’t want you to know because we’re already hearing your responses before you say a word.

“What do you mean you don’t like sex? What’s not to love?”

“Oh, you haven’t found the right person yet.”

“Don’t worry. We all have one bad sexual encounter.”

Anthony Bogaert talks about cognitive scripts in his book, Understanding Asexuality. He writes,

“Our cognitive scripts prompt us to do and say things in a specific order in a specific context. We may not realize that we carry around in our heads these cognitive ‘scripts’ of what to do and say in various contexts, but we do.” What he means is that we carry around the “appropriate” things to say depending on the situation.

We all know the right and wrong way to act in certain scenarios. Both ways include those scripts Bogaert mentions. When we don’t follow those scripts is when we’re looked down upon for being strange or freakish. So when someone says they aren’t interested in sex when all we see in this world is sex-selling tactics, their script doesn’t know how to respond.

I remember in season one of Riverdale, I couldn’t wait for Betty and Jughead to finally have sex. The characters came close towards the end of the season but didn’t officially have sex until season two. It was a grueling wait. Why did I want them to have sex so bad? Yes, their chemistry was setting my screen on fire each week. Cole Sprouse and Lili Reinhart would go on to date in real life for a few years, breaking up in 2020.

I realized I couldn’t wait for them to have sex because it was expected. Society tells us if the tension is there it should be acted upon. But what about Aria and Ezra from Pretty Little Liars? Was it right for us to be rooting for a student/teacher relationship?

What if one of them was openly asexual? Would they have been teased and called a prude? Would they eventually give into the pressure to date like most of us did?

I recall one day during my senior year when we were a month away from graduating. Most of us had been accepted to college. Senioritis kicked in about two weeks ago. A group of us girls decided to take lunch over to Rebecca’s house, two blocks from the school.

We took advantage of the beautiful day and went straight for her backyard, ascending the wooden steps one at a time to the pool’s deck. Removing our shoes and socks, we lowered our feet into the cool water. We began eating while discussing random subjects in between bites. Then, Rebecca and Mandy started talking about sex.

“I prefer being on top,” Rebecca says in response to Mandy’s inquiry. “Missionary is easier, but being on top makes me feel more in control. Like he’ll do whatever I say.”

Mandy nods. “I can see that, but I definitely prefer bottom.”

Joyce agrees. Of the five of us, they’re the only three in committed relationships. When they continue discussing preferred sexual positions, I focus on the water. I move my feet through the resistance of the chlorine-scented blue. I can’t help but wonder why sex seems at the forefront of so many minds. Particularly people my age. 

There was a stigma that going to college as a virgin during that time (2005) meant you were a loser. Or undesirable. What kind of pressure does it put on those younger than us? To send them to college thinking that if you haven’t had sex yet, you’re somehow unwanted?

And it wasn’t just reality. TV and movies beat it into audiences that being eighteen and a virgin was a fate worse than death.

The trap these shows fall into is promoting unrealistic relationships. I saw no relationships like those in Pretty Little Liars or Riverdale during my four years of high school. Yes, there’s the separation of reality and fiction but does there come a moment when fiction goes too far? Would I believe the storylines of Pretty Little Liars and Riverdale if the characters were in their late twenties or early thirties? Probably.

But the point is asexual teens need to see more of them on TV and in movies. Give them the inclusion my generation never had growing up. They are not all about sex, sex, sex. Aces need to see themselves represented more and the entertainment industry can help pave the way for that change.