My Four-Year Introduction to Asexuality
“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we are supposed to be and embracing who we are.”
The term "asexual" first came to my attention in 2016. A coworker and I were discussing the latest Pride Parade in New York City, which she had attended. At that time, more orientations were coming to public attention, and people were becoming more comfortable coming out.
The world was expanding its perspective. There were, of course, plenty of people with bigoted opinions (still are), especially when it came to the trans community. But, for the most part, trans, non-binary, and other orientations were growing confident in their ability to come out without the fear of too much pushback.
Though 2016 was the first time I let the term sink into my psyche, it wouldn’t appear back in my life for another three years.
Join the community today ↓ to get blogs, news, and announcements delivered right to your inbox!
In 2019, the word started appearing in my life a lot more. While rewatching Community on Netflix, I heard it spoken in the episode “Social Psychology.”
In this specific scene, Jeff (Joel McHale) watches as his crush, Britta (Gillian Jacobs), flirts with Vaughn (Eric Christian Olsen). We, the audience, don’t hear the entire exchange. You do hear Britta say, “I didn’t know that was what an asexual was.”
I did other things while enjoying the comedy since it was my fourth time watching it. But hearing this word again gave me pause. So much so that I actually rewound to listen to that moment a second time.
And, for some reason, I felt an innate need to look it up.
I paused the episode and opened Safari on my phone. I typed in the Google search box, “asexuality,” and waited as the results appeared. At the top of the page was this definition:
Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction; an asexual is someone who is not sexually attracted to anyone. 2. Asexuals can be romantically attracted to other people, for example, a biromantic asexual is someone who is not sexually attracted to anyone, but is romantically attracted to males and females. (Williams College, LGBTQ)
Ah, I get it. Asexuals don’t really do sex. I nodded as if I were a student, and my teacher used a metaphor that finally helped me understand a math problem that had been tripping me up, which happened a lot. I was terrible at math. Still am.
At least now I finally knew the general meaning. I didn’t know why this word was becoming increasingly intriguing to me. A perpetual student, I enjoy learning new things, but this term seemed so specific, and I couldn’t figure out why.
A few days later, my interest in the subject faded. For almost a solid year, the word barely crossed my mind.
One of my New Year’s resolutions in 2020 was to do a daily journaling practice. “One Page a Day,” I dubbed it, and I told myself it didn’t matter how much or how little I wrote on the page, so long as I wrote on one page a day.
I began this venture on January 7, 2020 (after being sick for the first few days of the year 😒) and maintained the practice as promised. Looking back now, I feel pretty damn proud of how I managed to discipline myself. I did over 1,000 consecutive entries back then. I no longer follow that method, but I still practice daily journaling, which includes digital morning pages and/or handwritten entries in the evening.
During the pandemic, I rewatched some of my favorite shows, including The Office, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Community. Here comes that word again: asexual. I returned to the definition and began to think about it in terms of my own life.
Over the years, I lost many wonderful male friends because, while they started developing romantic feelings for me, I could never reciprocate them. And being unable to explain why, it was easier to sever ties, which hurt, but was necessary to avoid further complications.
I also never showed much interest in pursuing romantic partners, preferring to focus on my life, goals, and dreams. When people asked me if I was seeing anyone, my response was always, “Not right now, which is fine with me.”
I was also a virgin and hadn’t done any sexual activity with anyone. Despite the message that late 90s and early 2000s movies proclaimed, I was not ashamed of my virginity. In fact, I thought it was pretty damn cool not to have done something just because everyone else was doing it or that it was some “rite of passage.”
Considering all of this, I wrote in my journal on April 21, 2020—after rambling on about my inability to sleep for the last few days—“Side note: I think I’m asexual.”
That same night, I wrote to my Pride Parade coworker,
So this warrants a longer conversation I’m sure, but I’ve been reading a lot of things recently and of course stuck in quarantine you can’t help but think about shit. Long text short: I think I’m asexual. I agree with like 95% of what it says about being one, and I weirdly don’t feel so alone anymore. In terms of how I think about things.
The next evening, I wrote to another friend.
“You’re like the second person I’ve told, but I’ve been doing a lot of reading about something recently, and I think I am slowly identifying as asexual. Not sure if you know much about it, but here is a website.”
I linked her to the Asexual Visibility and Education Network (AVEN) website.
“It definitely explains why I’ve never felt the desire to rush into relationships,” I went on. “And although I’ve dated guys, I never wanted to jump into bed with them. It also explains why I get quiet whenever we talk about sex and relationships in group chats, because I just don’t connect with it. It feels weirdly liberating to find that other people experience this, but I also don’t know how to tell people.”
Her response will forever remain ingrained in my soul.
There’s no real reason to tell anyone unless you choose to. Your orientation is your business and yours alone. It truly wouldn’t surprise me only bc [sic] you are the most authentic person I’ve ever met, and it seems to me that your soul is perfectly content the way it is. You don’t need or want validation from a sexual partner. I will say that if you think you’ve found your comfort zone, then you should explore it more.
I got sick again shortly after sharing these revelations. This time it was allergy-related. I quarantined myself for a few days, just in case, and didn't do much except sleep. My sudden discovery hung out to dry like clothes on the line. Eventually, I’d have to go out and get them. This time, the word wasn’t going away so easily.
On May 8th, I received the following text from my coworker: Happy Asexual Visibility Day!
I blushed reading the words and smiled as wide as my lips allowed. The recognition of something I had recently begun to identify with felt incredible. The moment I started feeling better, I embarked on a rigorous research endeavor.
Anyone who knows me is aware I’m a planner by nature. Obsessively so. One of my favorite quotes is, “A little planning each day keeps the overwhelm at bay.” From school to work, I always maintain some kind of planner. I thrive on structure and knowing what’s going on. When I start something new, my natural tendency is to research the hell out of it.
My decision to identify as asexual was no different. I wanted to know for sure.
I bought all the books I could find on asexuality, which were a whopping three at the time. I created a profile on AVEN’s forums and began posting various questions and experiences, to which I received supportive and similar responses. I found a dozen articles online with subjects ranging from dating as an asexual, what questions not to ask an asexual, and where asexuals stand on the LGBTQ+ front.
Reading all of this taught me that asexuality, like any other orientation, is not a one-size-fits-all.
We all have different experiences that lead us to identify with an orientation, specifically asexuality. Its complexity is tough to explain. It stems from the fact that some asexuals engage in sexual activities. And many get married and have children.
But if we don’t feel sexual attraction, how is that possible? Oh, the hours we could spend talking about this.
This is why I encourage readers to seek out additional asexual voices. There are plenty of us out there, and we’re becoming more comfortable sharing our stories. All you have to do is look. If you’re interested, I’ve curated a list of books—both fiction and nonfiction—that explore asexuality from various perspectives. You can find the list here.
Like my friend told me in her text message, “Your orientation is your business and yours alone.” What we choose to identify with may change as new experiences occur. All I can say is my experiences are exactly that: mine. I strive to share my perspectives in the way I lived them, rather than how others have or should.
But everyone has their own story, and as Brené Brown states,
What we know matters, but who we are matters more. Being rather than knowing requires showing up and letting ourselves be seen.
It may have taken me four years to learn about asexuality—and come out as ace—but I’d rather discover it later than not at all. Today, I am choosing to be seen as the proud asexual person I am.
If this post resonated with you in any way, please consider buying me a coffee. A little caffeine goes a long way for a writer, and I will be forever grateful for the fuel. ☕️