My Story

The thing about my sexuality is that, well… it isn’t. I’m asexual, which means I don’t experience sexual attraction. I’m also aromantic, which means I don’t experience romantic attraction either.

There are a lot of misconceptions about asexuality and aromanticism. Being ace, for instance, doesn’t mean that I can’t notice when someone is beautiful or good-looking. I’m easily moved by beauty, and often get flustered around beautiful people just because I’m in awe. And aromantic doesn’t mean cold or emotionless. I write poetry, love giving non-sexual physical affection, and weave clumsy flower crowns that always fall apart before I can lift them to my head. In a lot of ways, I could be called “a romantic.”

But the love I give so freely to my friends stutters and stalls out when it comes to romantic or sexual relationships. 

I dated in high school. I hadn’t learned the word “asexual” yet, let alone “aroace.” I didn’t know such a thing existed. All that I knew was that my Dear Friend was asking me out, and everyone but me wanted me to accept. His parents loved me. My parents loved him. My mother all but begged me to go out with Dear Friend, worried that if I stayed single too long, I might be left with no one to take care of me and curb my spaced-out chaos roll. And Dear Friend himself, who asked my father’s permission before showing up on my doorstep, ill with nerves and looking like a kicked puppy, had already determined that I was the love of his life and that he would crushed to death if I turned him down.

So I agreed to date him. And thus I subjected myself to two years of silently writhing in discomfort when he looked at me; silently tearing at my skin with my fingernails because I hated myself for not being able to love him back; silently feeling broken, defeated, and frightened while my body performed all the laughing, smiling, flirting motions that everyone expected from me. I let him kiss me, even though I was tense with the effort of stopping myself from recoiling. Is it normal, I wondered, to be so aware of your own thoughts when you’re being kissed? Is it normal to wish it would end? I was hyperaware of my hands and of the places on his chest and ribs where I could poke or shove or hit to get him away. I never did push back, though. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to.

Finally, after two years of trying to manufacture chemistry and force romantic feelings, I let the relationship end. Dear Friend, I decided, deserved someone who cared for him the way he cared for them. As hard as I tried, I could never be that person. A breakup is supposed to be crushing, or so I’m told, but as I drove away from that conversation, I was almost giddy with relief. I felt like myself again.

Entering college, I waded through a frenzy of freshmen convinced that they would find their soulmate in their first semester, unimpressed and vaguely annoyed. Thankfully, I was in the same dorm as a handful of friends who often invited me to their room. It was in that room that I first puzzled over dating out loud to my friends. I told them that I didn’t know what it was that made people lose all common sense around the object of their affection. I didn’t know what it was that compelled people to seek relationships fraught with drama. Or to seek a relationship at all. Or, just… relationships.

My friend, laying upside-down in her bed, grinned and peered at me through her glasses. “You sound like me,” she said. “D’you think you might be ace?”

And just like that my life changed. My friend bundled a small stack of books into my arms and told me to keep them. She started sending me memes and taking pictures whenever she saw something with a white/grey/black/purple color scheme. For the first time, I had somebody who didn’t tell me that I was crazy, or defective, or too picky, or too sensitive, or not trying hard enough. For the first time, somebody looked me in the eye and told me that I’m not crazy, I’m not defective, and I’m not the only one. Knowing there’s a whole asexual community changed my entire world. 

My sexual attraction doesn’t exist. My romantic attraction doesn’t either. But I still have plenty of love to give, and a few good friends to give it to, and you know what? That’s enough for me.

How I celebrate Pride month

June Pride Month isn’t something I usually take part in. I don’t like to draw attention to my sexuality. But every October, when Asexual Awareness Week arrives quietly and without fanfare, I get on the phone with my aspec friends. We remind each other to eat cake. We remind each other that we aren’t broken for being different, and that we’re going to be ok.