How I Realised I Was Asexual
I had always known I was different, from the age of about five. Not in an arrogant way, but more of an insecure existential angst kind of way. I could never figure out why I seemed to think and feel so differently from everyone else and this feeling of being out of place haunted me in the small hours of the night. I’m sure many, if not all, of you can relate. But perhaps what you cannot relate to is what I would later discover to be my asexual identity.
I have never felt sexual attraction to another person. Seriously. Never. I liked the concept of sex in romantic movies and novels, the idea of being so close to another person that you became mutually vulnerable and expressed that love through physical intimacy. But I didn’t understand how anyone could be ‘hot’. Sure, I saw people and thought they were aesthetically attractive and that might lead to wondering about their personality and character, but never has that lead to the thought ‘I would like to take off my clothes and engage in sexual activity with this person’. In fact, when I eventually convinced myself to say yes to dating someone, purely because I was expected to, and we did end up engaging in said behaviour (again, because I was expected to) I found it confronting, uncomfortable, often repulsive and sometimes traumatic. But being raised in an over-sexualised society my response wasn’t to discuss this with him (although I sometimes ponder how he managed to remain blissfully aware of my feelings, even when I did communicate my disinterest), but rather to assume that I was somehow ‘wrong’, ‘broken’ or ‘repressed’ and quietly acquiesce to his advances unless it physically hurt. Again, a very warped view thanks to the toxicity of the patriarchy meant that I felt like I couldn’t refuse sex unless it was beyond my pain tolerance.
At this stage I had heard the word ‘asexual’ before and internalised that it was something negative, akin to a deficiency. Upon hearing of my engagement to that same partner, a high school friend had remarked “we thought you were asexual” and I remember my partner asking whether I was asexual when I mentioned I had no fantasies or kinks, nor any desire to do ‘research’. My understanding was so limited, I equated my desire to show love through sex to being the same as sexual attraction and so I assured him that I mustn’t be ace because I wanted to be intimate with him. I think some part of me knew that wasn’t quite right, there was a definite uncomfortable feeling in my gut, but I told myself I was just scared and it would be fine.
It wasn’t.
Thanks to my religious upbringing (which I have since vigorously questioned), we had not had penetrative sex before our wedding night. Once we were married, he also began to ask me to do things he had previously said he wasn’t interested in, things that made me want to throw up. But how could I say that to someone? I pushed it all down and made compromises, excuses, justifications. I tried so hard to make myself enjoy it. I didn’t even say anything when he went too far, not until one fateful night…
He had been drinking, more than I realised. The pain, the pressure of his body bearing down on me and the way he responded with “relax”…I felt a bolt of searingly cold fear and then he finally stopped, but it was too late. The damage was done, the trust broken and months of nightmares ensued. It was only weeks after, when I had told him it was over, that I realised there had been at least one time before that when he had also crossed a line, but I had told myself it was my fault. He was just challenging me, right? Trying to help. Yeah, right.
But, despite the trauma, this is what finally compelled me to allow all those gut feelings and quiet questions to rise to the surface. I knew I never wanted to have sex again, that I had never enjoyed it or wanted it. I did every quiz I could find on the internet and with acceptance of my sexual orientation came what felt like a jigsaw piece slotting into place. Being ace wasn’t an illness, it didn’t mean there was something horribly wrong with me and it explained part of why I had felt so different for so long; I was part of a minority. The relief!
It has taken me the last two years since that realisation to fully accept that part of myself and to come out to my family and close friends. I understand why I always found kissing and sex scenes to be awkward and I can enjoy those films more now that I have acknowledged that truth. I don’t feel pressured into being in a relationship and I know that if I do have another romantic relationship communication and listening to my gut will be vital. I wish that there had been education, it would have saved me so much pain and heartbreak and I fervently hope for decent sex ed in schools that covers more than hetero (man/woman) and allo (sexual) normative relationships. Because asexual people make up between 1–7% of the population and spending twenty five years assuming you’re broken is not okay.
