I’m Not Attracted to You, Chris Hemsworth… (Or Anyone Else, For That Matter)

My life as an asexual

I remember the first time I heard of asexuality.

I wrinkled my nose.

“That’s weird,” I said, with all the finality my 15-year-old self could muster. “That’s just weird.”

Part of me wonders if my own knee-jerk reaction to the concept of having no sexual interest was just a facade to display, to prevent me from realizing that I had no sexual interest myself.

The other part of me wants to say that since that’s the accepted response to asexuality now, perhaps my 15-year-old self was ahead of the times.

Whatever the reason, I was vehemently opposed to the concept of asexuality up until (shamefully) the ripe age of twenty. Other people could be asexual, I thought. Other people could. But me? No thank you. I was a nice, normal lesbian.

Unfortunately for my past self, I am not actually a “nice, normal lesbian” — whatever that is. Instead, I am a nice, normal, 22-year-old asexual woman, and I refuse to apologize for it any time soon.

I first noticed something was a little different in middle school. I was not permitted to take the offered sex ed. My Mormon father and Catholic stepmother are to thank for that, but there was nothing stopping me from eagerly partaking in secondhand conversations about what they learned. A lot of what they repeated was wildly inaccurate, but some was true. Enough for me to be concerned about being an adult. You want to stick what in my where? No thank you.

Granted, I was 12 at the time. You don’t know much about the world at 12 years old, despite thinking that you do — and believe me, I thought I did. My preteen self didn’t like the idea of sex, and I’m willing to give that a pass because of my age.

The feeling, however, has lingered.

Asexuality is, in essence, the lack of feeling any sexual attraction. It is not celibacy; it is not an inability to have sex; and it is not a choice. Many asexuals do have sex, and they even enjoy it! They have the right parts, and they have the physiological responses necessary. Sex-positive asexuals willingly participate in sex for any variety of reasons. They find joy in sex. They just don’t experience the bada-bing that most people experience in looking at someone they’re attracted to. That’s the difference. The act versus the attraction.

The attraction is what I lack. The attraction and the desire to overcome that. I’m what’s called a sex-neutral asexual. I’m not opposed to sex, like a sex-repulsed asexual, I am more along the lines of “meh. If it floats your boat, that’s fine.”

It’s also commonly joked that cake is better than sex — something I agree with without a single trace of irony. Hey — cake is better than sex. Have you even had cake?

Sex just doesn’t float my boat. It never has, and I think I’ve always known that about myself along the line, even though I didn’t know quite what to call it. I always treated it as a shadowy monster lurking behind me that I just had to overcome to be a normal human again. That’s what I told myself — I just had to grow up, get over it. I couldn’t stand being a virgin anymore, so I just had to “get it over with” and then I would find all the enjoyment from sex that my friends did.

That desperate search for the same sexual enjoyment as my high school friends lead me to some dark places. My first time with my high school girlfriend was a mostly coerced event that I forced myself to participate in because I wanted to be “normal” so badly.

And on it went.

From my first boyfriend, who tried to convince me I “just needed” sex to be happy, to my second girlfriend, less persuasive but more irritated when I tried to confess that I didn’t think I was ready for sex. It went on. And it always featured me, grasping at something, anything to hide my shameful aberration that was my lack of sex drive.

It culminated, however, at the tender age of 20, with a casual conversation about masturbation habits with my two best friends.

Before I could stop myself, my mouth took off.

“More than once a day?” I asked one of them, disbelievingly. It didn’t seem possible that you could even feel the urge that often. “I do it maybe once a month.” And it feels like a chore, is the addendum I managed to not say.

They both stared at me quizzically.

“I didn’t know you were asexual,” one finally spoke up brightly. “Good for you!”

I didn’t even get to protest — no, I’m not, I’m a nice, normal lesbian — before a feeling of serenity absolutely settled on me.

Yes, my brain was screaming despite the knee-jerk horror of the label before. Yes, that makes perfect sense!

Many describe the sense of euphoria that Ecstasy brings as a “sweet release.” Now, I’ve never done drugs myself, but I’m certain that Ecstasy has nothing on the relief of knowing I’m O.K., knowing I’m actually normal, after so many years of self-doubt.

It was beautiful.

Short-lived, but still. Beautiful.

Knowing who you are is half the battle, they say. And maybe it’s true. But they fail to mention that the half a battle that remains is just as hard as it was before.

I made the mistake of trying to come out to a friend. She didn’t understand, and it was the most crushing blow I’ve ever been dealt.

“Sex makes us human,” she scoffed. “How do you expect to maintain a relationship without it?”

My now ex-boyfriend agreed, although perhaps that was for the best.

“I just need someone, you know, that is, you know….” he said, trailing off, but the message was perfectly clear.

Asexuality isn’t normal.

Not normal? It has to be normal! What else have I been searching for my whole life? Why would I be so relieved if it wasn’t normal?

No. Instead of dissolving into the mess I was before I found my label, I (thankfully) got angry.

Not normal?

Yeah, bullshit.

In truth, asexuality is completely normal, and that’s not coming from just me, either. Recently, “symptoms” associated with asexuality were clarified in the DSM-V. Next to “lack of sexual attraction,” the book states that if that lack is not a bother, and/or the person self-identifies as asexual, then those symptoms are not diagnosable.

I don’t know about you, but those words speak volumes on how normal my asexuality is. It is no longer a diagnosable and “treatable condition.” It is an identity. And just like being gay, bisexual, pansexual, or transgender, it deserves respect.

That respect may be a long time coming, especially considering that asexuality is one of the most misunderstood orientations and is the most discriminated against, especially by people also in the LGBTQA+ community.

But, in the face of all that, I think it’s important for other asexuals to be able to claim their identity. I think it’s necessary for asexuals to know that despite the blowback, it’s normal to be asexual. It’s healthy to be asexual. And above all — there is nothing wrong with you.

Look at me. After years of desperate searching, months of agony, and a five-second snap decision not even made by me at first, I know who I am.

I am not a nice, normal lesbian.

I am a kick-ass, normal, thriving, happy asexual.

And anyone who wants to tell me different, well.

Tell me as I eat this cake.