I’m Not… Straight?

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Casey, female, 21, United States.

It wasn’t until I broke up with my boyfriend that I realized I may not be entirely heterosexual.

I owe part of my self-discovery to the tumblr community. That’s where I learned that there were other sexualities and gender identities than just the two I knew, and it was simultaneously overwhelming and exciting.

I briefly heard about asexuality when I was trying to get over my heartbreak. There was something called “demisexuality” on an infographic I read, and I identified with it immediately.

All of my “non-normative” thoughts came to a peak in one second – how I was always a late bloomer, how I never had any other boyfriends growing up, how I never gave sex a second thought, how I always thought boys were nothing special, how I never experienced something foreign called “sexual attraction,” how I always wanted to marry someone I considered my best friend.

That’s when I realized I was demisexual, not heterosexual. And I could breathe now that I knew why I was different from my heterosexual friends.

But people don’t believe me when I tell them I’m asexual – that’s how I describe myself, since most people haven’t even heard of demisexuality unless I have ten minutes to explain what it is. And no stranger has time to hear my life’s story when they’re just learning my name.

So I don’t tell everyone. I’ve told my mom, my brother, my roommate, my best friends, three of my closest guy friends, and all of my followers on tumblr. It’s still mostly a secret.

It’s still a struggle when I hear that asexuality is largely ignored by both the heterosexual and non-heterosexual communities, because it means that my vivid experiences aren’t considered valid. It hurts when people marginalize me, telling me “it’s just a phase” or asking me “so, you reproduce by budding?”

But knowing there are asexual communities and other demisexuals in the world – including one of my good friends from school – makes me feel better. And knowing that I’m finally comfortable with my sexuality (or lack thereof) is enough to make up for the daily struggles.

Completing the Remaing Part of Me

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Jose, male, 20, Peru.

I started questioning my sexuality back in my first years of high school, when lots of my classmates suddenly got girlfriends (I should add that I attended an all-boys school) that they would brag about. They obviously had a different and “better” status now that they were not single: they weren’t little kids anymore. Most of these relationships were really fleeting as they were only based on looks and popularity. I should also add that there was an all-girls school close to mine, which made dating and the whole process or relationships easier. Even though I barely talked to any of the girls there, I did know who the “popular” ones were as my classmates would always talk about them. I started to wonder why those relationships had to be so shallow and not based on love, which obviously made no sense for someone who naively believed in that love you see in those good movies (aka me).

I felt pretty awkward and left-out when most classmates would talk about which girl they found hotter, which one was the “easiest,” etc. My idea of attraction or love didn’t really go that way, I was more focused on finding another girl like me, someone quiet yet kind who valued the inside rather than the outside. Sex wasn’t even on my mind; I actually felt pretty disgusted by the whole idea of being naked with another naked person. Obviously it didn’t help that the “popular” guys would make fun of these quiet girls, saying some of them were ugly, that they were “nobody” and it wasn’t worth hanging out with them.

As time went by I gradually accepted the fact that I could also have a relationship with someone of the same gender. I never really felt attracted (physically or emotionally) to any of the friends I had because I felt there had to be a special bond first, which never happened; let alone to my other classmates, who had totally different personalities and opposite views on life.

Once college started I made new friends, which included a girl who I stayed close with. I was pretty amazed at how similar we were, how we liked the same music, how we laughed at the same jokes, etc. We would talk a lot and hang out as well, all by ourselves. It had never crossed my mind that we were dating, we were just hanging out, and sharing nice moments. Everyone would suspect and said that we both liked each other, and stuff like that (people never seem to believe in friendship between a guy and a girl). Nevertheless, I started to like her. I was not in love, but I really liked her as a friend and enjoyed her company a lot. We would talk more, hang out more… I gradually became more disappointed when I got to know her more, though. I realized she wasn’t the person I used to know in the beginning, and whenever we talked, we didn’t really talk about deeper things (e.g: what we wanted to do in the future, what made us happy, etc.) but more about petty matters. We gradually drifted apart because I somehow felt lied to, on how she was showing another side of her I didn’t even know existed. We’re still “friends”, and occasionally talk, but again, always about petty matters, not really about deeper things.

I also met an asexual friend in college, but I misunderstood the meaning of that word. I’d always thought it meant someone who did not want any type of relationship with anyone whatsoever. It wasn’t until some time (and recently) that I decided to find out more about who I really was and surprise! I was a biromantic asexual. I just wished I could’ve asked this friend more about asexuality, but either way I feel happy now that I really know who I am.

Despite not having had any luck in love, I’d like to believe that one day I will bond with the right person and eventually will have someone to love.

Wish you all good luck and don’t be ashamed of who you are!

Oblivious: life and relationships of a (romantic?) ace

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Anonymous, female, 26, United States.

Since I was little, I’ve always been somewhat of a misfit. I always acted older than I was, and my whole childhood was a struggle to be seen as an adult. I never doubted that I would get married someday, and even proposed to a boy in my in kindergarten class. He rejected me, saying “I can’t say yes. We have our whole lives ahead of us; there is so much we have to learn still, and we will both change a lot.” I was sad, but I knew that he had the truth of it.

I got bullied later in elementary school because I didn’t know how to read or do arithmetic in 3rd grade. When the material was finally presented to me in a format I understood, I rapidly improved, reaching the top of the class by 5th grade. Succeeding in school became my life, a way of proving that I wasn’t the worthless child everyone had accused me of being. I only ever had a few friends – ones who were willing to look past my rough exterior.

Most people seem to think that middle school was one of the worst times in their life, but it was definitely not for me. I had finally succeeded scholastically, had a couple of guys who were good friends, and was able to pursue my hobbies as well – everything was fantastic. However, I just didn’t understand most of the other students. They were madly chasing each other, but there was no purpose to it. What good is being boyfriend and girlfriend unless you are looking for a lifelong partner? My confusion was not helped by the fact that I couldn’t understand the motives of other people. I firmly believed that my peers acted randomly and had absolutely no concept that they might be rapidly pairing up because of some base urge, newly emerging in their hormone laden brains. It seemed more like the “cooties” games of elementary school than anything; immature and irrational. I was obviously just more mature than my peers. I had always been more mature than my peers.

Boys literally fought over me later in middle school. I physically assaulted them in response, angered that they had “betrayed” me. This happened again my freshman year of high school. Now, I began to question what their goal was. How were they trying to manipulate me with this fighting? I couldn’t fathom that they (or anyone) would be genuinely interested in me (or anyone). Dating was just some kind of predatory game played only by monsters and fools.

In my sophomore year, I began playing D&D with seven or so guys. It was great (except for that one wizard with his stupid phallus-shaped fireballs). I had a lot of fun until the DM sent me a late-night instant message saying that he loved me. I quit playing D&D and didn’t talk to him for two years. He had stalked other women, and I suspected he played the monster rather than the fool in the dating game.

Things changed when I turned 17. Another guy I had been good friends with asked me out. I was shocked that I didn’t feel like slugging him – I was actually kind of happy? Happy in a way that I had never experienced before. I thought it was True Love. Even so, it was three months before I let him kiss me, and that’s as far as we went. We dated for one and a half years before breaking it off. He said he didn’t know that he could truthfully say he loved me, and that he hadn’t expected our relationship to last as long as it did. In the end, it was an amiable break-up, and I was still friends with him when we went to college.

College was very hard for me. I had gone to a very nerd-rich high school, where the topic of sex didn’t come up all that often (it hadn’t come up at all in middle school). Only one couple, who were dating long-term and planned to get married, mentioned it on a regular basis. In college, though, it was everywhere. People who I met and seemed like decent people suddenly started talking about sex in group conversations. I was horrified. I cried when a girl that I had become friends with allowed a large group of guys to watch porn in her dorm room. Everyone except me was having sex, masturbating, watching porn, or condoning it. Why would they choose to be this way when they could be upright people instead?

For the first time since I was a little girl, getting bullied at school for being ‘stupid,’ I felt alone. My isolation was made worse when people started calling me “sensitive” and “prude.” With one word, they would completely dismiss my feelings, while spouting off how “tolerant” they were of people different from them. It made me angry.

Another good friend of mine asked me out. I cried and wailed and punched my pillow in frustration. He had been like a brother to me – what was wrong with everyone? In the end, I said yes, because I figured I wouldn’t have so many emotions about it if I didn’t like him. Maybe. I had no clue. He ticked off all the boxes in my list of qualities my future partner needed to have, anyway (no allergies, doesn’t watch sports, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, no drugs, has hobbies and interests of his own, doesn’t play too many video games).

It was rough at first, but after half a year, I felt like I loved him and could share the rest of my life with him. We got engaged shortly after that. We were engaged for 2.5 years, so that I’d be out of college by the time we got married. With this relationship, I understood that guys need physical release, and I felt guilty about having my betrothed masturbate or wet himself at night, so I learned how to use my hands to please him. It was awkward and frustrating, but also intriguing (at first). I initiated some things to do with my own body out of curiosity later, but I was never interested in penetrative sex.

After we were married, we waited three months to do anything, because I didn’t want to ruin our (delayed) honeymoon abroad. I was running a 104 fever and was somewhat delirious when I decided, at age 22, that if I wasn’t ready now, I probably never would be. I felt guilty for not ‘putting out’ for my husband, which drove me to make the decision. This was probably the worst decision I have ever made, and it is my single regret in life that I ever did it. Whatever people say about it and “other” sex being the same, it was definitely not for me. It was soul-crushing, and many further attempts to try different positions, different lubricants, and toys sent me into a depressive tailspin for the next one and a half years. I did Google searches on “regret sex” and other terms, and went through thousands of pages of results, to the end of Google, without finding a single other person with a shared experience. I felt like something was wrong with me, because I thought I was completely alone in the world. I turned to doctors and psychiatrists for answers, but after multiple pelvic exams (which make me cry every time) and psych visits, I had a bill of clean health, and confused healthcare professionals. My college campus was very liberal, and mentioning not liking sex was even more taboo than being publicly homophobic. “If you don’t like it, you’re doing it wrong” was the war-banner of my peers, so I had no-one to talk to, either.

I had an open-minded female anthropologist friend accompany me on a summer research excursion. I was able to talk to her about my problems, and I felt better because of her acceptance of me for who I was. She is polyromantic, and asked all newlyweds why they chose to commit to monogamy. She confided in me that my answer had been the only one that had ever made sense to her (“because we love eachother, and I want to be with him forever” – wtf do other people say?) and that she didn’t think there was necessarily anything wrong with me or my relationship. I began to feel better.

It wasn’t until I was 24 – two full years after I had lost my virginity – that I discovered the term ‘asexuality’. It was a game-changer. I was finally able to find words to communicate how I felt, and find people with shared experiences. My husband and I were finally able to understand each others’ needs and that our mismatched sexualities went deeper than just libido. We talked it out, came up with firm boundaries, and both compromised on what we were willing to do. We no longer have penetrative sex, but have found other activities that make him feel close to me. I need cuddle time without the threat of harassment, and I have that in spades now! We are both finally happy, and our relationship is so much stronger for having gone through this struggle.

Coming Out–To Myself And to Everyone Else

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mynameisenvy, female, 19, United States.

I first came across the term “asexuality” about three months ago, and identified with it immediately, though I didn’t admit that to myself until about a month later, and didn’t come out to even my closest friends or family until recent weeks.

I’m nearly 20 years old, and for most of my life, I just assumed I was a “late bloomer,” and that eventually the hormones would kick in and I’d be attracted to somebody the way my friends were. That didn’t happen at all through middle school or high school, and now that I’m in college I was beginning to get frustrated. I do want a relationship—I want to get married, buy a house with somebody, file joint taxes, maybe even adopt kids. I want all of that someday, but the only people I could imagine that kind of future with were my best friends, and I definitely don’t see either of them that way.

This was really brought into focus for me when, after my jiu jitsu class, my sparring partner asked me out for coffee. He had been interesting to talk with thus far, and I enjoyed his company. However, it was clear when he asked me out, it meant more in his mind than just wanting to have a conversation longer than what we could fit between grappling attacks. And I was under the impression that to go out with someone, you should at least feel somewhat sexually attracted to them, because that’s what pop culture and conversations with those around me thus far had told me. So I told him no and stayed up most of the night wondering why.

That’s when I first heard about asexuality—it is possible I’d seen the term before, but that it never registered because I didn’t know what it meant—it came up in a Tumblr post about the “fictitious trifecta” (asexuality, pansexuality, and bisexuality) of sexualities people like to argue don’t exist. After doing some digging, I found that I strongly identified with almost everything I found under the asexuality tag and on other sites online.

I didn’t like the idea at all at first. When I was younger, even though I supported gay rights, I used to hope upon hopes that I wasn’t gay (I’d already noticed that I wasn’t nearly as interested in guys as everyone else my age seemed to be) because with the career path I wanted, finding romance was going to be complicated enough. I didn’t want to make it more difficult. And being asexual was, in my head, even worse because nobody knew what it was. And at the time, I still had a hard time believing that a romantic relationship could be meaningful if not consummated with sex, because that’s how I understood relationships to work. I was terrified that my relationships would forever be stunted.

This went on for about a month: I would actively try to find somebody attractive—celebrities, people my friends pointed out, people I knew—and all were equally weird and awkward. When I finally revisited the idea, I was more receptive and more comfortable jumping into the AVEN community and forums. I came out to my two best friends almost immediately, because I needed them to help me figure things out. The both already knew what asexuality was because of Tumblr and they were very helpful and supportive. Coming out to them kind of doubled as fully coming out to myself.

It’s been weeks since I first talked to them, and I just came out to my parents a few days ago. In the past weeks, I’ve become much more comfortable with my sexuality. I’ve learned, both from the people in the asexual community who are in happy relationships, and from conversations with allosexual friends, that sex isn’t a necessary building block in a relationship, and a lack of it doesn’t stunt anything. I’ve realized that identifying as asexual doesn’t close any doors to me; rather it reveals that while media and pop culture had had me walking into a wall, convinced that there must be a door there because that’s where most peoples’ doors are, I could find a similar path just a little to the right. Being asexual doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship; identifying as such simply helps me to define what kind of relationship I want, where to find it, and that that idea of a relationship is not wrong or broken.

Coming out to my parents was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. I’m the oldest child, and therefore the one people most expect to get married and have kids first, and if it took me months to realize that I could have the relationship I wanted without sex, how could I convince my parents of that when they had never so much as heard of asexuality before?

In the end, neither was hostile or unaccepting—they are great parents and I know they love me—though it was clear that one understood better than the other. They told me not to close my mind off to other possibilities and that I am still developing and you never know. And that’s fine with me. If I turn out to be demisexual or gray-ace, well that would certainly make my life easier. And if not, then they’ll get used to the idea.

I hope to become something of an advocate for asexual awareness in the future. There doesn’t seem to be a group at my school so I intend to start one, and I hope to start getting asexuality represented with either the LGBTQ group or the queer group on campus (it doesn’t seem to be agreed upon whether asexuality qualifies as queer). Because finding a group to identify with has been such a relief for me, I hope to bring that option to others who, like I was, are becoming confused and frustrated with the sexuality they don’t know they have.

Assuming you are a “normal heterosexual girl” for far too long: Emily’s story

Emily, female, 24, United States.

Growing up, I was a normal heterosexual girl. Or so I thought. I picked out a boy to have a crush on in 5th grade, because everyone was beginning to have boys they “liked.” Not that too many people around me were all that vocal about it, but I think I felt pressure from my mom to have someone I “liked” in that way. We were growing up, beginning puberty, and before long our “raging hormones” would take over.

Except… I never noticed that extreme change. I thought the one or two “couples” who were actually “dating” in middle school were freaks. What did dating mean, for them? Holding hands? I doubted they actually kissed. We were too young.

I watched a lot of TV. I judged what dating was from TV, movies, and a few of my favourite books too. It involved some pretty sexist assumptions like the guy always paying, always driving, etc. It involved being nervous about sex before the big “first time,” which made sense to me. Because I was certainly not ready for sex.

When I was 12 years old, after I’d finished my second sex-ed course ever in my life, I realized something. They had never actually taught it in school, and I had no idea what this elusive sex thing really was. Sure, it somehow involved a penis and a female’s genital area as well. But how did it actually work? You’re kissing and… suddenly your body just “knows what to do?” I had some curiosity about sex, and a lot of confusion. They mainly taught “puberty & reproduction ed,” not sex ed, to my frustration.

Eventually I learned from my dad that the lyric “she goes down on me” in the song “Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind, one of my favourite songs, meant “she performs oral sex on me.”

I slowly learned that it was “normal” for guys to masturbate to porn quite frequently. I learned all sorts of things about male sexuality. But I figured I was kind of normal for someone of the other gender. I figured no females got what all the sex hype was really about, none of this stuff was intuitively exciting, no girls were desperate to see guys naked, etc. None of my friends were vocal about anything. If they called a guy attractive, or perhaps “cute” or “hot” I figured they were just drawn to their looks in some vague way. Not that they had any real secret desires for sex!

I was very confused by the fact that girls ended up stuck in the position of having babies while still in high school. Why didn’t people just wait till they were grown up to have sex? To me, having sex, at least when too young, seemed almost like smoking cigarettes. Both were discouraged, and were basically dangerous, and it was so easy to just NOT… (I didn’t realize that people actually were tempted to have sex even before their first try, unlike before their first cigarette.)

I didn’t date in high school, but that wasn’t that weird. It didn’t really feel like everyone had a date. A lot of people, sure, especially by the time senior Prom rolled around, but not everyone. I wasn’t that weird. So I didn’t think to question my default straight status (placed upon me by heteronormativity) much. I considered girls briefly but I figured if I was a lesbian (and I didn’t really know bi was a valid option) I’d know. I’d have such a strong crush on a girl that I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. That clearly wasn’t me.

I attended a college. Lots of schoolwork, not a lot of friends, except for the online variety. I enjoyed vidding in my spare time. It felt like age 20 was kind of when it became too old to have never been kissed, so I was a little embarrassed, but it wasn’t a major stressor for me. I didn’t manage to be very social in school. I was very social in the online vidding-community, though. Also in the online atheism & skeptic community once I finished my Comparative Religions course during my sophomore year. “Angie the Anti-theist” on twitter mentioned that she had asexual friends. I asked her what that meant. She sent me to AVEN’s homepage.

I realized some of it applied to me, but closed the page and waited a few more years before really taking it seriously. After I graduated, at age 22, enough was enough and I needed to start dating. I used OkCupid. My first date was wonderful; we talked for hours. But when the guy kissed me… nothing. No feeling of excitement. No “chemistry.” Just disappointment. We ended up not going on a 4th date. I obsessed over AVEN’s forums, looking for an answer to that elusive question: “What is sexual attraction?” (And is it true that I don’t feel it? That I’ve never been attracted to anyone in that way? Probably.)

It took almost another whole year for me to find another guy on OkCupid (mainly because a lot of the year I wasn’t even trying). We hit it off instantly. I liked him so much just from our first day stumbling across each other’s profiles and messaging a bit. We were perfect for each other. I was 23, he was 22. We were each other’s first boyfriend/girlfriend. But he liked kissing me and I always felt like pulling away. I didn’t ever feel aroused. Not with him. Not when reading erotic fanfiction. Not when trying to fantasize, whatever that meant.

I admitted I’d never masturbated. I told him I feared I might be asexual, but I hoped I was just demisexual. I explained what it meant. I sent him online links. He asked if my religious upbringing had lingering effects, that that was why I never masturbated. I told him while I was raised Catholic, no, I was not repressing any urges. They just weren’t there. My upbringing was never that strict. My dad and boyfriend wondered if I should see a doctor and get my hormones checked. I wondered too. But ultimately the asexual online community assured me that if I had no other reason than my asexuality to question it, then it probably was unnecessary to check, and besides, low sex drive was different to no sexual attraction.

I decided if I tried sexual stuff, maybe I’d like it – or maybe it’d prove that I really was asexual. Sure enough, my first time being naked with my boyfriend was enough for me to feel pretty darn sure. We ended up doing naked stuff on two separate occasions, but never getting too far. My boyfriend was respectful and understanding every step of the way, although a bit disappointed himself. He found me so sexy. He was completely in love with me. He masturbated to fantasies of me orgasming when he performed oral sex on me, or me being the dominate one and him being submissive, or… He couldn’t stop thinking about me. But I didn’t relate. At all. I wished I did. But the more I looked at tumblr’s asexual tag, the more I realized I was asexual and it was okay to want to remain a virgin for my entire life if that’s what I chose. I couldn’t see myself ever compromising for the sake of sex, in order to make any romantic relationship work. I’d much rather find a way to live my life sex-free. We broke up amicably. My boyfriend understood that it wasn’t my fault that I was asexual, it was just who I was. We both had seen the break-up coming as soon as I didn’t enjoy the “foreplay” or whatever you want to call what we did. We both had kind of gone into it knowing that if this experiment in getting me turned on didn’t work, nothing would, and my boyfriend needed to find someone else to have his first real sexual relationship with.

Not too long before my 24th birthday, I freely embraced the asexual label. I’d been afraid of it. I was so used to being a straight girl. But coming out as asexual to my friends and family has been empowering. I don’t feel awkwardly unsure anymore as to why I never was all that interested in dating. I don’t feel scared of sex anymore. I understand my thoughts and feelings better than ever. I am sure of my identity in a way I didn’t even realize that I wasn’t, before. And it’s a really nice feeling. Sure, not everyone really understands my asexuality. But because I’m sure about who I am, I can confidently clarify the truth. (More and more confidentially and clearly with each time I practice coming out to someone.)

I wish I’d learned about the asexuality label sooner. I hope less girls grow up like me, not realizing that it is not the norm for people of the female persuasion to experience absolutely no sexual attraction nor sexual desire. But rather that it means a separate sexual orientation label fits you, and that you are different, but that there are others like you too. So you’re not alone.