Slowly, then all at once

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Chelsie, Female, 16, England

Content note: mention of rape/sexual assault

I always had little crushes on boys through middle and high school, but if we were ever to become ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’, things got weird. With the first few boyfriends, I completely avoided them in order to not have to do ‘touchy relationship stuff’. In year 7, I stayed inside the maths room the whole of  break because my ‘boyfriend’ was waiting outside to kiss me. I was frequently called ‘frigid’. I then got a ‘boyfriend’ again in year 7, who I told that I would only date him if we did not have to kiss. Then in year 9 I had another ‘boyfriend’ and for the first time, he meant A LOT to me. We held hands and that was it. We broke up soon after, and I continued to like him for a year when we went out again. This time he kept on trying to kiss me and even though I really liked him, I would turn my head away every time, not through embarrassment, just because I did not want to. We broke up shortly after. I wish we were still friends because he’s pansexual, which is like the opposite to what I am, in a way – but I know he would understand my decisions (we’ve been through similar stuff).
In year 10, I got my last boyfriend, and I say last both because he was the last person i ‘went out with’ and also the last person I ever will. I knew this one would be long term, and it was- 1.5 years. I knew I had to kiss him so I did it and I expected first kisses to feel good but it didn’t, not in the slightest, and I expected it was just because kisses were so hyped up. I thought they might get better but they didn’t. I hated every kiss. It was terribly boring, not in the least fun, more of a chore done only for him. Anything sexual was horrible and boring and he was convinced I had no feelings for him because i never ever wanted to be affectionate. I would avoid kissing at all costs and as the relationship progressed, I realized I could gradually avoid holding his hand and hugging, all those little things i didn’t like.
On March 8th or 9th, i forget which, he basically had sex with me against my consent, in my bedroom after sleeping round (in a different room). It was enough to put me off entirely. I’ve never wanted to have sex, I’ve never wanted to kiss or do sexual things, and the rape strengthened that distaste for it by a whole lot.
I am now able to confidently call myself asexual, borderline aromantic,  I’d say. I have no belief in love now, I find it really, really stupid and fake in a way (I hope this doesn’t offend anyone). ‘Love’ is basically like a lustful friendship, so what is the point? I’m happy just having close guy friends. I find some people attractive, but it doesn’t make me want to be their girlfriend or anything. I don’t feel ‘love’ for anyone and I haven’t in a looong time. I barely did with my ex after the first few months of his controlling behaviour.

What is “hot”???

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Jessy, 15, Female, United States

With the heteronormativity that’s impounded into us, I’ve gone most of my life assuming I was straight. Everyone I’d ever liked was a boy, so naturally I was heterosexual, that’s just how I assumed it worked.

I didn’t really start to notice a difference in me compared to others until around sixth or seventh grade. It was about the time all the girls started to get noticeable boobs and boys learned there was more to their penises than peeing and people were beginning to embrace the lack of clothing associated with summer. Girls wore bikinis and the boys worked out to get abs and everyone thought everyone looked “hot.”

I never understood “hot.” No one had used hot before and it didn’t make sense. It was clearly not synonymous with “cute” or “pretty” or “handsome”, and it seemed to be extremely associated with people’s bodies. I thought maybe I’d get it later on, I went through middle school, started high school and then everything was so much more… there.

“Hot” was accompanied by “sexy” which made even less sense. I could acknowledge someone has a gorgeous face or is well dressed or fits their general look, but anything associated with the attractiveness of ones body was so weird to me.

The first couple months of sophomore year lunch were spent being bombarded by shirtless football boys coming inside for lunch whilst trying to beat the heat for as long as possible. My friends  (those attracted to males, I mean) would immediately drop the conversation and very obviously stare at the boys’ open chests. I would have to sit and wait for everyone to re-dress so I could get back to the topic at hand.

I had known the term asexuality from Tumblr, and other sites, but had never looked into what is was but that was about the time I did. I ran across it reading and decided maybe it would be good to familiarize myself with it. And then it was me. Just this was what I was. It all made sense.

Of course I questioned stuff for a long time, I wasn’t really sure if it was me, it felt suspicious; I identified with it too well.

But recently I’ve just completely embraced it, and I’ve read all sorts of articles and forums on AVEN. The entire community is so wonderful, and I’ve found people who I identify and even if I’ll never understand what “hot” is, I’ve found lots of other people who don’t either.

It’s kind of amazing.

Am I wrong? – A poem

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Courtney, 16, Female, United States

content note: rape/sexual assault

My mother was raped when she was young and so I have faced her influence
While still being me and knowing myself and my desires (or so I hope)
Sex was always scary, I feared for my life and still do to this day
I am uncertain about the future, I am afraid of my own body
What can I expect tomorrow? Today? How can I make sense of yesterday?
Am I wrong to be distrustful? Am I wrong to be afraid?

When I found out about asexuality, it was as if a door had opened
I had seen the light, I found my life, I had meaning
I came out almost immediately, I was so excited to have found, well, me.
I told everyone who asked, and brought it up in conversations about relationships
I was confident, suddenly unafraid, I knew what to do, I knew how to live.
Was I wrong to be happy? Was I wrong to believe that my life had changed for the better?

But then I again found darkness.
Swiftly as the door had opened, it had again closed, leaving behind a void of uncertainty.
I faced harassment, constant, from the internet, from my friends, from the world.
I felt trapped again, suddenly horribly aware, suddenly floored by my reality
I didn’t feel safe anymore, correctional rape became my fear again
I thought I had avoided it now that sex was not part of my life
But I was wrong
I can trust no one
Am I wrong to think this way? Am I wrong to be wrong? Am I wrong to believe I am a victim?

I experienced my relationships falling apart
People tell me I’m lying
People say I’m ignorant, that I don’t know yet, that I’m too young and will soon learn
As if sex is this treasured gold, this diamond in the rough, this blissful existence
As though I haven’t found the light, as if I’m some child who still has so much to learn
Like I still haven’t mastered by ABCs, how to multiply by two, how to count down from 10
Am I wrong to not want sex? Am I wrong to think that I have already found my light?

I feel like I need to close the door once opened.
I feel my life, my walls, my mind caving in on me
I feel like reality has become a blockade rather than an acceptance of who I am
Who am I anyway? Can I even trust myself? Who is right?
Why was I born this way? Why can’t I feel what normal people feel?
Why am I me?
Am I wrong to exist this way? Am I wrong to be different?

I want to love, I want to be loved, I want to have children and be held like I am the world
I want to be looked at as if I am the one star in the sky
I want to be talked about as if I am the gem I’m meant to be
I want to be told I matter, that I am the light in one person’s life
I want to hold my child, my baby in my hands, my own, my life, my little spirit to care for
I want to walk down the aisle, feel beautiful, look into the eyes of my lover and feel infinite
I want to wake up every morning to the face of someone who makes my heart flutter
I want to fall asleep next to another heartbeat, beating for me, beating for each other
I want to experience the clench in my stomach that tells me I am right, not that I am afraid
I want my body to tell me, “It’s okay Courtney. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
I want these tears, these salty fountains from my eyes, to be wiped away by love’s thumb
I want to feel the warmth that tells me that I am fine, the warmth of someone who loves me
Am I wrong to want those things?

But then like Sylvia Plath, I face the dark ceiling without a star
Like Emily Dickinson, I face oppression
Like Edgar Allen Poe I am the raven crying “nevermore”
Like the President, I am under a microscope, faced with enormous responsibility
Responsibility to be someone who I am not
The calling of the world to tend to them and their needs and not my own
That myself is not enough and I have to be two people, I have to carry double the weight
A weight my shoulders just cannot carry
A weight that lies in the pit of my being
A weight that tell my soul that it is not real, that i must carry this impossible duty instead
The forced, supposed, societal obligation that tells me to be, again, someone who I am not
Am I wrong to not want to face this crippling duty – This burden that is the “okay” identity?
Am I wrong to be burdened with my own identity?

The world wants me to be one way, but I am the other
I want to be a part of the queer community
I want to be accepted
But they are accepted on the grounds that sex is sex, that your body is for your use
But I feel wrong.
Sex is not relevant, nor will it ever be a part of my life no matter which way the tide pulls
So do I really belong? Anywhere? In myself? In a community meant to be for people like me?
Do I have the rights to this body? To my attributes and my failures? To my organs?
Someone else wants them, but I am supposedly not using them correctly.
Is it fair to keep them for myself?
Am I selfish?
Am I wrong to be “the other”?

I am asexual.
Am I wrong?

A Struggle With Identity

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Olive, 20, Female, Canada

content note: this story contains experiences of sexual assault and harsh language

My friends all loved Channing Tatum. They loved a lot of guys, actually. They wanted to fuck them all. On their walls they hung pictures of them, larger than life posters of shirtless men. All men, of course. We all grew up in a small country town, where everyone was white and everyone knew everyone, and ‘nobody was gay.’
My friends gained an interest in the boys in our class, too. They liked them; they wanted to fuck them. They wanted to be sexual with them, and so they did. As only teenagers do, we’d sit in a circle and they’d tell tales of the things they’d tried, of the things they’d done. We were only thirteen.
I never felt the same way. I’d sit there and listen, and say with spunk, “I don’t really think he’s good looking,” and my friends just thought I was being sassy, because that’s how I was. And no, I didn’t find most of them good looking; but even the ones that I did find to be attractive, I never had sexual feelings for them. My body was changing and I felt urges to be sexual, but I didn’t feel sexually attracted to anyone. I thought maybe I was strange, but I was okay with it mostly.
I had a scare, though. I didn’t like any of the guys, and for a moment thought maybe that I liked the girls. Maybe I’d just never considered it because my social situation had stopped me from considering it. But as I looked at the girls, I realized that I didn’t see them sexually, either.
I was thirteen when I came across the term asexuality, and it stopped me cold in my tracks. I knew immediately that that was me, but I was so scared. People didn’t have different sexualities where I came from–it was a huge taboo. A girl had come out as bisexual at my school and was only a year older than me, and they never let her live with her identity. I didn’t want that to happen to me. I pretended that I was straight, and pretended I didn’t know who I was. I was rude about people who chose to come out about their sexuality because I was so insecure about myself, and hoped that by ostracizing them, that I wouldn’t be associated with the people who were ‘different.’ I was a grade A dick.
For a while, I tried dating guys, but I was never particularly interested in the ones that chose me. I thought that by dating them, I could change myself. However, for the first few boyfriends, I stood my ground and was super evasive about sexual interaction. Eventually, they tired of my evasiveness and left me. I was relieved each time.
I’d been single for a while when he approached me, when he cornered me. I was 16. He manipulated me into a relationship. He was the worst person I’ve ever interacted with. An awful human being, and a genuine idiot to boot. He raped me, sexually abused me, verbally abused me. I didn’t have a good relationship with my family at the time, either; my life was just an incredible mess. I was alone. I moved to a foreign country for a while and because we were no longer on the same continent, was finally able to end things with my manipulative ex. I lost a lot of things: material goods, money, my sanity; but I came out. I still hadn’t been honest with anyone about my asexuality. I tried to forget about it.
When I moved back to Canada after my stint abroad, I had told myself I would get myself sorted before I got into a relationship, if indeed that was something I wanted to explore ever. I’d barely been home when I met a wonderful guy. He was awkward and shy, and we hit it off right away. When it came to make our relationship official, I had to have a talk with him. I told him about my previous abuse, how it had made me wary. I also told him I was ‘basically asexual,’ though I was still in denial. He accepted these things and moved at my pace. For the most part, he was there for me. Until he wasn’t.
We had avoided sex for a very long time, since it wasn’t something either of us really wanted. We’d talked about it. I was sleeping over at his house one night, and I was drunk–too drunk to make proper decisions. He made me have sex with him, took advantage of my drunken state, and proceeded to shame me for not realizing his intent. He broke up with me a week later.
I stayed single after that. I’m still single today. After him, I went for therapy, did some self exploration, searched deep within myself. Built myself up, figured myself out. I’d grown comfortable with who I was, had a great relationship with my family, and I had great friends. But I realized I wasn’t being true to myself, and so finally admitted that I was asexual. Because I am. I was. I always have been. I told my friends, but haven’t told my family; they wouldn’t understand, and it’s easier this way.
One of the friends I told was a male friend I’ve had for years. He proceeded to question me about my sexuality, said it wasn’t possible, how could I possibly feel that way. He sexually assaulted me because of my asexuality.
I am no longer friends with him, to say the least. Importantly, though, I’ve come to accept myself, and who I am. I know who I am. I love myself. My life is happy, my life is great. I live by myself with a little cat who loves me, and identify as a biromantic asexual, though I lean more towards men, and that’s okay. It’s been seven years since I first learned of who I was. Now, everything is okay.

Welcome to the Asexual Story Project!

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The Asexual Story Project is a space where anyone who is asexual or somewhere one the ace spectrum can share their personal stories about being asexual, coming out, relationships and any other experiences. Stories are tagged thematically. You can also submit your own story by following the link in the menu bar!

On Being Invisibly Demisexual

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purpleandgrey, 28, female, United States

For the past few years, my story has primarily been about being invisibly ace. I’m a cisgender demisexual woman in a committed relationship with a cisgender sexual man. To all outward appearances, our relationship is indistinguishable from a normative heterosexual relationship.

But this is the really strange part: to all inward appearances, our relationship doesn’t feel all that different from a heterosexual relationship, either. I’m sexually attracted to my partner, and he’s sexually attracted to me. I’m still not sexually attracted to anyone else, which is how I know I’m still demi. But sexual attraction is an everyday part of my life now, and the fact that it’s only directed at one person doesn’t make much of a difference to my internal experience of it. I continue to identify as ace, but I often don’t feel very much like an ace person anymore.

That makes me a lot more vulnerable to doubts about my orientation. I do a lot of visibility and education work, and every time someone asks me to explain how demisexual is different from plain old sexual, I experience a moment of panic. I know the standard answers to this question, and I know that the definition of demisexual is still objectively true of me. But it’s hard to believe in myself as demi when my demi-ness isn’t a constant presence in my life, the way it used to be. If even I can’t quite tell what distinguishes me from a straight woman at this point, am I really still demi?

The only thing that really helps with those doubts is reminding myself of all the times I’ve reassured my pansexual best friend that yes, she’s still queer, even though the person she’s decided to marry is a man. In many ways, I think my situation is analogous to hers. Like me, she will be perceived as heterosexual because of who she’s married to. Her real sexual identity will be ignored by society. Bi- and pansexual erasure is a real thing and it sucks. And I think it has a lot in common with asexual erasure.

The big difference between us, though, is that my friend will continue to find people of many genders attractive, and thus will retain an internal sense of her own queerness. All I have to reassure me of my own identity is absence: a lack of attraction to anyone other than my partner. The asexual side of myself has become the background in the portrait of my sexual orientation. And it’s hard to maintain an identity based largely on negative space.

The First Date

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Stephany, 44, female

I never had a boyfriend in high school, not even a crush in middle school. I had my first date when I was twenty-one, although it was quite unintentional.

This guy and I worked together at our local grocery store. One day he asked if I wanted to go to the movies. We could see “What about Bob?” I liked Bill Murrey, I thought he was hilarious, so I said “sure”.

I though “Gary” just wanted to go to a movie like me and one of my other friends, a girl, often did. As I quickly found out, this was not the case. He came over to my house and I received a cute little stuffed bear in a gift bag. After a brief talk we were off to the movie theatre which was a short walk away.

I’m sorry to that that I was probably the worst date ever, or at least the worst one he ever had. It was so bad that Gary’s older sister called to talk to my mom. (I still lived at home.) The sister wondered if I was really twenty-one and told my mom some of the things that went on, like how I balked when her brother tried to kiss me, and how I had to be talked into holding hands with him. It was more than a little embarrassing for me and my mother had a bit of a laugh over it and told the sister I was “just shy”.

Her response ticked me off so much, because it was just stupid, that I replied “I am NOT shy!” loud enough for the sister to hear.

In the end, Gary, who was apparently broken-hearted that I had said “yes” to a date and then used him to see a movie, moved off to West Virginia about a week later. Our disastrous date had gotten around work too, so I guess he was too embarrassed to work there anymore. Last I heard, he had met a nice lady and had two kids.

I’ve often looked back sadly on my first date. And I swear, I had NO idea it was a date.

I never even thought about dates before, or even how guys and girls hooked up. When I would go through the hallways at school and notice them making out, (which disgusted me,) it never dawned on me how they got together. They just “were”.

Discovering that I am asexual was such a relief for me. Although my first date happened twenty-three years ago, I still feel awful about it because I knew I had hurt him pretty bad, unintentional as it was. I just couldn’t figure out how to explain why, exactly, I was so grossed out by the things he wanted to do, like when he wanted to make out.

But now that I know I am an asexual the puzzle pieces all fit. I can now explain why I don’t want to do this or why I don’t want to do that. And I know that there is a guy out there for me after all, somewhere, and even if I never meet my asexual Mr. Right, just having the knowledge of what I am is enough to make me happy.

All the World’s ‘A-Gray’ Stage

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Hazel, 19, female, United States

“Are you okay with kissing?” our script writer asked.

All of us nodded. I could handle a bit of kissing, right?

“Good! I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

Our college was doing its annual 24 hour theatre project, where a writer would spend 12 hours writing a 10 minute play and then the actors/directors would practice it for the next 12 hours.

The next morning to my horror I found out what our play was about: a girl and her boyfriend were at a party and both really wanted to have sex with each other but every time they did so much as kiss their drunken friends would enter the room and cause shenanigans. I was to be the main girl.

“Umm, guys, can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked the writer, director, and cast. I told them that I had never kissed anyone before (not that I was uninterested in kissing, but the candidates for whom I wanted to make out with did not feel mutual). I was a little embarrassed since I was 19, but they were really understanding. I kissed the boy who played my boyfriend, got the first kiss awkwardness out of the way, and we were all good… right? Wrong.

I felt SUPER awkward the entire time. Not really because it was about sex, but because I had to pretend that I wanted sex from someone. I had no idea how to get inside this mind frame and act this out. How was I supposed to act sexually attracted to someone?

“I’m so sorry, I’m doing a terrible job at this role! I’m just awkward.” I told our director during a break.
“Oh, you’re fine! Don’t worry about it.” My director said with an expression I couldn’t exactly read. To be honest, I think he was just happy that I had my lines down.

Having sex was something that didn’t often crossed my mind until that day. I spent the rest of the day contemplating this topic. During dress rehearsals I watched the rest of the other plays. I saw an old high school friend playing piano in one project. When I was 16, I feel madly in love with him. I swore I was going to marry him someday… until I found out he was gay. Funny, despite my strong romantic feelings, I never thought about having sex with him… ever.

I saw another play in which one of my friend’s boyfriends played a villain. Watching him play the calm yet utterly sinister villain was kind of turning me on. Ever since I had met him the semester before, I got a weird feeling every time I saw him. Was it sexual attraction? I’m guessing yes. But I know that even if the opportunity were to arise, I would never really want to have sex with him (even if he wasn’t dating my friend). Whatever feelings I had for him, they weren’t strong enough for me to do anything of the sort with him.

So what was my sexual orientation? I was very confused for the next month as I tried to grapple with my identity. When I was 16 I thought that I was bisexual, but that’s because I thought sexual attraction met you found people pretty, but I wasn’t romantically attracted to girls at all. I knew about asexuality, but I couldn’t be asexual since I had experienced mild sexual attraction. And yet, I experienced it so little that I didn’t feel like I fit in with the non-asexual people.

Finally I found a term that describes me: gray asexual. Now that I’ve discovered my sexual identity, I can now understand why I feel the way I do, both on and off the stage.

Four Friends, Four Sexualities

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Veronica, 22, female, Canada

My group of friends has a wide variety of sexual orientations: E is a lesbian, M is a hypersexual heterosexual, A is bisexual, and I am asexual.

Now, the four of us have been best friends since the 7th grade (we were about 12 years old when we first met). Throughout all of high school, I watched from the sidelines as my friends dated girls, as they dated guys, as they dated older people and younger people. It was just me who sat on the sidelines without really wanting a relationship with anyone in our class.

During our first year of university, we parted ways, E going to a different university to M and I, whereas A chose to not continue with post-secondary education. It was January when the four of us met up to celebrate E’s 19th birthday. As the night progressed, we all had a couple of drinks in us, and the conversation turned to sexual orientation. E and A were out of the closet by then, and we knew that M’s habits in the bedroom were *ahem* frequent.

So I mustered up all the courage I had in me and told them that I was asexual and that I had no interest in a sexual relationship with any gender.

E and M both laughed at me. They told me that it was only because I’d never dated anyone. That it was because I was a virgin. That I had never had any experience. That I hadn’t found the “right one”. All the typical reactions to an asexual coming out of the closet.

When we all went to our respective houses, I felt betrayed; here were the three people that were supposed to support me and love me because they were my friends, and they were telling me that what I was feeling was unnatural. You would think that E would have known how it would feel to be told that she was wrong in her feelings towards her girlfriend, especially since we were both from super conservative families.

I received a text from A in the wee hours of the morning. In it, she told me that she couldn’t sleep because of the way that E and M reacted to my coming out. She told me that she still loved me, and that to her, my asexuality was pretty obvious. She didn’t need extra time to figure out how she felt about my sexuality; it was something that didn’t directly impact her, but since it was an important topic to me, it was important to her.

I’ve since lost contact with E; she took me to three or four passion stores and offered to buy me something to fix me, but I refused every single time. She started calling me, seeing if I wanted to go to a passion party, or to some sort of event that would ultimately “fix me”. I started screening her calls, and I haven’t heard from her in almost a year.

I still go to school with M. She doesn’t waste a minute when we’re alone to bring up either my asexuality or my self-harm. I’ve stopped texting her because every time I do, she either talks non-stop about the sex she’s having with her boyfriend, or non-stop about how having a boyfriend would fix me.

A has almost fallen off the earth. I don’t know where she’s at, but every once in a while, I’ll get an email from her about the latest kdrama, or the newest kpop scandal. It’s a good thing we’re both obsessed!

As for me, I’ve made new friends, Bug and S, who are completely understanding. They ask questions about anything they don’t understand; Bug looked into terminology and questions me on whether it applies to my personal label or not. S doesn’t ask too much about it, although it might come up when we go out to a bar or a club. I told her that Tutti Frutti beats having sex any day.

As for experiences, I’m going to keep those to myself. I’d rather not air out any dirty laundry for the neighbours to see, if you know what I mean.

Discovering my Asexuality, Self-Doubt, and Where I am Now

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L-Silvermoon, female, Australia.

I identify as a biromantic asexual.

For a really long time I thought I was heterosexual. Then I thought I was bisexual. I had the occasional crush when I was growing up – the first in grade five – and still do. But I’m fairly sure “crush” means a different thing to me than my friends.

I believe that the reason I identified as someone with sexual attraction for so long is the group of friends I had in high school. No-one talked about sex in our group; it was people gushing over appearances, or voices, or personalities. Or at least, they never talked about it with me. So I went through high school, never realising that people desired sex at that age (or I did know; but it was only in the abstract).

The first time I heard the word asexual was in maybe grade 12, a joke (or intuitive comment?) from a friend, which I almost immediately dismissed/forgot about. And then I joined tumblr, finding the asexual community there. As I researched more, I realised how this identity coincided with my own behaviour. It also became more obvious as I was surrounded by people in real life and on tumblr who discuss their sexual attraction more openly than my high school friends.

I’ve only told a few friends. Those that follow me on tumblr know, and one friend is openly supportive in real life (even going as far as explaining asexuality to other people). I don’t necessarily know what everyone thinks, but none of them have denied my experience in front of me. I haven’t told my family. Because of a deer-in-the-headlights reaction to a “what, are you gay?” (a response to me trying and failing to stop someone from making homophobic jokes) two of my family members think I’m bisexual. My mum is cool with that, which I knew she probably would be. But I don’t know how she would react if I told her I was ace, and only biromantic. So I’m not telling any relatives any time soon.

I still doubt myself. Do people really think about sex that much? Maybe I am just bisexual? As a side effect of discussions on tumblr about asexuality, I end up thinking more about sex than I ever have in my life. I’m thinking a lot about sex, does that mean I’m sexual, unlike what I thought? Am I sure that what I’m feeling is aesthetic/romantic attraction, not sexual? How am I even supposed to tell? What does sexual attraction even feel like?

But again, I’m really thinking about it in the abstract. Even when I think about me and sex, I don’t really imagine it. Sex squicks me out. [Other people’s] genitalia makes me uncomfortable. My most risqué dream is briefly kissing a girl (just a peck) and getting really embarrassed. I have never once thought “I’d do them” about a good-looking person. So even with my doubts, I think I’m comfortable using this label as an anchor to support me as I navigate the world of sexual attraction.

Visit this contributor’s site here.

Outed to my Mom

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Zaiya, 16, United States.

My brother didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t think he was doing wrong. He still doesn’t and if I brought it up with him he’d probably dodge the subject. When my brother outed me to my mom it was just another thing.

I had been preparing to come out to her already. I had spoken to her about asexuality in the car one day, going over what it was and basically getting her opinion on it. She is already very defensive about things and only recently has started getting onto my step-father about being homophobic. She has a gay friend so, I guess, to her it’s “okay” now and she can accept it.

She’s not as accepting of other things. I am just as stubborn, though, so I do my best to teach her new concepts. Her reply is usually something along the lines of “I just don’t get this new stuff” or “I like the old ways, I don’t see the point in all these new words.” When I try to explain the point of said words she turns her head and ignores me. “I don’t think we need all these labels.”

Regardless, I had been teaching her about asexuality, the asexual spectrum, and was going to come out to her soon. I came out first to my best friend who was thoroughly supportive. She’s just as involved in these things as I. Then I came out to my brother, who was confused but accepted it. As he said, he just didn’t see how it was possible, how someone couldn’t feel sexual attraction. I told him I didn’t understand how someone could feel it and he seemed to get the point.

My brother was in the car when I was telling my mom about asexuality. Perhaps he thought that was me telling her that I was asexual. Two weeks later he says, loudly, “You know she’s asexual, right?” and then looks at me and says “you already told her, so it’s okay if I do”.

My mom is in the kitchen at this point. “She’s what?”

“Asexual,” I say, completely irritated that she doesn’t know what it is, since I had dedicated these last weeks to telling her about it.

“You don’t even know what that word means,” she says. A minute later she also adds, quietly, “What is that?” I told her. I explained. Again. She was very defensive and in denial.

A few months later, here I am. I have, on multiple occasions, brought the subject up again and tried to talk about it with her. She always just kind of drops the topic and my brother shies at the mention of “sex” and looks at me accusingly.

We are watching TV and she hears one of the people on there say they are pansexual. She looks disinterested and asks me what that is. I tell her. She looks shocked and insulted and asks me “Is that what you are?”

I honestly don’t know what I need to do to get her to listen to what I am saying and also get her to accept it. She doesn’t bother paying attention – and I would love to say that it’s just in this area that she’s distracted in. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know much about me even when this isn’t in the situation. It bothers me that she can’t remember one thing.

After some talk and then silence as we get back into the show on television, she says “I had a crush on a girl when I was with your dad.” I am unsure what she was trying to achieve by telling me that, and if she was attempting to comfort me. It sounded almost as if she was doing the whole trivial “it’s a normal thing teenagers experience, it doesn’t mean you’re actually gay” thing.

As of now, she only knows about my asexuality. Neither she, nor my brother, nor my best friend knows about my romantic orientation. I’m not sure I could tell them, either. My brother always makes remarks along the lines of “You’re straight, right?” and if I were to say “I don’t really care about genders” he’d see that as me falling into the fact that he always calls me gay.

I don’t want to hear “I told you so.” I want to be able to talk about these things without them getting extremely uncomfortable and asking me why I’m forcing this information on them. Is my wanting them to know about what I identify with, who I am, really too much?

An Asexy Teen’s Adventure

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Charlie, agender, 14, England.

When I was twelve/thirteen, I read a book called Quicksilver. One of the main characters – Tori – comes out to a friend (when he starts hitting on her) as asexual. Seeing as Tori rather lacked any emotions, it did not register within my brain that humans could be asexual in real life. That was the first time I came across the term asexual.

A few months later, I fell in love with a TV show called Sherlock. I became obsessed with it, and one day, while reading dozens of interviews with the cast and crew, I discovered the word asexual again. Steven Moffat was talking about how Sherlock was not asexual, as that would be too boring. This was the second time I came across the term asexual. But it did not properly register in my mind.

Then, one of my closest friends began exploring their gender and sexuality. He had figured out he was gay and trans*. He encouraged some of our mutual friends to start exploring their genders and sexual orientations. He would constantly talk about sex and orientations and identity and on and on and on about stuff that just didn’t appeal to me at all. He only ever talked about people being trans* within the binary, and about people only being able to be attracted to the opposite, the same, or both genders. I realised I never quite fit within the definitions he gave – and so, at the tender age of thirteen, I decided to throw away the cisgender female heterosexual labels and explore the large and rather scary world of gender and sexuality.

I was looking through the LGBT tag on tumblr one day when suddenly, the title of a particular post caught my eye: ‘It’s Asexual Awareness Week!’ I was intrigued. I vaguely remembered hearing about asexuality somewhere before, and so clicked on the post, thinking, ‘why not?’

And that, dear reader, was the third time I came across the word asexual.

I read the post quickly. It outlined what asexuality was, why an entire week was devoted to talking about it, and why the A in LGBTQA+ stands for asexual, not ally. I felt so excited. The more I read on, the more I realised – this is me! This is exactly what I feel! I’ve found the word!

After stalking the asexual tag on tumblr for hours and doing as much research as I could, I finally decided to start identifying as asexual. Although I was considered extremely young within the GSRM (Gender, Sexual, and Romantic Minority) community, I was so happy to have finally found my place. The more I read, the more I knew that I was asexual.

A year on, I have faced many difficulties – since I realised I was asexual, I starting noticing how everything within our culture was sexualised, from adverts to movies to words. I would say something, and my friends would shout out something like ‘That’s so wrong!’ or make some sexual comment. I used to think that the reason I was slightly disgusted with the hyper-sexualisation was simply down to being a late bloomer, but then I realised that I was simply part of an invisible section of society.

Although I came out to a few friends, I found myself breaking off a few friendships with people who did not respect the fact that I did not feel comfortable or included whenever sex was mentioned. But, although I lost a few friends along the way, I did make a lot of new ones who totally respected me.

There are ups and downs to being a very young asexual – although I was spared the anguish of feeling ‘broken,’ I was asked countless times how I knew I was asexual if I’d never had sex, or dismissed and simply told I was a late bloomer.

I’m also panromantic and agender – but I probably would not have been able to figure that out had I not realised I was asexual first.

Overall, I am a lot happier knowing that I am asexual – I have a community now, a place where I belong. And it’s fabulous.

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!

Asexy Kink

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Emily, female, 22, United States.

I have known that I am asexual since I was 20 and my then-boyfriend broke up with me for “not thinking he was hot.” It was at that point that I realized that there was truly something different about the way I interacted with other people. From there my story is a relatively typical one – questioning, deciding, coming out, yes I’m sure, no I’m not a late bloomer, yes I’m proud of it – until you get to this past October.

I’ve known that I have an interest in BDSM for far longer than I ever suspected I was anything other than straight. Sometime in my very early teens, I read a kinky Snape/Hermione fanfic, and it called to me in a strange and confusing way. From that point until quite recently, I was ashamed of my kinkiness. Starting in October, I finally had the time and spoons to venture into my local scene. Since then, I have come to be proud of my kinkiness, as well as proud to be part of my local community. I have also had the opportunity to do a ton of outreach and education about asexuality.

I make my sexuality very clear to everyone in the scene that I meet. I list myself as asexual on fetlife (a popular kink social networking site), and my very first post on the site was about how you can be both kinky and ace. I talk about my sexuality frequently when I’m at events, because I strongly feel that doing outreach is important.

One of the most interesting things about this has been figuring out exactly how much most people link kink and sexuality, and how little they link for me. Sure, kink play can include sexual play, and does for me on rare occasions, but I have found my kinky life to be far more fulfilling than my sexual experiences ever were. Where most non-asexual people find a deeper, more fulfilling connection with their partner by having sex, I find the same through kink. However, I often hear surprise from non-asexual people that kink and sexuality can be separated.

This reminds me most poignantly of the way people are surprised to learn that romance and sexuality can be separate. Most people have never bothered to separate the two because they have always been connected for them. By being asexual, but also panromantic and kinky, I challenge the preconceptions that sexuality and romance, or sexuality and kink, are inherently connected. I am proud to challenge these conceptions: I like making people think.

My dual identities – kinkster and asexual – have never felt conflicting to me. I am no less ace because I enjoy kinky activities, and I am no less kinky because I am not sexually attracted to my partners. Nor am I the only kinky asexual person I know: at a recent kink event, not only was there a panel on the intersections of asexuality and kink, there were at least ten people there who are all also asexual and kinky. In fact, my partner was the only non-ace person in the room!

I feel more at home in my skin than ever before. I love both of my communities, and I am proud to be an ambassador between the two. I strive to bring awareness of both into the world, as well as to accurately represent the nuanced diversity of each.

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.

Tabitha’s Story

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Tabitha, female, 19, United States.

It’s the opening to the typical ‘coming out’ story: I knew I was asexual when I was a kid. Well, perhaps not specifically, but I knew that I wasn’t interested in sex. It was middle school, seventh grade, when ninety percent of the school population was going through puberty, and everyone was talking about sex. I was simply uninterested, but at the time I never gave it a second thought. To me, I was just ‘a late bloomer,’ and I simply accepted that philosophy as the years went on. By junior year, I felt uncomfortable when my friends talked about sex lives, theirs or otherwise. I hid the cringe when my friends spent the entire lunch period making sex jokes. I got up and walked away when I could, preferring to take myself out of the conversation rather than asking them to change the topic. I couldn’t stand when my friend hit on me. By senior year, being a ‘late bloomer’ seemed a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but I didn’t know any better. Up until halfway through my senior year, I didn’t even know that asexuality was a real sexual orientation. I’d never heard of it before, until someone that I followed on tumblr answered an ask about her sexuality.

The first moment I realized that I was asexual was a bit anticlimactic. I was sitting in my literature class and we were discussing sexual symbolism in things like Ethan Frome and interpretations of Hamlet, and the thought blindsided me in the middle of the class period: “I have never once been interested in sex or sexual behaviour. Maybe I’m asexual, too?”

At first, I refused to identify as asexual. Not because I was in denial, or because I didn’t want to be queer or whatever, but because I felt guilty. Asexuality was a horrendously underrepresented part of the queer community, and I didn’t want to be some straight girl coming into the space and abusing that label. I did research on AVEN, learned about the different orientations on the asexual spectrum, and eventually felt comfortable, knowing enough, to confidently call myself asexual. It took a lot of soul searching, after spending eighteen years thinking I was just heterosexual with a piece missing, but I embraced it. I’ve since delved into the ace community, met some of the other one percent, and am just generally a lot happier knowing something so important about myself!