We are not broken

I was seventeen, it was summer, and I was scrolling through Hulu looking for a documentary to watch (just as every teenager does on their summer vacation). That’s when I came across a title that looked interesting. (A)sexual. I pushed play without any idea of how one word would go on to define a huge part of who I am. 

The Documentary centers on the story of a man named David Jay – just your average guy. Except, we soon learn, that David isn’t interested in sex, in fact, he has no desire to experience sexual intimacy ever. Throughout the documentary, we learn more about David, the ins and outs of asexuality, and meet lovely other individuals who identify as part of the community. When the documentary came to an end, I felt so seen, so understood, but it would still be four years before I came out as asexual.

The Trevor Project defines asexual as a term “commonly used to describe someone who experiences little to no sexual attraction.”

What asexuality is not defined as, is:

1. A religious thing
2. Broken
3. Having standards

And more. Identifying as asexual simply means that I am not sexually attracted to people. I don’t see people and get that *tingly* feeling. Before coming out, peers would marvel at my lack of lusting or praise me for my strength in remaining celibate, but inside, I was screaming.

In high school, it seemed like everyone around me was bursting at the seams and ready to put their raging hormones to good use. I was never too fond of the idea of sex and anytime anyone would bring it up I would shrug and say something to the tune of “I don’t know, maybe.” But I didn’t really care.

Enter: the documentary. Suddenly, things clicked and my laissez faire attitude relating to sex, made sense. Well… not completely.

One documentary on a subject is not a plethora of knowledge in that category. I thought identifying as asexual meant that I wanted no part of any kind of intimacy. A few months later I had a PG-13 make out session and was devastated that that meant I wasn’t actually asexual. That clearly couldn’t be the case if I just kissed this boy for an hour. I wasn’t aware of the nuances of the sexuality. I didn’t completely understand the difference between sexual orientation and romantic orientation. I didn’t realize that the identity was a spectrum and an umbrella term for the sub-identities underneath. 

Though I didn’t (and don’t) feel sexual attraction, I did (and do) feel romantic attraction. And, not to brag, but I’m really good at feeling romantic attraction since I can romantically be attracted to a person of my gender and other genders (biromantic). I’m also a sucker for a good romcom, but that’s not the point. 

Some asexuals do feel small amounts of sexual attraction. It is, however, predominantly less than our allosexual (someone who regularly experiences sexual attraction) peers. Someone who identifies as Gray-Sexual may experience a very low amount of sexual attraction or experience it under specific circumstances, while someone who identifies as Demisexual may experience sexual attraction, but only after a strong bond is formed. 

Once I was in college and learned more about these sub-identities, I was back aboard the asexual train, but this time, identifying as Demisexual (demi). 

You see, I had a good friend that I was romantically attracted to and I thought, “Hey, I think I could have sex with this guy.” (The key word here is *could*. Remember that for later.) Since I thought I was experiencing sexual attraction to someone that I had formed a strong bond with, I claimed the identity of demisexual.

This was still only internally. I was just beginning to understand it for myself and had no idea where to begin explaining it to my friends. The people I surrounded myself with were cool people. People who were involved in the GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), were openly out themselves, or in the theatre department, which is basically the same thing. 

Their knowledge was neatly tied up in the four main food groups: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender. And after their countless questions of how I couldn’t possibly want to sleep with the hot guy on stage, how was I supposed to tell them that I didn’t feel those kinds of things?

It turned out to be shockingly easy.

My junior year, I was living with my best friend. We were having some kind of discussion about boys, the details of the “moment before” (a theatre term) are fuzzy. I had recently been attempting to drop in more hints about my sexuality, hoping that one day someone would ask, but not knowing how I would act when someone finally did.

I present to you, Abbie’s Coming Out: A Retelling.

Abbie’s Friend: “Just be careful. Don’t want kids.”

Abbie: “Eh, don’t want kids, don’t want sex. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

Abbie’s Friend: “Are you asexual Abbie?”

Abbie: *asexual panic* “No, yes, yes, maybe. I don’t know.” (I did know.)

And that was that. I was finally out to someone. A few weeks later I started dating said boy from the previous conversation and came out to him. Roughly three months later I posted a video on my YouTube channel coming out to everyone else.

Then, in about a year, I re-came out as just plain asexual. (Turns out “I could have sex with them” is not the same as “now that we have an emotional bond, I feel an attraction of a sexual nature towards you.”)

From then on it was smooth sailing. Easy peasy. Effortless.

You know I’m just messing around right?

Coming out can be a strange process. It’s not a one time thing either. When you identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community (which I do), you continue coming out the rest of your life. We’ve reached a point in our current culture where the four big identities (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender) are more common. Whether people are welcoming or understanding is one thing, but they at least can give you a basic definition of what those mean.

When you tell someone you’re asexual they assume that you are some kind of self reproducing starfish that lives in a pineapple under the sea. And though I wish that could be the case, it’s not. Which means that I’m often left educating people on my sexuality.

No, I don’t feel sexual attraction.

Yes, asexuals can still have sex. 

No, that doesn’t equal celibacy. 

Yes, we can still have a healthy, intimate, and loving romantic relationship.

The list goes on. For a sexuality that doesn’t really care too much about sex, we sure end up answering a lot of questions about it. Not just the light fluffy ones either, but deeply personal ones as well. If I had a dollar for everytime someone asked me if I masturbated, I could at least pay off my student loans. (Please feel free to leave tips at the end of the story.) 

In a sex focused world, asexuals are a bit of an enigma. We stand out and that can often be very isolating. It can become even more isolating when you’re not sure where you fit. People who identify as asexual will often get pushback not just from the “straight community”, but also from the LGBTQ+ community.

“You don’t have to fight to exist,” is a common narrative when discussing whether or not asexuality is a part of the LGBTQ+ community. While I understand the sentiment behind this argument, it’s not the full picture. The LGBTQ+ community is more than a “who has it worse” battle royale. It’s in its name. It’s a community. A group where people who share similar life experiences gather and connect.

While we may not have to fight to exist, we do often have to fight to exist as we are. From people pressuring us to have sex to telling us we haven’t found the right one yet to sharing absolutely vile ideas of how to “fix us” that I don’t care to repeat, being asexual is its own kind of battle. As a content creator who shares education about asexuality on the internet, I’ve seen it all. 

And though I’ve seen it at its worst, I’ve also seen it at its best. 

“You give me hope!”

“Finding out about asexuality helped me to find others like me.”

“We are not broken.”

I am not broken. I think back to teenage me, how she didn’t understand why she didn’t feel the same way as other people, why she was different. For so long, I felt like something was wrong with me. Like I was broken. But there was never something wrong. There was just something missing. A word. 

Asexual. 

That’s my story. Life as an asexual isn’t always unicorns and rainbows, for many reasons (Have you been on dating apps?). And sure, it comes with way too many questions, a lot that even I don’t know the answer to (I’m not an expert). But it does come with a deeper understanding of who I am and a community that I’m proud to be a part of. 

And loads of cake.

*cue 90’s sitcom outro music*

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