An Asexual Education
The first time that I dared to consider the word asexual as an amalgamation of my lived experiences, I was twenty-seven years old. I began to identify as asexual at thirty years old. Up until then, my education regarding asexuality was virtually non-existent. Asexuality equals not wanting to have sex: This was the extent of my knowledge.
There was no classroom for me to visit and no peers to lean on. There was no lecture for me to listen attentively to. The sex-ed classes that were offered throughout my adolescence mainly focused on the importance of condoms, contraceptives, and sexually transmitted diseases/infections. There wasn’t any reason for me to dive into the topic further because it didn’t seem like something that would apply to me.
I had to learn by trial and error.
Although I hadn’t dated or had any sexual encounters until my early twenties, I’d spent the majority of my life idealizing relationships. I was obsessed with the notion that a romantic relationship could make up for whatever was “lacking” inside of me. I spent a significant portion of my adult life trying to actualize this by chasing relationships and taking part in hookups that left me feeling indifferent at best.
It wasn’t until I communicated my experiences with my brother that I truly began to question the validity of my sexual identity. We sat in a restaurant and shared things, as people do, until we landed on the subject of relationships. I spoke about how I hadn’t enjoyed any of my sexual endeavors. They weren’t necessarily terrible, but I described them as feeling as if I were wrestling and kissing a wall. Not necessarily unpleasant, but not pleasant either. I found people beautiful in an aesthetic capacity, but not sexually.
After I finished speaking, my brother brought up the possibility that I might be asexual. He said it very nonchalantly, and I doubt that he remembers our conversation from that night, but for whatever reason, it really stuck with me.
His seemingly inconsequential statement had ignited a curiosity in me. What was asexuality? Was I asexual? Do people who identify as asexual have sex? These were just a few of the questions that were running rampant in my mind. This is truly when my education about asexuality began.
I scoured the internet and read anything pertaining to asexuality. I read about how people came to understand they were asexual. I learned the definition of asexuality, which is to have little to no sexual attraction to others. I also came to understand that asexuality is a spectrum, that there is no ideal way to be asexual, and that ultimately, no two asexuals are exactly alike.
Despite all of the knowledge that I’d accumulated through my own research and interactions with the asexual community, it wasn’t until I’d started reading books that centered asexual characters that I’d truly come to terms with my identity. Books like Loveless by Alice Oseman, Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen, and Is Love The Answer? by Uta Isaki resonated deeply within me. I saw myself in these characters and also learned about how intersectionality plays a significant role in our experiences as asexuals.
The reality is that until society is able to come to terms with the fact that heterosexuality is not the default, our educational system will continue to fail us. It is so important that the asexual community continue to create safe spaces and archive our collective knowledge, so that others who feel alone in their experiences can be seen and heard. I discovered that I was asexual later in life, but I’m so grateful that I was able to educate myself through the literature and art that our beautiful community has shared with the world.
