Spoiler: I’m Asexual

by Sarah R. McNamara

I sat in a cushioned chair facing her at eighteen years old, my feet pressed together, my hands folded in my lap. She stared at me through large, round glasses, her head tilted to the side.

“You’re a lesbian,” she said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I’m not. What reason would I have to lie about that? If I were sexually attracted to women, I’d tell you.”

She stared at me skeptically. I stared back, confused about how she had reached this conclusion.

“Well, time is up, I’m afraid. See you next week.”

I stood up, left her office thinking that was some ass-backward conversion therapy, and never spoke to her again.

I finally understood that I was asexual somewhere in my thirties. I’m forty-one now. It was not an “Ah-ha, it all makes sense now!” revelation. Most people don’t understand asexuality, including me and that dodgy therapist.

Asexuality is a fascinating, albeit ambiguous, spectrum with a wide range of sub-identities that can intersect. It encompasses many nonsexual (and some sexual) expressions. The bottom line is that asexual individuals do not experience, or experience only limited, sexual attraction. Unfathomable, right? There is so much to be sexually attracted to! Our society runs on sex; it’s like milk; it’s in just about everything.

A common misconception about asexuals is that we have “just decided to be celibate.” However, asexuals do not always abstain from sex. Asexual people can have sex, and some do. Some have healthy sexual relationships; others masturbate. It all depends on where one is on the spectrum. Engaging in sexual activity does not make a person who identifies as asexual any less so. So, poppets, don’t listen to folks who say it does.

Asexuals may identify as graysexual or demisexual; some may identify as fraysexual. Others identify as apothisexual. There are additional identities (see below), which undoubtedly increase people’s confusion. This confusion is further compounded by the fact that some heterosexuals, homosexuals, pansexuals, etc., may identify with some of these identities. And I honestly don’t know what to tell you about that.

The following list outlines the current asexual spectrum identities (in alphabetical order):

Aceflux: experiences fluctuating levels of sexual and/or romantic attraction

Acespike: experiences no or little sexual attraction but occasionally experiences intense, rapid spikes of sexual attraction, followed by a return to a state of minimal or no attraction

Asexual: experiences no sexual feelings or desires

Demisexual: experiences sexual feelings and attraction only after developing a close emotional relationship and not on the basis of first impressions, physical characteristics, etc.

Fictosexual: experiences sexual attraction toward fictional characters, as opposed to real people

Fraysexual: experiences sexual attraction toward people whom they do not know very well

Graysexual: experiences limited sexual attraction with low intensity

Lithosexual: experiences sexual attraction but has no interest in their feelings being reciprocated

Reciprosexual: experiences sexual attraction toward people who show sexual attraction toward them first

And the sub-identities are:

Aegosexual: someone who lacks sexual attraction toward oneself but experiences attraction toward others in imagined or fantasized scenarios

Apothisexual: someone who is both asexual and repulsed by sex

Bellussexual: experiences sexual attraction or interest in the aesthetic or aspects of sexual relationships, but does not desire a sexual relationship

Caedosexual: someone who feels they were once allosexual (experiencing sexual attraction) but is no longer due to past trauma

Cupiosexual: individuals who do not experience sexual attraction but still desire or enjoy sexual relationships

Myrsexual: experiences multiple asexual spectrum identities at once, either consistently or fluctuating

Requiessexual: experiences limited or no sexual attraction, interest, or activity due to emotional exhaustion

I remember sitting on my bed at eleven years old, thinking that I should be a nun. I cannot recall whether this was before or after my sixth-grade boyfriend asked to kiss me. I said, “No, thank you.”

“Not even on the cheek!?”

“No.”

Thankfully, his parents chaperoned all of our dates to the movies.

When I was thirteen, my mother moved my brothers and me a few towns away from my increasingly violent father and enrolled us in a Catholic grammar school. Sister Rose was the first nun I had seen up close. She was shorter than I am (I’m five-four), with short white hair, long wool skirts, chunky cotton cardigans, and orthopedic shoes. Sister Rose told me, “You’d make a good nun.” I’m sure she said this to all the eighth-grade girls, but I was shy and obedient; I would make a great nun. And a habit would make me sex-proof. That suit is a veritable sex repellent.

Not long after we moved away, my boyfriend started kissing one of my closest friends. She probably expected me to scream or cry when she showed me their instant messages on AOL, but instead, I felt relieved. I was only heartbroken that I would never see his parents again.

After my childhood relationship fell apart, I devoted most of my time and energy to church and religious retreats, but I did not become a nun. I may have been better off, given what happened when I turned nineteen.

I was an emotionally troubled teen in search of someone to be an emotionally available surrogate parent. After a childhood marked by abuse and neglect, I clung tightly to anyone who was old enough to have conceived me and who would acknowledge my existence. I trusted two people to whom I wasn’t at all sexually attracted. I engaged in a lot of sexual activity because it became clear they would not provide the physical affection I craved without it. I know what Freud would say, so spare me. I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to handle losing their attention.

Looking back, the events that happened during my late teens and early twenties were more shameful and traumatic than my experiences as a child at the hands of my father.

I don’t experience sexual attraction, except maybe in extreme cases with someone to whom I feel an overwhelming emotional connection—like déjà vu; we have definitely met in a previous life. Even then, I don’t actually want to have sex with them because, for me, sex feels awkward and pointless unless you want to have children, which I do not.

Nevertheless, I tend to be overly eager in my attempts to connect with (and find a safe space in) people, which is often interpreted as: “I want to have all the sex with you.” As a result, I’ve learned to distance myself from others. I’ve come full circle and now live much like a nun would, minus the religion and community service.

I crave platonic intimacy, which is tricky to find. However, I have experienced it and know it is possible. For example, when the reason I commute to work every day says, “See you in a few hours” on my way in or, “You made it” on my way home, or when my colleague stops what he’s doing when I start swearing at my emails to say, “Breathe,” and then proceeds to breathe with me. Or when I was a kid, my father shoved my frozen feet between his thighs to warm them up.

I remember one night when my dearest friend Erica’s boyfriend rubbed my arm to comfort me while the three of us lay together on their living room couch, discussing my 18-year-long, I don’t know what it was, with a man twice my age. Erica apologized the next day, explaining that her boyfriend was very affectionate. I told her, “I appreciate non-romantic touch.”

Honestly, I wish that rubbing someone’s arm or even holding hands were perceived as platonic and that touch, in general, wasn’t sexualized because I need touch (from non-creepies, of course).

Four years ago, I met someone who changed my attachment style (which used to be, and sometimes still is, of the four styles: disorganized) and my relationship with myself. I am confused about whether I am sexually or even romantically attracted to him. Still, I definitely felt déjà vu the first time I met him, and my tarot reader said our marriage was highly celebrated in a past life.

I remember the exact moment I met him. I was fuming because an older, miserably married man wouldn’t leave me alone on the train. I was friendly with this man until he mentioned leaving his wife. Where did that come from? This creep epitomized a midlife crisis (I was a part of his second or third crisis, actually).

He wrote me a love song with the help of his cover band. Barf. And I’ll never forget when he said, “You care what I think about you.” Ha! To quote Cher Horowitz, “As if!” I barreled through the train that day, determined to get as far away from him as possible.

I looked ahead through the doors that separated the cars and saw a man glide into some seats and out of my way, but I didn’t smile. My skin was crawling, and my anger was rising. I was determined to maintain my indignation. I said, “Thank you,” as I walked past him, but I didn’t look in his direction. He replied, “Hi! How are you?” like he knew me.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

I was startled, but I calmed down immediately and forgot all about the slimeball creep. I probably said, “Good. How are you?” I definitely thought, “Have I met him before? How does he know me? Don’t hug him (I had an incredible urge to hug him).” I can’t explain how he does it, but he makes me feel seen. I genuinely love who he chooses to be every day.

He has taught me that boundaries are not rejection and that I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to or pretend to like something I don’t like to be loved. Where was he when I was nineteen? He was probably just out of college, which made him too young for me at the time.

There is no doubt that my childhood influenced my decisions about intimate relationships, but asexuality is as natural to me as others’ sexual preferences are to them, and I’m glad I’ve figured it out because not understanding why I didn’t have the same feelings as everyone else was uncomfortable.

I know that asexuality can be confusing; we don’t fit into the sex-obsessed world we live in, and I’ve found pretty scant resources online. I recommend @acedadadvice on Instagram, and since J.K. Rowling decided to wish all asexuals a “Happy Fake Oppression Day” on Twitter, I found some excellent articles by Canton Winer, PhD on Substack.

If I made a greater effort to find a community of like-minded individuals, my platonic needs could be better met. However, I’m in my forties, and like most geriatric millennials, I don’t like to get off my couch. Nothing compares to curling up under an oversized blanket in an oversized t-shirt and no pants, watching reruns of terrible television, and eating your favorite snacks, regardless of your sexual preferences.

BIO

Sarah McNamara‘s work has been published in Ink In Thirds Magazine, The Writing Disorder, Free Flash Fiction, 101 Words, and featured on Ink In Thirds online.

You can find her at sarahrosemcnamara.blogspot.com