When I was in seventh grade, I started dating a classmate. Of course, in middle school, dating meant calling each other “girlfriend” or “boyfriend” and sometimes having our parents drive us to each other’s houses or to McDonald’s for dates. I loved essentially having an exclusive best friend, sitting together at lunch and during recess, making each other playlists and texting constantly.
As silly as it was, it was also exciting and fun. After all, we were doing what kids our age on TV shows and in books did – we were a couple!
A few months into dating, I went with my significant other to a water park for an overnight stay at the attached hotel with them and their best friend to celebrate their birthday. I was sitting in the hot tub when they joined me, excitedly announcing that their parents had given them permission to hold my hand.
I knew I should be excited too – we’d been frustrated that their parents saw two girls dating as inappropriate and didn’t let us show any affection. But when they held my hand in the bubbling, eye-stinging water of the hot tub, all I felt was discomfort.
This was perhaps my first encounter with my asexuality and aromanticism. Over the next few days, I would battle with the lingering feeling of discomfort and embarrassment. Why didn’t I want to hold their hand? Why was the idea of kissing or being close terrifying? If this wasn’t something I wanted, did that mean I never liked them in the first place?
When I broke up with them a week later, I chalked it up to a misunderstanding of my orientation – if I didn’t want to be with them in that way, it must mean I didn’t like girls – simple as that.
I still loved romance books and movies, I still had crushes on boys – both fictional and real; thus, I must be straight.
Throughout high school, I watched my peers date with general disinterest. I was far too busy with school and extracurriculars to kiss in the hallways or think about having sex, much less maintain a romantic relationship. Classmates called me a “goody-goody” and a “girl scout” – though I was, ironically, a girl scout.
Some assumed I must like girls, and one friend even sent me a several-page-long document on compulsory heterosexuality after I told her I was straight.
I learned to have a boy’s name in mind to answer people when they asked if there was anyone I liked, though I’d have to follow up by begging them not to tell anyone.
Strangely, I remember being hit with a pang of dread when I turned 16 upon realizing that being under the age of consent in Michigan was no longer a tool in my hypothetical belt of saying no to dating or physical affection.
The next time I dated would be in college. I had been crushing on my then-boyfriend for a while, and we spent a lot of time together. When he asked me out, I was thrilled to reciprocate his affections.
But hours later, I was paralyzed with fear. I called friends and scoured the internet in search of something to calm my nerves. I had never before wanted to act on a crush, and my last relationship had fizzled out the moment it became physical. What if I lost feelings over time? Was I lying when I said I wanted to be with him? Why was I even panicking like this?
Coming to college, I believed that dating men would inevitably mean grappling with the expectation of having sex. According to the Michigan Daily’s 2024 “Sex Survey,” the percentage of students with no sexual partners dropped from 50.95% among first-years to 30.53% among seniors. Additionally, simply by observation, I could see how much of the dating culture on Albion’s campus is correlated with sex.
I figured when I wanted to get involved, I would. Until then, I was safe from having to worry about it. So when I started dating my then-boyfriend, there was something in the back of my mind reminding me that if I made this my circus, these would be my monkeys.
My then-boyfriend was an excellent partner. He was sweet, genuine, smart and supportive. It was fun to date him – and I never felt pressured to do anything I didn’t want to.
And yet, dating felt to me like a list of boxes to check. Going on at least one date a week? Check. Meeting his family? Check. Making playlists for each other? Check. A goodbye kiss on the cheek? Check. Hugging? Check. Nothing felt bad, it just felt… procedural. Was I enjoying my relationship, or was I doing homework?
I ignored this concern until it could be ignored no longer.
Randomly, one day I found myself confessing that I might never want to have sex – or do anything physical, for that matter. He didn’t ask – it just seemed like something I needed to say, though I surprised myself, saying it.
Later, when he asked me if I loved him, I gave him a bizarre, rambling answer that didn’t sound like a yes.
We broke up.
The guilt was crushing. I felt like I’d strung him along just to tell him I only saw him as a friend after being together for six months. I scrambled to justify my confusion, wondering to my therapist if I might be somewhere on the asexual or aromantic spectrum.
The conversation didn’t lead to any more certainty – but time, some emotional recovery, an asexual best friend and a few books did.
Much of it boiled down to one startling realization. The images in my mind of the kind of partner that I would want to date or be physically intimate with always had one thing in common: They would make me feel that magical, powerful feeling everyone else was talking about. But when others seemed to be overcome with emotion, excitement and self-assuredness, I felt like a nervous sock puppet – stuttering, hollow and fake.
Even now, I hesitate to announce my orientation with too much confidence. Asexuality is the last letter of LGBTQIA+, if it’s included at all. Within a forum on the Asexual Visibility & Education Network, members of the community can be found discussing whether asexuality should even be considered a part of the LGBTQIA+ community.
Sitting in my car outside a local LGBTQIA+ group meeting, I felt like I shouldn’t have been invited. Are asexual and aromantic people discriminated against if we don’t want or have experience with sex and romance, the rights to which are still being fought for by the community?
Well, yes.
On international asexuality day this year, J.K. Rowling, perhaps the internet’s most famous transphobe, tweeted the following:
“Happy International Fake Oppression Day to everyone who wants complete strangers to know they don’t fancy a shag.”
Rowling’s shift to discrimination against asexual people isn’t surprising, but it provides a conveniently obvious example of the kind of day to day discrimination asexual people face. We are questioned, ignored and excluded constantly, and compulsory sexuality is just as, if not more pervasive than compulsory heterosexuality.
Someday, I might not identify as asexual or aromantic. Orientation is fluid, and sure, maybe I’ll meet “the right person.” But this is what describes me right now, and I don’t expect that to change anytime soon.
After reading Angela Chen’s 2020 book, “ACE, What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex,” I find myself thinking about her hopes for the future:
“Sexual variety will be a given and social scripts will be weakened; sex will be decommodified. The goal of ace liberation is simply the goal of true sexual and romantic freedom for everyone.”
That’s the kind of world we need – the kind I belong in.
So brave and honest, Bonnie. Thanks. (And well-written)