Ace Positivity
BY THOMAS VAN HORN
In the sexual liberation movement, is there any place for people who don’t have any interest in sex?
I ask myself that question a lot. On the one hand, there absolutely should be; the whole point of the movement is to give people the choice of what to do with their body, and consent requires respect for a No as well as creating space for a Yes. But all too often my experience doesn’t match that ideal. You see, I’m one of those people. I am asexual, a term which for many people conjures up memories of high school bio classes, but for me means that I do not experience sexual attraction. Being asexual is not the same as being celibate, which is a choice not to engage in sex. It also doesn’t mean that I will never have sex (there’s a difference between attraction and action), that I don’t experience romantic attraction (that’s aromanticism), or that I don’t want an intimate relationship (more on that later); but it does mean that sex just doesn’t have the same appeal for me as for others. Despite—or possibly because of—my identity, I really enjoy talking about sexual attraction with others. I want to learn more about this experience, what it feels like, how people navigate it, etc. It’s just so interesting to me. And I love that many individuals feel safe and liberated enough in college to experiment with their sexuality and be open about their experiences. But existing asexually in a “hookup culture” can be really uncomfortable, because people will naturally assume you are sexual until you prove otherwise. If I had a dollar for every time somebody told me this was “just a phase,” that you “can’t know until you try it,” or that I “just haven’t met the right person yet,” I wouldn’t have any student loans! These kinds of comments erase my experience and come from friends, doctors, and even members of the queer community. In fact, I don’t really feel comfortable in a lot of queer spaces because I often feel like an outsider. Even in a group of people who have all been impacted in some way by people assuming their sexuality or gender identity, there is still an implicit assumption that everyone has a sexual identity. More often, I’m treated like a straight ally rather than a member of the community. I appreciate the efforts by sexual people to more publicly and openly express their sexuality, but all too often this openness carries the implicit assumption that everyone wants sex and all we have to do is learn how to express it. Conversations about sexuality focus on acts, desires, and experiences that I simply do not have. When I don’t participate in sex week, skip out on Sex In The Dark, or shy away from the Sex Issue, I’m not saying I don’t support sex positivity, but that these specific conversations probably aren’t for me. And that’s ok, to a point. But sometimes it feels like none of the conversations are for me—because they all assume sexuality going in—and this is when the movement switches from sex positivity to sex normativity. I’ve even recognized this sex-normative assumption in myself. Asexuality only means that I do not experience sexual attraction; it doesn’t mean I don’t feel romantic love or want to be in relationships. Healthy, successful relationships come in all flavors, and while asexuality may complicate a relationship it doesn’t have to preclude one. It just means that healthy boundaries must be set and understood, just like in any other. But ever since coming to college even though I’ve been romantically attracted to people, I never followed through on that attraction because deep down I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m going to fall in love with someone who will want something I won’t be able to give them, because I convince myself that of course everyone else wants sex. I’m terrified of coming out and that ending the relationship because they assumed that I was interested in them sexually and can’t accept the fact that I don’t reciprocate their sexual attraction. And it doesn’t help that when I do tell people about my asexuality they automatically believe I’m not interested in a relationship so they never try to initiate one. Sexual liberation for me means overcoming this fear. Yes, I have work to do on my part. But it will be helped along by a movement that does not settle for acceptance, but instead actively dismantles systems that take sexuality as a given. I want to live in a world where sex is not portrayed the end goal of every relationship; where my doctors will believe me when I say I’ve never had sex rather than asking about STIs anyway; where sexuality, still the mathematical norm, is not the “normal.” But I cannot make this change alone, nor even the entire asexual community. If you’re reading this, consider if your actions contribute to or dismantle asexual erasure in society. Is your sex positivity inclusive of asexuals, aromantics, people who have chosen celibacy, and others who just don’t want sex for whatever reason? How do you combat the assumption that someone is sexual before they tell you? This introspection is difficult, but it is necessary, and every social movement has asked its allies to do the same. So is there space for me in this movement? Sometimes the answer is no. But it doesn’t have to be. |