Having the Cake (but not eating it)

I told myself I would never publish an update like this, but after publishing the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, I feel like I should explain myself, even if no one ever reads this.

Why have I decided to call myself Asexual?

No one has ever explicitly asked me this. As of yet, I haven’t come out to many people in my life, although I have a whole other identity on the internet. Note that I love having the ability to be anonymous on the internet because it gives me the chance to explore what I really think without worrying that someone is going to be shocked at how I’m ruining my reputation. Or something. Basically, the internet is helpful to me. It’s where I first heard the term “asexual.”

Actually, I guess I’d heard it from a school counselor who asked me what I identified as. We talked about a lot of stuff that day, and he wasn’t very helpful, but I had written on the screening questionnaire that I identified as anti-sexual. When asked to explain that, I said, “I just don’t want sex. I don’t really like the term ‘asexual’ because like moss is asexual, but I just feel uncomfortable about sex and would rather it not happen to me.” A short time later I found the documentary (A)Sexual on hulu, and it resonated with me so strongly that I gave up calling myself antisexual and went with asexual instead, even though I cannot reproduce by budding.

Asexuality, for those that don’t know, is simply the lack of sexual attraction. I personally don’t have experience with much disbelief about it, but when I first realized I might be asexual, in my euphoria, I told a few people, “I think I might be asexual.” They seemed confused and told me, “I used to be like that, but now I have a boyfriend, and the longer we’re together, the harder it is to not have sex.”

To me, this business of desiring sex during a relationship was a novel idea. I had had a boyfriend for about 7 months, and I cannot recall actually wanting to have sex with him a single time. I remember wanting him to hold me. I remember thinking that kissing was about the silliest activity one could spend an hour doing. I remember teasing him to see if he could turn me on. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize I just wanted to be close to him. I wanted someone who would be willing to put his hand on my back and just stroke my hair. That was the extent of what I wanted in our relationship. He informed me some time after we’d broken up that he could feel a lust coming from me, and that it was hard to say no to having sex sometimes, but I never felt that way. I was a bit confused by it, actually, because even though I knew that sexual attraction factored into our relationship somewhere, I had no desire to experience anything involving genitals. (sorry if that’s too much information. Talking about sex is tough when you’re trying to stay PG)

So, the label fits. I’ve thought through it a number of times, and for me, identifying as someone who isn’t interested in sex is a no-brainer. In fact, in the few instances that I’ve talked about my asexuality with people, I usually simply say that I’m not really interested in sex. Most people get that. There seems to be a real hang-up when I go from saying, “I’ve discovered I don’t really want to have sex” to “I’m asexual” though. And this is a mindset that I’m still trying to figure out.

Because of other people‘s confusion with my preference for labeling myself, I’ve grown to appreciate my physical condition of CSS. Because this is not a well-known condition, I shall explain this also. CSS stands for Central Sensitivity Syndrome. It is a condition of unknown cause that makes my nervous system a bit different from other people’s. It’s not life-threatening, by any means, but it results in uncomfortable situations where my skin sometimes believes that clothing is painful, that carrying anything weighing more than a thimble is going to cut me, that there are insects crawling on me, and a number of other things that other people certainly experience, but generally to a lesser extent. I bring this up because it’s a condition I’ve had for a large portion of my life, but it was only diagnosed a year ago. Prior to my diagnosis, I wondered how people could live like strong smells didn’t bother them. When I realized that the difference was that my nervous system exasperated smells to me, it made it easier for me to function in the world.

To me, having CSS and being asexual are similar in one regard. They are both part of who I am. I didn’t choose either, but I have grown up experiencing them, which makes me just a bit different from my peers. Neither is really a problem, but each requires some special provisions on my part, and they request some consideration from people around me. For example, axe body spray? Only use a little. Please.

So, why do I identify as asexual? It’s not a lifestyle choice or a rebellious move, in my mind. Asexuality is simply a word to describe what I was already experiencing. It’s a word that helps me be comfortable as I realize that it’s okay to not be into chick flicks. It’s a word that reminds me that if I don’t want sex, it’s okay. It’s also a word that has helped me find community. Turns out there are a lot of people like me who have half-lives on the internet. These are people who will never tell me, “it’s just a phase. You probably just haven’t met the right person yet. I respect your lifestyle choice.” They’re people who are more like, “so, wanna get some cake?”

I don't honestly expect anyone to argue with me. I guess I could change the phrasing in my last post to reflect that. This concept of “coming out” is sort of weird since most people either don't know or care about asexuality. That's okay I guess. Unless you're dating me or subjecting me to another lecture on the evils of premarital sex. Asexuality is invisible for the most part. No one makes a fuss about asexuality. But no one exactly welcomes it either.

If you've gotten this far, I guess you've done the unexpected. I don't know what that makes you, but it's cool.