Beyond Foundations: Expanding How We Talk About Being Asexual

by Genevieve Balivet (she/her/hers)

On a study abroad trip to Edinburgh, Scotland this summer, some friends and I stumbled on a bookshop less than a block away from our hostel. In a dim, cozy space the size of our room, dark-wooden bookshelves crammed themselves along every wall, lined with colorful spines and labeled with hanging, hand-drawn signs. Vintage typewriters nestled between the books like sleeping crabs, machines the shopkeeper had refurbished themself. They gave us a tour, describing their connections with self-published and local authors, annual zine workshops, and specialty in 2SLGBTQIA+ literature. Indeed, an entire shelf of queer books framed a blue-cushioned rocking chair. For our group of queer bibliophiles, it was a dream come true.

As my friends scattered to explore the poetry and fiction sections, I eagerly scanned the queer shelf for a book about asexuality, my own orientation. But I couldn’t find one.

Thinking I’d missed it, I asked the shopkeeper for help. From dozens of memoirs, novels, anthologies, and histories, they uncovered a single volume: Ace Voices: What it Means to Be Asexual, Aromantic, Demi or Grey-Ace by Eris Young. I thanked the shopkeeper for their help, but ultimately left empty-handed and disappointed. I wasn’t upset at them, but at the widespread lack of asexual books, and my dawning realization that most asexual writing is limited to basic definitions. 

Asexuality is often an invisible identity. It’s taken a long time to reach mainstream awareness compared to other queer identities. And while more definitions of it appear each day, that seems to be where the discussion ends—at least, for allosexual (allo, i.e. non-asexual) people. As an asexual (ace) person, I keep looking for deeper, more thoughtful, analytical, or reflective explorations of asexuality. And I keep ending up disappointed. The ace community is overlooked in discussions because allo people seem to think the basics are “good enough.” But if we don't go beyond them, we risk leaving ace people where they are right now: misunderstood, discriminated against, and excluded.

A Misunderstood Definition

Asexuality is a sexual orientation defined by The Trevor Project as “experienc[ing] little or no sexual attraction and/or experienc[ing] sexual attraction in a non-normative way.” Many people distill this into “not having, liking, or wanting sex with anyone, ever.” For some ace people (like myself) this is true. But it doesn’t cover everyone’s experience. This simplified understanding flattens the identity’s nuances, which leads to myths and misconceptions galore. Ace people are misunderstood as traumatized, mentally ill, prudish, inhuman, confused, or simply yet to meet the “right person.” While articles about asexuality dispel these myths, some people don’t bother to read past the basics.

Definitions of asexuality are important—they’re a vital foundation to understanding and supporting ace people. But a foundation isn’t a complete house; though it’s a start, it needs more to make it a functioning, comfortable, safe space. To feel at home in the world, ace people need more than being defined.

In fact, because of an oversimplified definition, ace people face unnecessary scrutiny. People look for “proof” we’re ace and pounce on anything which implies (to them) we aren’t. Ace women, for example, have their clothing policed beyond regular slut-shaming; Yasmin Benoit, asexual activist and co-founder of International Asexuality Day, has had her identity questioned because she works as a lingerie model. Ace men are erased because society expects men (especially cisgender men) to be hypersexual. And ace people of all genders constantly have to defend their asexuality against people’s assumptions: Have you had sex or sexual experiences? Are you in a relationship? Are you attracted to people? Are you attractive? Then you can’t be asexual.

This extends to wearing a revealing outfit, making dirty jokes, enjoying songs or movies which include sex, or even acknowledging a person’s physical beauty. And it’s frustrating. We live in a sex-obsessed world. To avoid everything societies associate with sex would require ace people to disappear into the wilderness and create our own ace sanctuary. But many people, instead of questioning why sex is everywhere, focus on the individual “problem” of being asexual. And so ace people have to explain, justify, and reaffirm, I am still asexual. It’s draining, and what’s more, it doesn’t get us anywhere. 

More to The Conversation

People’s limited understanding means we can’t talk about the issues ace people face. Medical stigma surrounds asexuality, where doctors see it as a hormone deficiency, a psychological disorder, or a result of trauma. Some U.S. states have laws saying marriages can be voided if they aren’t consummated. Ace people are bullied and harassed for being ace, and even face “corrective” sexual assault or rape. We’re excluded from media, sex education courses, dating spaces, and even the queer community. And, naturally, ace people deal with intersecting discrimination based on their race, gender identity, class, religion, and much more. 

Because asexuality is an overlooked identity, aphobia, or discrimination against ace people, is also overlooked. Even within the queer community, people believe we “don’t have it as bad as everyone else.” But aphobia causes us real harm, though it doesn’t take the same shape as homophobia or transphobia. Excluding us from discussions of queer discrimination means we can’t raise awareness and fix these problems. We have to fight on our own, without a community behind us. It makes our battle much more difficult.

Building Toward The Future

At the end of the day, ace people are people. We want to not only feel comfortable with ourselves, but to be loved, accepted, and supported by those around us. To reach this, we need to talk about the obstacles we face. We can’t do that unless people understand asexuality for the complex, diverse identity it is.

Authors like Sherronda J. Brown and Angela Chen, and ace people across the world, are already having deeper discussions. I look forward to a day when these can become mainstream, when I can walk into a bookshop and find a whole section of ace books. When we build beyond the foundations, we take our next steps to making a better world—a home not just for ace people, but for the whole queer community.

Genevieve Balivet is an intern at OACFP and a senior Writing major at GVSU, focusing on longform professional writing, creative writing, and editing and publishing. Outside of writing, she enjoys fiber arts, folk music, Star Wars, and storytelling through design.