How I Realized I’m Asexual

I’m not averse to sex or incapable of enjoying sex, but I don’t experience sexual desire in the same way allosexuals do

Photo by Chiara Guercio on Unsplash

The first time I considered the possibility of being asexual, it wasn’t the lack of desire that struck me—it was the empty space beside me where I thought someone would be, slowly vanishing.

I believe there is a huge amount of misunderstanding when it comes to asexuality, partly because it spans such a large and diverse spectrum. But by allowing myself to speak about it publicly on TikTok over the past few years, I have come to learn that everyone sees and/or experiences asexuality in their own unique way.

My asexuality manifests as a low inclination to seek or prioritize sexual satisfaction. It’s not that I’m incapable of enjoying sex, or that I’m averse to it; it’s just something of little significance for me. At the start of a new romantic relationship with an allosexual (someone who experiences sexual attraction to others), I will seek it out more, as I’ve been taught it’s the most direct way to show interest. After all, actions often speak louder than words.

All through my teens and into early adulthood, I had a very conflicted relationship with sex. I never felt an urge to explore it on my own, and it wasn’t a topic of conversation in my household. I assumed my sexuality was something I’d figure out with another person once I was older; the idea of discovering sex independently never really occurred to me.

But while it wasn’t something I was experiencing, it was present in my fictional worlds: my Barbies had sex when they paired up, my Sims were great at procreating, and I remember reading Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series (in secret), and thinking it all sounded very interesting, like a locked door I wasn’t supposed to open yet. It never crossed my mind that it wasn’t locked, or that I was free to explore it on my own. I never made the connection between my fictional characters’ active sex lives and my complete lack of interest.

In retrospect, I think what interested me was the secrecy around it. The taboo element made sex feel like some clandestine affair I would learn about later. Turns out, later never really happened.

I had my first sexual experience simply because it felt like something I needed to check off before university. It was lukewarm at best, so I convinced myself my disinterest in sex was just temporary—that with the right person, everything would click. Comforted by my narrative and having successfully shelved sex for the time being, I went about my life, ready to find The One.

I did fall in love at university—a big, all-consuming, it’s-you-or-no-one-else kind of love. He didn’t love me back, so I decided to wait. And I did. For another six years.

By twenty-six, I’d run out of excuses. I had a steady job and my own apartment; there was nothing left to wait for. If love was supposed to fix this, I needed to start looking for it, so I got on the apps.

I’d already spoken to my gynecologist about my lack of sexual appetite and seen a few psychologists, none of whom were particularly helpful. Except for one sex therapist I saw briefly, who gave me a concert analogy I’ve never forgotten: “Imagine you go to a concert. You need to already like the music. You can’t just show up and expect the crowd’s energy to make you enjoy it.” And that was exactly what I had been doing—believing that finding The One would somehow fix me, that another person would awaken something dormant in me that I couldn’t rouse on my own.

So I started dating someone, and with exclusivity came the assumption (reinforced by my then-gynecologist) that frequent sex would bring everything into alignment. We spent two and a half years together, and I did love them—maybe not as deeply as I could, but enough to make it matter. It was a relationship I needed to experience, a necessary step toward accepting my asexuality, though I did not know it at the time.

Sex was a pillar of our relationship, mostly because I didn’t know any better and assumed all healthy relationships looked like what you see on TV. It’s never really discussed, how much or how little sex a couple “has” to have—and at that point, no one had told me it depended on us. My partner had been in relationships before, so I took the path of least confusion and followed his lead.

It took over six months for me to realize that things weren’t evening out, that it wasn’t getting easier but was becoming more complicated for me to muster the enthusiasm I felt I needed. I was performing, and I didn’t even know it. Eventually, I decided to be honest with my partner, and we talked about what sex felt like for me and how it wasn’t doing what I thought it was doing for him. We talked for hours, and I realized our experiences were vastly different.

We tried compromising, but you can’t force a middle ground with sex; either you want it or you don’t. I set reminders to be intimate, which felt like a bad sign. Eventually, it became the reason we broke up: we couldn’t align our expectations, and neither of us was happy with the compromises. I didn’t—and still don’t, to an extent—want to be asexual, but like any orientation, you can’t just wish it away. You can deny it or disguise it, but you can’t change it.

When we broke up, I was crushed—but the grief quickly gave way to an overwhelming relief. I no longer had to perform the role of “girlfriend.” Sex is the one thing I can’t compromise on; the second you force yourself to do it when you’re not really into it, resentment builds, either toward yourself or the other person. If it’s not something I can somewhat enjoy at that moment, it’s off the table.

At thirty-one, I’m more at ease in my asexuality though it doesn’t come without challenges. Having erased the need for a “typical” relationship, the issue I struggle with now is the lack of effort I put into seeking one. I worry about the inevitable early-days conversations, and the statements that often come disguised as possibilities I’ve long since considered and dismissed as inapplicable: “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” or “You haven’t been with me yet though, so you can’t know.” I can handle them, but I’m not always sure I have the energy.

For me, sex is about communicating each other’s wants…but I don’t have any. Sex is a tool I use to establish a dynamic, not a primary source of pleasure. Sometimes pleasure does come out of it, but most romantic interests end up disconcerted by my lack of physical desire. I don’t know what it means to physically desire someone. I can fall in love and admire someone’s beauty, like someone admires art, but the urge to act on it rarely surfaces—maybe two or three times a year?

My own libido is just as low. Sex just isn’t something I gravitate toward, although it’s a huge area of interest to me. I like talking about it, reading about it, and writing about it, because it helps me understand something I feel apart from. I don’t like watching it—porn or even sex scenes in movies strike me as inauthentic.

I’m currently in a partnership with someone who identifies on the aroace spectrum, both aromantic and asexual. Over the past few years, we’ve talked a lot about what we each want from life, and we’ve chosen to move forward together.

I’m keeping the possibility of a romantic relationship open, but I’ve decided to decentralize it from my story. Shifting my focus—making romance less of a priority—has given me immense confidence. I’m no longer waiting or feeling lonely. I can enjoy the solid partnership I do have, along with my wonderful friendships that fulfill almost all my emotional needs. When I’m missing that last 10%, I’ll cry, bake brownies, watch a silly romcom, and move on.

Accepting the difficult parts makes navigating the rest so much easier. I don’t have to be 100% content with my life—who is?

When I was younger, my love life was always up for debate among my friends: “You haven’t found the right man,” “He wasn’t skilled,” and other similar sentiments. Freeing myself from these ridiculous excuses has helped me prioritize relationships that bring me joy, in whatever shape they take.

And with this freedom comes the satisfying relief of knowing that whoever wants to engage in a romantic relationship with me one day will have to accept that I’ve built a life where they aren’t at the very center. That doesn’t mean they won’t be hugely important or deeply loved; it just means I’ve created a life for myself that values other relationships just as much. And I hope they’ll find a similar sense of independence and community, too.

Asexuality isn’t something I would have chosen for myself, but I can’t deny that it has led me to reflect on things I see other people struggle with: the role of romance in a person’s life, and the importance of friendship. I might not love being asexual, but it has forced me—and also allowed me—to grow in ways I can only be grateful for.

Mar is a 31-year-old asexual living in Paris with her cat. A devoted fan of True Lies (the greatest movie ever made), she spends her free time writing, bookbinding, and experimenting with tea drinks—most of which end up vaguely disgusting. When she's not sharing her thoughts on asexuality on TikTok, you can catch her deep in a Tumblr rabbit hole, blogging about Arcane, Severance, and Harry Potter.