Pride Month & the Anxious Asexual

When I came out to my mom, I did so in a Mexican restaurant. I figured picking a public place to tell my Evangelical Christian mother that I was queer would 1) keep the conversation from getting two heated and 2) prevent her from just leaving the room.

Description: a guy sitting down at a table and saying confidently, “I’m ready.” Source: GIPHY

I waited until after we’d ordered, so we’d have a few interruption-free minutes. I started with the biromantic part. I knew she knew what bisexuality was, so she’d understand that I liked more than just guys. She wasn’t thrilled, but at least she got it.

The harder part was explaining my asexuality to her. When I told her that I don’t experience sexual attraction, she asked why I felt the need to come out at all, if I “wasn’t interested in doing anything anyway.”

Description: an illustration of a person sitting down. Inside the silhouette of their body, their heart appears to sink down from their chest into their stomach. Source: GIPHY

I explained that not feeling sexual attraction doesn’t necessarily take sex off the table altogether, and that I wasn’t coming out to her to talk about sex, anyway. I was trying to share a truth about myself with her.

We’re almost halfway through Pride Month, and while I love the celebration of Pride, I struggle with knowing my place in it. I’m in a long-term, straight-passing relationship. Like many people with passing privilege, I do wonder about the validity of coming out at all. Does the bi part of me count if my relationship doesn’t look queer? Does the ace part of me count in a celebration of sexual and gender liberation? What does it mean to celebrate the absence of something?

Description: Elmo from Sesame Street shrugging. Source: GIPHY

When I first learned about asexuality, I didn’t know what to do with the idea. I was raised to believe that women aren’t really sexual at all. That we trade sex for love and security in relationships. We don’t have it because it’s something we actually want; it’s just part of the transaction.

In high school, while many of my friends were starting to have sexual relationships, I was writing poorly disguised self-insertion fanfics about being the sibling or BFF of my favorite characters, rather than their love interest. This wasn’t because I was wired differently, I told myself, I was just “less tempted” in that area of my life.

But as I got older, moved away from the belief structure I was raised with, and talked more frankly with allosexual women about what sexual attraction is and how they experience it, I began to revisit what I knew about asexuality. I marathoned the Tumblr archives of ace bloggers, read every bit of ace fanfic I could find, and began to test out the idea that I might be ace.

Spoiler alert: I am.

Description: a cartoon of an ace flag flying in the wind. Source: GIPHY

While asexuality doesn’t look different from allosexuality, it can make relationships complicated. Having terms, resources, and a community of fellow aces has helped me navigate the dating world—and the rest of life—effectively, without feeling like I’m alone and am going to die alone.

And isn’t that part of what Pride is about?

Description: a dancing sheep whose wool changes colors to show different Pride flags. Source: GIPHY

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Caitlin Foskey
“Rock On!”

Caitlin Foskey

Caitlin is a freelance writer and editor serving clients from her home in the Pacific Northwest. When she’s not behind a computer, Caitlin is busy refining her baking skills, trying to cultivate an appreciation for weightlifting, and still playing Pokemon Go.

One response to “Pride Month & the Anxious Asexual”

  1. […] June, I told you all about how I discovered that I’m a biromantic asexual, and how I had to explain during the process of coming out that, no, the asexuality piece didn’t […]

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