CW: internalised acephobia

The earliest memory I have attributed to my asexuality was from primary school. I got home one evening and looked around at the posters plastered all over my bedroom walls. The dozens of smiling celebrity faces ripped out from TotalGirl and Girlfriend magazines looked different that day. I was coming to terms with the fact that during recess I had confessed to my friends I had a crush on Louis Tomlinson from One Direction. But more importantly, I was reckoning with the fact that it was a total lie: I pretended to like Louis, because when I said I did not have a celebrity crush, I was shut down: ‘well, you have to like someone!’

I sat down in front of a Zac Efron poster. I looked into his impossibly blue eyes and waited to feel something. I squinted my eyes and tilted my head in confusion – questioning the hype of the ‘heartthrob’ celebrity in front of me. I felt alien and confused, but quickly shrugged it off.

I would not revisit that feeling until many years later when I turned 18 years old and with my then boyfriend of 2 years. No ‘switch’ had gone off in my brain to do anything further with him. I felt broken. After a period of denial and confusion, I stumbled upon a YouTube video where I found the term ‘asexual:’ a sexual orientation defined as experiencing little to no sexual attraction. 

Take your sexuality and split it in half: your romantic and sexual attraction. This is called the split attraction model.

For example, a heterosexual woman is romantically and sexually attracted to men. For allosexuals (non-asexual people), there is often no need to break down their sexuality in this way. After all, emotions, attraction, desire, lust, libido – these can all pop up in complicated and overlapping ways. However, for a conservative estimate of 1% of the population (about the same as people who have naturally red hair), the split attraction model can help us better understand our sexuality and experience of the world. 

By understanding that romantic and sexual attraction can be felt differently or not at all, there was room for both my romantic love for my then boyfriend, and my lack of sexual attraction towards him (or anyone, for that matter). 

It was hard for me to feel okay with this. Compulsory sexuality had me feeling I had failed at love, connection, and being human – that the only way to find happiness was through partnership, and expressing that connection through acts of sex. It felt as though the fun and playfulness of teenagerhood promised to me by every coming-of-age movie and romcom, was denied to me. 

When I found the asexual community, my lack of attraction and disinterest in sex wasn’t a problem to be ‘fixed,’ but simply a part of me and my queerness.

When I had come to terms with my asexuality, my romantic orientation came into question – was that girl I really wanted to be friends with in high school actually a crush? As it turns out, yes. I am a biromantic asexual, which for me, means I am romantically interested in genders like and unlike my own, but sexually attracted to no one of any gender. I also consider myself on the aromantic spectrum; someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction. 

Asexuality and aromanticism exist on a spectrum or continuum, encompassing a vast array of manifestations of attraction and attitudes towards the act of sex itself. This includes demisexuals who feel no sexual attraction towards other people, but are capable of developing sexual attraction if a strong emotional bond has been established. 

There are many reasons an asexual person may still participate in sex, such as satisfying libido, connecting with a partner or partners, producing children, exploring alternative pleasures, or simply acting on the ‘little’ in ‘little to no sexual attraction.’ 

Some asexuals enjoy sex, some are indifferent to the idea of sex, and others are entirely averse to it. 

No matter the complexities of an asexuals’ relationship to attraction, sex, and romance, we all have something in common: community. We all found ourselves, at one point or another, feeling as though our limited or non-existent experience of attraction was different to what was ‘normal.’ From there, we sort out understanding of ourselves and of others – longing to feel connected and supported. 

Nowadays, I take a lot of pride in my asexuality – that I feel and experience connection in complicated ways. I love my friends fiercely, pour into my hobbies and community, and seek out pleasure and joy in my everyday life. 

Learn more:

Chen, Angela. ACE: What Asexuality Reveals about Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex. Beacon Press, 2020. 

Brown, Sherronda J. Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex- Obsessed Culture. North Atlantic Books, 2022. 

Benoit, Jasmine, and Robbie De Santos. Ace in the UK Report. London: Stonewall, 2023. https://www.stonewall.org.uk/system/files/ace_in_the_uk_report_2023.pdf. 

Yasmin Benoit is an asexual advocate, read articles and listen to podcasts: https://yasminbenoit.komi.io

Asexual Visibility and Education Network. https://www.asexuality.org.

Thompson, Wendy. Beyond Visibility: Acephobic Discrimination and the Place for Asexuality in Radical Politics. Honisoit, 2025. https://honisoit.com/2025/05/beyond-visibility-acephobic-discrimination-and-the-place-for-asexuality-in-radical-politics/.

 Minus18. What does it mean to be asexual? https://www.minus18.org.au/articles/what-does-it-mean-to-be-asexual/?srsltid=AfmBOoofBCgSjWQ YbpSG1HEjXVwpOTVkzdopcGA6lqE_pv0KK_HrJUr