The Asexual journal is an independent platform publishing work by asexual, aromantic, and agender authors.



I’m ace

Mythical like a mother-fucking unicorn and if you ground me down to powder no doubt I’d cure your rash right up.

I’m ace. Hormone deficient to hets, not enough oestrogen or testosterone to be The Whore they want.

The Virgin then, they suppose.

Hell, you should pair up with an Incel someone said to me recently — kill two birds with one stone.

Kill them. Minimum effort.

You’re in need of some of that tonic, they meant, if you just had the balls to carve yourself up to make it.


I’m ace. Not queer enough to be LGBTQ+. An unexpectedly sexual organisation — identity through who you want not who you are. The reason for all the serf and TERF hostility.

A stands for ally, sorry Love. 

I mean… at least they know who they are.


I’m ace. Not a letter. Not a plus sign. No plus one. I’m that girl at the wedding in the corner hoping no-one feels sorry enough to come over and make conversation

And yet all I ever wanted was a community; no intention of barging into parties in purple and grey.

Invisibility is yours, they proclaim. Harry had his cloak, so do you. Embrace it.

I can pass so my pain doesn’t count. No-one can tell, so by extension I don’t suffer,

Never mind the fact that I’m buried under billboards like a hobo’s tinbox. 

Caught at the bottom of a well, that ring of light broken by batteries tossed in. 


I’m ace but I can’t count the number of people who have called me choosy. Picky.


Afraid of sex.

My brain isn’t wired wrong. This is not a phase. I am not a coward. 

Not about this at least.

I’m just… me, and if you could tell that to the guy at the bar who wants to buy me a vodka tonic but gets aggressive when I politely decline, I’d really appreciate it.


There used to be static on the tv; between channels, do any of you remember? In the late evening. Too amorphous and indignant to be endured for long. Dots with hooks attached. That’s what I think of when you talk about sex. Or lust. About wanting someone else’s skin sliding along yours. That’s the feeling in the pit of my stomach when every show, every news article, every book deconstructs the flirtatious glance. I

t’s not a tangible response because the idea itself is not tangible —

Just a gap where sound and emotion share cells. 

A space between my world and yours. Mine is peaceful on the whole.

 But yours seems grasping and not to be rude, but so goddamn loud.


It’s a concept to me you see, a Rubik’s cube and I was never good with those.

I see them applaud the build-up on Twitter. The clumsy kiss. The Hallelujah pay off and sitting in my chair all I picture is blood welling up from a cut. Some warm, vaguely horrifying release.

Or a bath, hot shivers across your back, in a motel room… steeping in it —  

Skin prickling from the heat and the sweat and the eyes you’re sure are on you from somewhere. Immersive. Animal. 

Cannibal almost — an acceptable taboo. I’m aware that that makes me odd.   Inexplicable.

It never made me better than you, that was your pronouncement not mine.

But it sure as hell doesn’t make me worse either.

Dealing With Doubt: Ace Pride and Queer Pain

Dealing With Doubt: Ace Pride and Queer Pain

Ace Pride Shawl

Ace Pride Shawl