Vol. 1, Issue 3
Asexuality and Body
Vol. 1, Issue 3
Asexuality and Body
The Asexual, Vol. 1, Issue 3
Editor-in-Chief: Michael Paramo
Layout Editor: Michael Paramo
A human body may be nothing more or so much more than its physicality. As potential onlookers, we often consume anatomical and phenotypical qualities of bodies at first glance. Our perceptions may produce quiet whispers, seeping into our unconscious, or silencing screams, accelerating our heartbeats, but each body tells us something. What the body conveys is informed by the culture(s) we inhabit, from the media, family, church, school, and more. Our bodies themselves are reproductions and (potential) reproducers of this culture, as we become entangled by its desire for self-continuation. Our bodies are consumed in this self-perpetuating cycle. Is our body our destiny? Is transcending this system possible? We still can and do resist and disrupt, decolonize and deconstruct, unlearn and unpack, at least, we may try. Whether our efforts will triumph is an impossible question for another time.
If our bodies are the reproductive machines of society, where does the asexual body fit? How does one even define an asexual body? At the very least, asexual bodies are often left unmarked within society. One may be asexual, but this is difficult to discern through perception alone. Rather, our identities are often learned through our own intimate and/or public confessions, frequently producing disbelief and numerous other points of affect in the audience. In this transitional and critical moment in which we may decide to share our asexuality, our bodies quickly transform into subjects for dissection. Does what we say match what they see? Do our bodies look asexual to the audience? For certain bodies, being “asexual” already pre-exists as an assumed or impossible quality, with intersections of race, ethnicity, gender, age, queerness, fatness, disability, and hegemonic conceptions of beauty, among other variables, constructing this equation of understanding.
The forthcoming pieces by authors under the ace umbrella grapple with questions and concepts suggested in this introduction, examining topics of body positivity, identity management, reproduction, health, navigating relationships, intersectionality, and more to explore this theme of asexuality and the body.
Oil and Conte Crayon Mixed Media Painting
24” x 48”
"How to Disappear Completely" was painted during a time in which the artist was first starting to readdress their personhood after coming out of a long-term emotionally and sexually abusive relationship. After many years of having their sexuality and identity invalidated it was a struggle for them to feel like their body was their own, and worth feeling comfortable in. It was a cathartic process that needed to pass in order to move on. If there is one thing that the artist has learned while on this journey of self-discovery, it's that being Ace doesn't mean being less of a person than anyone else.
Ashley Kleczka is a non-binary illustrator and game dev with an interest in fantasy, video games, and sitting down with a good book. They generally identify as greysexual and bi-romantic; a status that their now-husband is very accepting and supportive of.
Until I was almost twenty-four years old, I found myself still trying to solve the puzzles of sexuality. I was especially trying to figure out where in the picture I might fit. I believed the framework encompassed every adult human, so the question I asked wasn't if I fit, just where. Gradually, perhaps a part of me realized that only asking “Where do I fit?” over and over again was not revealing any answers, and maybe the question had to shift. Deep down, I stopped feeling merely curious to understand in the abstract, and started feeling like my whole self was wrong. The simple truth was that I did not intuitively know the answers, despite the fact that everyone around me seemed to possess such intuition. When I set off on a quest of understanding, no one warned me what I might uncover: that the equation had never even accounted for a person like me existing.
Starting in my preteen years, I found a lot of things very confusing. Did I believe that God really existed? (No, but I didn't yet know that atheism was a valid option, so I struggled internally with this question a bit, confused at the concept of having faith and avoiding admitting my actual lack of belief). Was my mother’s parenting style harmful enough to count as abuse? (Yes, it was. In fact, when I turned eighteen I cut off all contact with her, to protect my own mental health and possibly also physical safety. She still doesn't know I’m an atheist or asexual).
And then, there was that broad subject of human sexuality. That one was a doozy.
Continuing well into my teenage years, I abstractly questioned what emotions and thoughts were supposed to arise when I looked at someone that had captivated me. As a person clearly going through puberty on a typical schedule, I had learned that we all were supposed to experience the emotions and thoughts of crushes, and find certain people to be attractive. I certainly expected to be included in the experience. Since I was a girl, I knew these feelings would most likely occur towards boys. However, even if I turned out to not be attracted to men, all that would be remaining would be women, since everyone was supposed to be attracted to at least one of those two genders.
Eventually an array of television series and novels starring teenage characters, in combination with sentiments from peers and adults alike in my social circles, had convinced me that having crushes must have already started for me. I was still feeling confused by the whole notion of attraction—so clearly, I needed to do a better job analyzing my own experiences.
I would try to figure out if there was a chance I might be attracted to women, all the while aiming to determine which men were my type. Then, I'd leave the question alone for months—or even possibly years—at a time. Much later, I concluded that sexual desires were things I’d never feel, and so on some level, they'll always be a mystery to me. But with each passing year, the mystery felt more overwhelming—grew urgent to become demystified, even. I didn't know asexuality existed. I thought my mind and body were normal. However, a new feeling of cognitive dissonance was slowly emerging within my mind, threatening to tear me apart. Normal minds don’t struggle so much with this question. Normal bodies… well, it's a long story.
In my only romantic partnership, a relationship which spanned months, I revealed my body to my boyfriend. He treated me with nothing but kindness, and seemed to actually appreciate my body exactly as it was, both clothed or unclothed. I had been unprepared for him to have such positive feelings for my body. My body is overweight, my hair often full of frizz, and my face is just as acne-ridden as a teenager’s and without any makeup to hide the blemishes. Society had instilled in me a shame over how I looked, but here was a twenty-two-year-old guy who felt only respect and admiration for me, and as a twenty-three-year-old in her first significant foray into long-term dating, I floundered.
I felt uncomfortable—in fact, in a vague sense, I felt on the brink of violation—to know I was wanted in a sexual way. I didn’t understand yet that I was sex-averse, and therefore being the star of someone else’s sexual fantasies would mean that they would be wanting something from me that I could never give. My boyfriend wasn’t imagining me, but rather a non-existent version of me that wasn’t a sex-averse ace. In hindsight, I realize that imagining me in that light stripped me of such an inherent, defining part of my entire lived experience. However, I didn’t know how to frame those feelings and reactions at the time, so I tried to be grateful for his compliments of my body, and for finding me sexy.
My boyfriend didn't do anything wrong, but my relationship with him left me in a constant conflict between how I wished I felt versus my true feelings, as well as in a state of denial about how atypical my complete lack of libido was. My boyfriend had been incredulous to learn that I'd never masturbated; it wasn't conceivable to him that a person might not have the ability to get aroused, to orgasm. It wasn't merely that I had never felt a strong urge to “get off”—I physically cannot get aroused. I tried my best to honestly explain how I’d only just begun to realize that my body might be a bit dysfunctional in that regard.
It’s hard to explain just how much internalized shame I possessed over having never masturbated. It started with my insidious small-town public-school health classes. There, I’d had the woefully inadequate type of sexual education where one learns all the reasons abstinence is ideal and then eventually learns, much later, from a pop song’s lyrics or a television show's jokes, more details about what sex entails.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to learn, which I eventually did from podcasts I listened to and videos I watched on YouTube, that women can masturbate. Even if many women don't… I was taught that they all are capable of it. It was implied in a lot of the secular feminist spaces that I frequented, that all women should, from a moral standpoint, be pleasuring themselves and are missing out on a joy of life if they aren't. The attitudes towards women who hadn’t orgasmed were pity at best and harsh judgment at worst. The concept of a teenage girl or young twenty-something-year-old woman physically not being able to become aroused at all was never mentioned, not even in passing.
Unless you’ve experienced hermeneutical injustice firsthand, it is really hard to sympathize with just how broken or lonely you feel every time you hear a throwaway joke about how everyone masturbates and how if anyone says they don’t, they must be lying. These seemingly knowledgeable people caused me to doubt it was even true that I had never been sexually aroused, because they had never heard of such a person existing. Losing one’s sex drive from age, injury, drugs, or a hormone problem is possible. Existing without libido is not even taken into consideration. Even among asexuals, experiences like mine often feel forgotten or invisible.
I’m grateful I found the word “asexual” when I did. It took me a few months—and a lot of attempts to fit inside a heteronormative mold—before I finally accepted that I'd never feel sexual attraction, desire, or arousal. Lack of arousal was central to my journey; for roughly a decade it’d been holding me back from understanding myself. Once I was with my boyfriend, I developed a hypothesis: I might feel something like sexual desire if only I could figure out how to get myself aroused. So, I researched arousal and desire as much as I could, and then I tried being somewhat sexual with my boyfriend. I did these things mainly because I couldn’t accept I was ace until I had confidence that my body definitely wasn’t going to get aroused—when I was sure I had tested a variety of scenarios.
A few months before I reached my twenty-fourth birthday, I realized that all of this effort, this research, this experimenting with sexual stuff, was for naught. I wasn’t willing to subject myself to physical pain, which is sort of what not being aroused leads to when a cis woman tries to do anything with her genitals. This meant I was left with the option of embracing a new future for myself, a sex-free future. It only seemed like a choice because I finally knew there was an asexual community out there—a community that thrived on puns about disliking sex and where I wouldn’t be the only person unwilling to have sex in my future.
I figured out I was a non-libidoist, sex-averse, asexual—who was also kissing-averse—and immediately ended my relationship with my boyfriend. The breakup was amicable enough, and I only cried once. My emotions hit their peak when he validated me by saying he knew I couldn’t choose my sexual orientation and that it wasn’t my fault. We ended things because of sexual incompatibility, and afterwards, I never doubted for even a second that the breakup was necessary.
While getting into my pajamas one evening, I came to the realization that my underwear probably would never be seen by anyone else except me, ever again in my life. Remembering with wry amusement that my mother had once spent hours raging over the new bras I'd purchased not being sexy enough—she had called them “old lady bras"—I now knew that in my future I'd never have to stress or feel shame over my bras. In fact, I’d never have to show anyone my naked body ever again. I wouldn’t have to stress or feel shame over my stretch marks, or body hair, or whatever else anyone cared to have critical opinions on.
I had an epiphany about how my underwear and my nakedness were no longer only shielded most of the time, as there is no until I am in a sexually active relationship again. It was—and is—so very freeing for a sex-averse person such as myself to know all the inevitable sexual intimacy I’d thought had been in my future was no longer inescapable. I simply chose to reject it. It is empowering to know certain areas of my body are fully my own, just for me, for all of the foreseeable future. I reclaimed my body from a hypothetical uncomfortable future that I thought was my destiny before I had the framework and words I needed to understand myself.
Of course, there are still obstacles occasionally, such as with shopping for clothes. I understand now that I prefer to embrace a modest type of femininity when possible. The less sexy a straight man would be likely to find me in the outfit, the better—and yet I still do want to feel pretty. My ideal scenario is for other people to see me as attractive in the same exact way that I find people attractive: aesthetically, rather than sexually.
I now understand my aversion to people finding me or my body sexy. Knowledge really is power. I do my best to embody the type of prettiness that I want others to notice. In addition, I’ve discarded my shame over how I’ve never once orgasmed or even felt aroused. If I need to remind myself to be okay with myself as I am, I consciously think about how my life so far has already been full of plenty of joy and excitement in more than enough non-sexual ways. I’m more comfortable in my own skin than ever. I come out as asexual on a pretty regular basis to various family, friends, and acquaintances. I feel truly happy, confident, and at peace.
Emily Karp is a 27-year-old living in Maryland who has known she was asexual since she was 23. It has, however, been much more recent that she determined her complicated romantic orientation fell between panromantic and aromantic on the gray-aro spectrum. She co-hosts the Recovering from Religion podcast. She blogs about a variety of topics, including asexuality, under the pseudonym luvtheheaven, on the WordPress blog From Fandom to Family. Most of her closest offline friendships these days were formed through regularly attending her local ace meetup, Asexuals of the Mid-Atlantic.
It seems that in society today we are told that skinny is better and more attractive, and being overweight is, not only unhealthy, but unattractive. If you’re overweight that means you’re less likely to find a significant other, romance, considered unattractive, etc. For the longest time, I have struggled with being overweight due to a combination of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) and hypothyroidism. I did everything I could to lose weight because I wanted to be like the other girls in school. I wanted to be thin, have a boyfriend, and be popular.
The funny thing is, I didn’t want a boyfriend for the romance or relationship. I just wanted a boyfriend to feel normal. Most of the girls I knew were boy-crazed, so I just went along with it to feel like I fit in. In fact, most of the things I did in middle school were to fit in. I put myself through a lot just to feel like I was normal. In the eighth grade, I joined a gym that I walked to after school every day. I worked out for about two hours every day, not including the required physical education class that I took. I went on diets and even stopped eating briefly, all to try to lose weight.
When it didn’t work after a year, I honestly gave up. I didn’t know I had PCOS at the time. That was something I would find out in tenth grade. So, I gave up, and continued being the shy, quiet, girl who focused on nothing but schoolwork and books. All through high school I wondered what it would be like to be thin, to have a boyfriend, and to be normal. All I wanted was to be normal, because, in my mind, I wasn’t. I was overweight, which must have meant that I was ugly, which meant no boys would want to date me. I resigned myself to a life without a significant other.
Then, I graduated from high school and started college. I was still shy, overweight, and I still hadn’t had a boyfriend. I began wondering if I was weird or abnormal because I had never had a boyfriend, or kissed a boy. I had never danced with a boy at a school dance. These things haunted my mind, and it all went back to one thing: being overweight. I concluded this to be the cause of all of my problems. It was why I was so shy. It was why I never had a boyfriend. It was why I felt the way I did. I was so quick to blame my problems on my weight. I was so quick to even think that those were problems to begin with, because I still believed that those things were normal.
Eventually I had to take a human sexuality class for my degree, and honestly, I was nervous to have to take such a class. I, from a young age, never wanted to talk about sex. I thought it was disgusting, and I felt uncomfortable watching or reading about sex scenes. However, that class ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. We started our section on human sexuality and suddenly, there it was in my book, the term that would change my life: Asexuality.
I had never heard of it before, and I was curious. I read about it in my textbook, and then I did some online research, and suddenly, everything clicked for me. I realized I wasn’t abnormal, and there was nothing wrong with me. I was a sex-repulsed asexual. That moment was very freeing to me, but I still had a long way to go. There were still times that I had my doubts. Maybe I was only saying this because I hadn’t ever had a boyfriend. I still thought I didn’t have a boyfriend because of how I looked. It wasn’t until recently, last year actually, that I really accepted who I am.
Accepting my sexuality actually helped me with my body image. It made me realize that I don’t need to be skinny to attract a significant other because, ultimately, I didn’t really want a significant other anyway, and even if I did, I would want someone who likes me in spite of my weight. It also made me realize that the only reason I should lose weight is so I can be healthier. In the last year, through eating healthier and exercising more, I have lost weight, despite all of the obstacles. When I have setbacks, I don’t feel as bad anymore either. The pressure to be thin so I can be attractive to others is gone, and it is a true relief.
That’s not to say that I still don’t have my troubles. I do. Society is still so focused on the importance of being thin and attractive. Sex is still everywhere. Being overweight and asexual now, there are people who are not always nice to me. I’m told my sexuality isn’t real, or that I’m just confused. I’ve been called “fat,” “whale,” “ugly,” and so many other awful things. The difference is, in the past those comments would have had me in tears, and now, I am confident in who I am, for the most part.
I just want others to be confident now. If there is any way I can inspire even one person through this writing, then I have succeeded. We in the asexual community have a long way to go in gaining understanding and acceptance. We who are overweight have a lot to overcome in terms of discrimination and body shaming. The only thing I can think to say to you, at this moment, is that there is nothing wrong with you. You are beautiful, not based on what you look like, but by the things you do, and the way you treat other people. Don’t let other people tell you who you are. Decide that for yourself.
Krystal Cooper is a 27-year-old, recently realized sex-repulsed asexual whose main goal right now is to spread awareness and gain acceptance for the asexual community. She has a bachelor’s degree in Social Work from Ferris State University and an Associate’s Degree in General Studies from Northwestern Michigan College. She has a passion for writing and social justice causes.
My life is poles apart
In comparison with counterparts
When I was thin, I was considered physically weak
When I gained weight, I was labeled as meek
I wonder why body shaming is considered an art
By the so-called tarts
There is always a possibility
Fatness is associated with Asexuality
Why show just the negativity
When being “Plus size” is not disability
There should be just one goal
Love must come from the soul
Those who love someone’s soul
Don’t talk about body & troll
I would suggest to fellow aces to just follow one’s heart
Because conforming to Society’s ideal body image won’t make you smart
Mehreen Qaisar is a young Pakistani Feminist & Researcher in the government organization; her area of interest is Gender & Human Rights. She is a Body Positive Ace born with Asperger’s Syndrome; she has disdain for any feminist & human rights movement which is not inclusive. Can be reached at Twitter @Mehreen_Qaisar
When articulating thoughts regarding asexuality, discussion often centers on those processes, structures, and politics which “other” us, as does this essay. This isn’t to locate myself and fellow ace-identified people definitively as a singular “Other”, but rather to interrogate far-reaching politicisations that cause us all to individually, as well as collectively, become marginal. Indeed, asexual writing can and does centre asexual experience(s), and learns “from” them. In this instance however, I place the starting point of this argument as the asexual experience, insinuating that such writing is contingent on an asexual involvement with the subject matter. An exploration of the asexual body requires appropriate understandings of the makings of sexual bodies. Attuning writing to marginalisation, ahead of experience (though the two are simultaneously linked) lays bare potential pathways for asexual reimaginations and liberation. This essay therefore attempts to unpack gay male sociality through critical markings of ‘desire’ and description of ‘markets’, amongst other observations, in order to highlight the profound entanglement of sex within gay male communities.
Bodies, it seems, are not as individual as one might assume. Moving through space, they sit within and disturb various threads that form a spun web of meaning pertaining to - for the purposes of this essay - the body, and whose effects play out there. One may refer to this web as “culture”. The body lies across it, and therefore is delineated by narrative threads of class, race, gender, ethnicity, normative ideas of ability, and the list goes on. It is informed by and transforms their influential threads in its very materiality. That is to say we internalise, consume, and embody a culture saturated with meaning and sex. Sex mediates in part through desire, which is both a product and a driver of the cultural capital afforded to/through race, class, gender, ability (...). Desire nests itself within bodies, and is also enthusiastically taken up and reproduced by them, such that it structures sexual inequities psychologically and socially through an interpersonal, intercorporeal ‘gaze’. The body is at once a canvas of desire - sexual, aesthetic, classed, raced (...)- that is detailed and coloured by an erotic gaze, as well as the locus from which desire might, and does, emanate and (pro-)create, and where desire is readily received. To elaborate, the individual acquires desire(s) out of sexed-culture, which connect the individual’s body to other bodies psychically through erotic gaze. Desire, administered by socio-sexual gaze not only subjects the body of an(-)other but is also readily taken up by a subjected body in acts of conformity which too, are desired.
The web of culture that bodies hold themselves within and traverse is, then, spun from (sexual) desire itself and along the lines of social inequity that hold together a perilous, yet resilient, norm. However, placement and performances of bodies in relation to this context vary, as does a corresponding, corporeal value. A pursuant political economy operates, then, according to certain sexual-cultural laws. The asexual body - nonetheless sexed, classed, gendered, racialised (...) through extrogenous gazes and one’s own performances - is denied the socio-sexual capital that desire dictates. By way of repetition: despite an erotically-driven plurality of sexualisations within (Western) culture, which is acted out of and upon bodies, those bodies which do not engage normatively with sexual conventions and attractions, if at all, are marginalised and valueless.
Culture is of course not singular. The contours of significance within economies of social capital fluctuate with context. Inequities are still reproduced or altered, like smaller or separate webs in reference to the aforementioned entanglement. Within the gay community, the context from which I write, such a thought proves useful. (Neo-)Liberalism and individual freedoms do little to liberate bodies from the meaningful strands that they operate along and across, rather, they engage in internalising and reproducing these strands. Masculinity remains cooly dominant, whiteness retains its assuredness, disability continues to be largely overlooked, and class, to name some examples, is exoticised or fetishised. Shifted, yet similar, powers within gay culture operate, by and for ‘desire’ - a desire still heady from recent decades of newly permitted sexual autonomy, freedom, and visibility. Desire thus, crucially centres on the appearance and practiced behaviour of a ‘body’, and from a point of cultural specificity pertaining to the desirability of certain class(es), race(s), gender(s) (..), gazes. In doing so, desire is able to ascribe value onto gay bodies in a way that is specific to the community. The narratives that are concluded upon by and enacted out through a homoerotic gaze are taken up, learnt, repeated, practiced, and reified by those scrutinized bodies: perhaps in cathartic conformity.
Further, gay male bodily dynamics desire categorisation for consumption. Categorisation of bodies, allowing for variety in a strict production of typified figures: “bear,” “twink,” “otter,” “geek,” “jock,” et cetera., originates both from a strict adherence to sexual and social capital within the community, but also for the utilisation of that capital within Western gay male political economy, through consumption. It follows that gay male bodily politics physicalises sexual literacy. This is to say that communication becomes contingent on mutual adherence to and understanding of (homo-)erotic bodily codes. To provide an example: a body endowed with little hair, fair skin, a slim physique, and youth will be categorized as “twink” within a homoerotic desirability framework, whether the occupant of said body consents or not. Within the name “twink” lies the aforementioned bodily traits as a kind of shorthand, but also expectations of behaviour, temperament, preferences, all imbued with sexual meaning. It is also worth noting the great variety of categorisation afforded to white bodies in contrast to a remarkable homogenisation of black and brown bodies. Thus, a culture of socio-sexual consumption emerges within gay male communities. Moreover, it emerges out of a “desire to desire”, in which homoerotic desire is fundamental to gay sociability, and that operates through socio-sexual categorisation and capitalisation.
Yet, the self is an active agent in these processes too. One’s own body is not just a site of construction (gazed and desired into certain sexual types), but becomes also a site of autoconstruction. Just as one consumes and desires within the realm of the gay male sexual economy, they also consume oneself. Conforming in gay male sexual markets is survival in as much as it is control, because of the way such politics have emerged unchecked by privilege within the community. (White) gay male ‘aesthetic’ is a widespread, well-known, and importantly marketable phenomenon and practice, in which the body is the subject of homoerotic desire, as well as its host and form. The paradox of sexual politics is that one steps into being both a consumer and the consumed, the acknowledgement of which also leads the self to consume and appraise the body of the self against and in likeness to the subject/other. This is perhaps accentuated in the gay male circle, as physical likeness prompts bodily categorisation. The desire to be categorised, and thus affirmed, desired, and validated, embodies complicity in a process of bodily caricaturisation that the body, with its agency, tends to strive towards.
Consumption and autoconsumption become key themes when put against contemporary incidences of gay male eating disorder, self-harm, and over exercise (which needless to say, also overlap). The body, in being a site of homoerotic desire, is subjected (by the self) to commodification in a brutal process. These issues are too often not attended to in compassionate ways due to community-wide silence and taboo, owing to the complex structuring of gay male desire and sexual economy as a self-congratulating, self-regulating, and self-policing system that enforces and applauds conformity.
To centre the above in the asexual experience requires the acknowledgement that sexual proficiency, literacy and conformity demand to be learnt by all in the gay community, regardless to what extent they experience sexual attraction, if at all. An asexual criticism brings the powerful markets of homoerotic desire into question, and in doing so, highlights the way bodies are subjected and categorised in harmful ways. Gay and queer asexual masculinities could challenge erotic bodily regimes but at the same time exist precariously within them. What is certain is that critical asexual rigour can help to further explode and explain the wide, deep webs of sexual culture that we find ourselves tangled within.
Joe Jukes is reading for an MA in Sexual Dissidence from the University of Sussex, UK. Their research interests include gender and sexuality studies, cultural geography, and critical theory. They also direct theatre, and create video content to do with asexuality, academia, mental health, and more at the Youtube channel JoeeJayy (https://www.youtube.com/user/joeeJayy).
Water laps, nipping in the distance
amidst the desert sands,
an unborn vessel shriveling—
a mirage in the desert.
My legs spring, pounding against sand,
slipping it away beneath my bare feet.
Before the mirage escapes my clutches,
I try it on:
one size fits all,
adapting flesh and skin sweater
adopting blood dry bones
brittle withered rampikes
dotting horizon grey sky.
Painkillers body pain
leaves behind mind
—a Picasso painting
for a god.
Maribel C. Pagan is a Latino homeschool graduate. She has appeared in 7x20, Cuento, Blue Marble Review, Zaum, Planted Word, Persephone’s Daughters, and others. She has received the Junior Reading Giants Award, has made the President's List in Mohawk Valley Community College, and has received 5th Place in the Word Weaver Writing Contest, among many other awards and scholarships. Additionally, she is the Editor-in-Chief of Seshat Literary Magazine, a Prose Reader for Apprehension Magazine, a Poetry Reader for Frontier Poetry, and a singer and musician for The Angelic Family Choir. Visit Maribel at http://therollinghills.wordpress.com/.
Disbelief is the immediate reaction I have most often received upon revealing my asexuality to others in my life. There is a sense of shock that envelopes them as the root of their belief in the innateness of a sexual drive or desire for sex is unconsciously unearthed. How can people with no interest in sex possibly exist? Of course, some asexuals actually do have sex and possess sexual desire, but they are absent from societal perceptions of what asexuality is or should mean. On a societal level, the “naturalness” of sex is pervasive, and therefore asexuality is largely deemed an impossibility. At the same time, invalidation applies differently to asexuals based on how their asexuality correlates with perceptions of their physical body. Under oppressive systems of white supremacy, patriarchy, heteronormativity, cisnormativity, anti-fatness, able-bodiedness, and other hegemonic systems of oppression, certain bodies are inherently sexualized or desexualized. This applies to asexual bodies as well. Asexual people must navigate identifying and expressing their asexuality differently due to how their body is understood in this manner. The nuances of how this may actually function for every asexual person in the societal equation of sexualization versus desexualization is a complex consideration that requires far more in-depth analysis than this short essay will provide. As such, this discussion merely serves as an introductory framework discussing how asexual people must navigate expressing their identity in relationship to how their body is perceived differently based on their embodiment of overlapping social identities.
For the asexual whose body is inherently sexualized, they may be deemed to be too inherently sexual to be asexual, directly conflicting with their ability to claim and have access to the identity of asexuality on a societal level. Thus, the asexual that is sexualized under hegemonic gazes not only counters understandings of asexuality as an impossibility, but also must navigate a heightened level of disbelief, invalidation, interrogation, and subsequent violence that may be initiated by the non-asexual who objectifies their body as a sexual object. This is especially true for asexual women whose bodies are innately perceived as sexualized objects under the male gaze and are thus not only forced to navigate expressing their self-identification as asexual because of its existence as a force that counters the sexual objectification placed upon their bodies, but also must consider how openly expressing their asexuality may be perceived as a threat to the fragile masculinity of men who invest their identity as a man in the sexual domination of women’s bodies. Women of color are subjected to heightened levels of sexualized objectification in comparison to white women, just as women’s bodies that are perceived as thin or attractive are sexualized over women’s bodies that are seen as fat or unattractive, and just as younger adult women are sexualized to a greater degree than older adult women. All of these variables are of absolute necessity to consider for the asexual who exists in a society where sex is seen as a prize that provides sexual value to bodies that are perceived as desirable under hegemonic gazes.
For the asexual whose body is desexualized, they may already be understood as existing in a state of being that does not include sex, and may therefore be societally understood as “asexual” already, even though this would be flawed understanding. Still, in a society that glorifies sex, the desexualized asexual is already understood as undesirable or a “failure” due to their perceived nonsexual state of existence attached to how their body is perceived. Because a desexualized body under systems of oppression may already be understood as sexually "worthless," for the desexualized asexual, expressing their asexuality openly does not necessarily conflict with hegemonic gazes, as it does with the bodies of sexualized asexuals. For example, the bodies of fat asexuals are already subjected to being understood as worthless sexually by hegemonic gazes, and thus, claiming or asserting one's asexuality in the presence of those who reinforce societal narratives will only result in a further state of worthlessness being placed upon them. This is because, under hegemonic gazes, fatness is generally already desexualized and perceived as “disgusting.” Thus, for the fat asexual, because their body is already desexualized, expressing their asexuality may already be assumed in a manner that is meant to be demeaning or insulting, and thus, self-identifying as asexual may be met with less outright resistance in comparison to the sexualized asexual. Similarly, this can be applied to other groups, such as older asexual people and disabled asexual people, whose bodies are generally desexualized under hegemonic gazes. However, it is critical to emphasize that while self-identifying as asexual may be met with less overt disbelief or resistance in comparison to the sexualized asexual, the desexualized asexual also remains invalidated, trapped in a compounded state of perceived worthlessness due to their identity and perception of their body. The desexualized asexual who engages in sexual activity and/or possesses sexual desire, as some asexuals do, will have to navigate greater levels of invalidation, both in relation to their sexual activity as an asexual and as someone who possesses a desexualized body, both within and outside of the ace community.
While this essay has reduced the sheer complexity of this issue to a few general examples for the purposes of brevity, the central point remains: in either state of existence, whether sexualized or desexualized, the asexual person is not validated or empowered. When considering intersectionality, while the sexualized asexual must counter opposing forces of sexualized objectification forced upon them due to their embodiment of overlapping social identities that has given them "sexual worth" under hegemonic gazes, the desexualized asexual may have to navigate being understood as "sexually worthless," left to deconstruct the notion that they should even be validated or invalidated based on societal measurements of sexual attractiveness. In conclusion, I plan to expand this discussion regarding how the asexual whose body is inherently sexualized or desexualized must navigate interpretations of their identity in relationship to perceptions of their body differently based on their embodiment of social identities further in the future through incorporating scholarly research, interviews, as well as my personal experience as an asexual person.
Michael Paramo is an asexual Latinx demiguy located in southern California. They are currently a graduate student who has been selected to present their research at national conferences, such as by the International Association for the Study of Popular Music's U.S. branch, the Popular Culture Association, as well as the National Women's Studies Association. They are the founder of The Asexual and the Editor-in-Chief of The Asexual journal. Twitter: @Michael_Paramo
Is a mess of muscles and joints
A calamity of bullet points for a doctor to look at and tell me what's wrong
To sing me a song of diagnostics and treatments to make me seem typical
When we both know that typical is something I'll never be
Is a catastrophe
A wasted scene of hopes and dreams that'll never be achieved
Leading to a series of highs and lows that go on like a rollercoaster
Leaving me a shattered and shaking mess in a matter of minutes
Wanting to imagine the dreary days away
Is a calamity
Wracked by the grief of being disabled
And the numbness of being too small for my own good
Stomach churning, never yearning for something everyone seems to want
Body blooming, everyone zooming ahead
Except for me
Left to crawl along
Is a catastrophe
Waiting for one more anxiety, fear, or urge for pain
To push it over the edge
For one more prick to turn to shove me over
Into the sea of “you're just confused”
Or “you'll never know until you try”
Run and hide, can't let it slide
No matter how much I want to
So, I trip
Until determination gets me back on my feet.
Love helps me to keep going.
And my Heart helps me to fly.
Ms. Ace is an asexual biromantic high schooler and writer who has three goals in life: to become a journalist for a magazine, to destroy ableism and acephobia, and to live in an apartment with her partner and three sphynx cats. She lives in St. Paul, MN and one day hopes to go to college to major in Creative Writing.
I've always loved dragons ever since I was introduced to them when I was a child. I've noticed that recently, people in the ace community have also been compared to dragons. I'm not sure exactly where this idea came from, but I'm not complaining. I think it might have started as a joke on the idea that a lot of people don't believe in asexual people existing the same way they don't believe in dragons existing, equating ace people with these mythical creatures? Maybe it's a joke on asexual reproduction, because Komodo dragons can reproduce that way? Who knows, but what I do know is that I love dragons regardless, haha. I drew this little guy with the ace flag colors, some of which are my favorite colors (black, white, and grey).
Diane Ramic is a freelance illustrator and designer. When she was 7, she wanted to be a Velociraptor when she grew up, but eventually decided that being an illustrator was an even more fulfilling career choice! A lot of her works are inspired by paleontology, astronomy, sci-fi, and fantasy, and she also loves working on children's books, especially if they have an educational element. She likes using a variety of media, both traditional and digital, in her work, but usually you'll find plenty of watercolors and inks in her art. As for where exactly she fits on the spectrum, she is just about as aro/ace as you can get, and was actually hoping she’d end up that way since she was little. Even today, she thinks even something like kissing and holding hands is kinda gross, but hey, you do you (or don't, haha). If you like dinosaurs, aliens, and dragons, you can find more of her work on her blog at dianeramic.tumblr.com.
Growing up, you thought you might be a sociopath. You’d learnt the word in a novel and it sounded like something that might apply. You didn’t feel things the way that you thought other people did. They seemed to feel things so deeply and immediately. For a while you thought you might have Asperger’s, but that was quickly ruled out. You thought that maybe you were just a little more reserved than the others at school. For a long time, you thought you were broken.
You thought about sex a lot. You and your friends would whisper in the back of classrooms; giggle at naughty books in the library. You’d stay up late and watch risqué programmes with the volume on low. You’d all talk about who’d do it first, what it would be like. The braver girls would sneak condoms around, passing them palm-to-palm like illicit substances. You thought about kissing like they did in films, hands cupping cheeks, the slide of lips, the tumbling into bed, the panning away and a soundtrack of gasps into the next scene. That never really changed: the panning away.
At fifteen you had a strictly over-the-clothes boyfriend who you eventually dumped by text. On nights out, when you were too young to drink but did it anyway, you and your friends would all kiss, grope, move to the next person. Sometimes you wish that you could go back to that. You were at the forefront of exploration then. Slowly you fell behind while making token gestures of keeping up, have another boyfriend, have a girlfriend, profess your TV crushes and bemoan your looks as holding you back.
Escaping the town you grew up in meant escaping your lack. It meant being able to start new lies, more easily excuse the absence of fresher’s lays. After all, who would even want you? Your body was a cushion between you and the world. Your knees hurt, though. And getting to class on the second floor meant leaving early enough to have time to catch your breath at the top. You lost weight over summer. When you returned, the pressure was back. There were more expectations. You got set up. You got drunk. You slept with them. You ignored them when they tried to contact you. You complained that the big-city gay scene was too intimidating, which it was. You missed the tiny, grimy bars at the back of neighbouring towns where you could have a quick flirt and kiss and leave early for the last bus home.
After another two years of laughing about how long it’d been, you went on a night out. Two people asked for your number. You felt obliged. The boy left early; he had work the next day. The girl, you spent the evening kissing, before escaping between the bodies and bodies and bodies of the club. The boy texted you, you texted back. You dated. He lived in the town over and had to drive back and forth. One night you offered him a drink, he couldn’t drive if he did, so you asked him to stay. You slept together. A lot. You stayed together for longer than you’d ever stayed with anyone, which wasn’t really that long at all. You kept having sex. You would have preferred not to. Not that you told him. You stopped kissing, all couples do. You found your patience for him waning. You told him it was over, but he tried to stay, you reiterated. He cried. You didn’t. You didn’t really miss him. You’d rather spend your time with friends, with laughter on sofas and no pressure. You moved again. The system started over.
Moving meant not knowing a soul. It meant joining a walking club, getting flirted with by men old enough to be your father and never going back. It meant not having touched anyone in months. Your skin was starving and you couldn’t pretend that the hand stroking your head was anyone’s but your own. It meant more expectations. At work you slowly made a friend, and then another. You joined a gym, a yoga class. You got asked about your love life. Over and over like it was the only thing you were good for. You were married to your work, you laughed, like Queen Elizabeth married to England. Maybe she was like you.
You don’t seem to feel things the way that other people do. It’s been ten years; fifteen, and that hasn’t changed. Friends talk about passion overcoming reason. You’ve never had that, you don’t want it. You can’t imagine intrinsically linking a person and sex in that way. You find love in your friendships. You can only imagine really spending your life with them, rather than a lover. An online quiz says you’re asexual. You read about it, research it. You feel like you’re doing it wrong. You research some more, meet some people online. You hope that one day someone else’s story will tell you how things work out in the end, what life looks like when your identity bucks the trend. But until then, you’ll live as honestly as you can.
Emma Hutson is an aromantic asexual who is currently completing a PhD on trans literature at Sheffield Hallam University. She has work published in C Word: An anthology of writing from Cardiff, Severine Literary and Art Journal, CrabFat Magazine, and the Harpoon Review. Her short story ‘Footsteps’ came second place in Sheffield Authors’ Off The Shelf short story competition. She is available on Twitter @Emma_S_Hutson
To say that my relationship with motherhood is a complicated one is to say that nuclear politics are a bit dicey.
On the one hand, I have a phenomenal mother who has a phenomenal mother and I would love nothing more than to carry on that unnamed tradition of women who raise the next generation of girls to be loud, unapologetic, intelligent, and funny. On the other hand, the idea that a man would accept me in all my faults, quirks, and sexuality, is one that seems farfetched at times.
This isn’t to say that I couldn’t be a mother without a man, or without sex, or anything like that. At the tender age of thirteen, I started parenting friends without parents before I knew anything about boys or sex or my tendency to avoid both of those things. But now that I am older and have explored myself more, now that I know what I want from life, even if I don’t know how to go about it, those dreams, and the reality I see on a day-to-day basis, seem to be at odds.
My body can nourish life. I’m reasonably certain of that. My mom was so good at carrying kids that she did it accidentally - three times. Two of those times (including with me, hello) were when she was on birth control. Her mom, my grandma, had similar conundrums. I want to experience pregnancy. I haven’t always, but I want my own children made of a mutual and deep love and respect.
The issue comes with that the female body is a sexual object and nothing more. To be sure, this is changing. Inch by loving inch, public perceptions of women are shifting. It started on the college campuses and liberal media, has moved to the high schools, and hopefully will continue to spread to every facet of communication until finally I can be seen without having my hips or waistline appraised for desirability.
But like with all things, the struggle is twice as hard for queer women. So much of the queer and feminist movement has focused on reclaiming female sexuality to allow women to be as openly sexual as men are. And the ground being claimed by this movement has been long overdue, but as an asexual woman, this focus excludes me from the fight. The community says that we fight for the right of women to have sex or not have sex as they want to, but too often it focuses just on that first part. It’s hard enough to be recognized by my own community. And if this cutting-edge movement, that only just now came to the obvious conclusion that trans women belong with us, how much longer will it take for them to acknowledge that my body is valid? Much of asexuality becomes dismissed - either as not real, or not important. Until the LGBT community that surrounds me stops telling me that I am an ally, that I do not belong to their struggle, that I am a part of a straight couple despite my constant crying of “But I’m not straight!” I can’t blame those not in the community for not understanding what it is I am.
The difficulty is that asexuality is a spectrum that tends to be much more diverse than other sexualities are. It is a wholly individual experience - you will almost never meet two people who experience their asexuality the same. For me, I have no feelings, positive or negative, towards sex. It simply doesn’t cross my mind. Romance based on friendship and born of mutual respect and understanding and having a family, however, is my fondest fantasy. Being accepted by the men I might marry becomes a game of Russian roulette where my easily influenced heart is the one constantly on the targeting board. Being accepted by other queer people becomes the luck of the draw or the cast of the dice on if they will recognize me as someone who has been at their party this whole time, even if they don’t think I belong there.
My hips are made for pushing out to one side to express impatience. My hands are made for wild gesturing, and my mouth is for yelling, yelling louder than anyone who tries to drown me and those like me out of the conversation. One day, I will choose to allow the sharp jutting of my hip bones to soften with skin stretching to accommodate new life. I will carry children and toys and all the hopes of a childhood that my mother once carried for me. My ink-stained fingers will become Play-Doh stained, and the stories I tell will give hope, not only to nameless children across the world, but also to my own at bedtime before they even think to fear the monsters in the closets they will never have to hide in.
My body will be empty, and I will be asexual. My body will create a whole new person, and I will be asexual. It has been this way since longer than I can remember, and it will remain this way until I can’t help but forget.
Amanda Amos is a college freshman in the Midwestern US. She is a short story and novella writer, a fierce storyteller, and the designated "Dad Friend." Her work has appeared in The Asexual.
take my voice, sea witch
grant me fine legs in return
a worthwhile bargain
even if each step pains me
at least I’ll be like the rest
take my voice, sea witch
after all, what use are words?
yet flesh is warm and solid
bone and blood make us human
take my voice, sea witch
I just want to be normal
feel the things I should
I long to walk on the shore
but now longing’s not enough
take my voice, sea witch
change the self I never chose
give me sensation
for I’ve given up on words
and now I’d give anything
Elyssa Tappero is a queer asexual living in Gig Harbor, Washington with her wife, elderly dog, and two extremely spoiled cats. She is an avid writer of poetry and prose whose work can be found on www.onlyfragments.com. She is far too obsessed with Hannibal and Steven Universe, hates tomatoes, and somehow always rolls low during encounters in DnD. She runs the ace blog www.still-a-valid-ace.tumblr.com, where she fends off angry exclusionists and tries to provide good advice to those who ask.
My boyfriend broke up with me today, and the worst part is that I’m not even surprised.
I got back from visiting him (several states and two two hours flights) for the past week at 2am this morning. Around six this evening, he called to say this:
“Time to be upfront about it - I’m in a relationship with someone else. So whatever we had is over.”
He was at the someone else’s house (also in another state and plane trip away) for their child’s tenth birthday. I’d picked up the wrapping paper and bows for him over the week, and helped him pick out a card yesterday. We watched Netflix while he wrapped the present.
I wished him well over the phone, but told him I was going to hang up. I didn’t know - I couldn’t think of anything else to say. My stomach felt like a pit, and there was something thick but permeable in the back of my throat. I want to say I was blind-sided, but I didn’t feel blind at all.
I spent the next few hours angry. The other person had visited him earlier that month. They were his ex. I didn’t think anything of it - he was close with a lot of people, and was close with their kid, too. I wasn’t angry at him. I wasn’t angry at me, although I maybe should have been. I thought about the long hair I’d found in his bed. I have short hair. I thought he just lent them the spare comforter I was using when they visited.
I don’t feel stupid, but I had thought maybe something was amiss in our relationship. I have anxiety, so after talking to him about it, wrote it off as my mind’s insidious whispers. He’d been working late for a while, and I assumed he was just tired. But he never really reassured me.
I am asexual. He is not. We talked about it. When I first brought it up, it was the first time I had realized it myself. He claimed to accept it, but I don’t think he really did. Because I am sex positive, I don’t think he really understood. When I explained I didn’t find anyone physically attractive, including him, I knew it hurt him - but I was just being honest. After a while, he came to realize that I really was asexual, and actually understand that. I know, because we talked about it.
He told me that he wasn’t sure how I could differentiate my love for him from my love for my friends, and that he felt like our relationship was more like a friendship. Without sex as a backdrop, I didn’t know how to explain that it felt different. That even if it seemed the same to him, I could tell the way I loved him was different. It was romantic, and not platonic.
We were together for about four years. I had never dated anyone before him.
We had been dating a few months when I realized I was asexual. I came across someone talking about their experience, and it led me to research more. And I had that moment - the there’s a name for that moment. If you’re also queer, you know what moment I’m talking about. My ex-boyfriend is straight. He’d never had that moment. He didn’t understand why I felt like I needed a label. I tried to explain, but it never stuck. He didn’t mean it in malice, and I understood his point of view - I wish we lived in a world where acceptance was so high that labels for orientation were superfluous. But we don’t, and it’s really fucking hard to explain the way it feels to know you aren’t alone in something treated as an outlier or variance from the norm to someone who has never felt that way. We talked about me being asexual then. He asked if I was sure. I was mostly sure, and only grew more sure after. I am asexual.
We had sex pretty regularly. Like I said, I’m sex positive - I greatly enjoy sex. It just has its own box for me - a box separate from romantic love. He told me that for him sex and romance were tied together, and I understood. I worried that our incompatible orientations would lead us to breaking up - this was still in year one. I never once wavered from considering myself asexual from that point on.
I would ask him if he thought I looked pretty - after telling him I didn’t find him physically attractive, I thought I was being unfair, so I stopped asking when he wondered why someone that was asexual would wonder why they were pretty. Because I didn’t want to drive in the knife that I wasn’t attracted to him that way. I still thought he looked handsome in a suit. I didn’t understand the difference between aesthetic and physical attraction then, even though I could identify other people as pretty and handsome. Just nothing beyond that - I couldn’t tell if someone was sexy, and had a hard time telling the difference between levels of beauty without a dramatic difference. I can find people ugly, but never repulsive, because to be physically put off by someone, I have to have the ability to be physically put on.
He said he was working through things. By things, I mean my asexuality. He was figuring out if it could work. I was trying to make it work. He was pulling away. He was always introspective, so I let him. I told him the week before my visit I was excited to see him soon. He didn’t say the same. I figured he just forgot because he was tired and busy.
I stayed at his house for a week. I ran errands while he was at work to help out. We started to have sex the day I got in, but I was so tired I was passing out in the act. I apologized, he said I had nothing to apologize for. I was comfortable, and didn’t feel the urge to start anything the rest of the week. Neither did he. I thought he was tired. He played Starcraft while I watched TV. I asked him to join me at some point each night, because I didn’t want to force him away from his stress relief after working ten plus hours. We watched Ever After, one of my favorites, because he hadn’t seen it, and The Seven Deadly Sins anime, because he hadn’t seen that either and didn’t have anything else he wanted to watch.
His ex that he’s with now reached out to him after breaking up with an abusive spouse. He’d showed me the conversations they’d had. They were benign. His partner now was on track for a much better life. He had always liked to help people in bad situations, so I didn’t think anything of it. I knew about this ex before we started dating. They deserved someone supportive like him. When we first started dating, I thought I wouldn’t measure up to this ex if they wanted him back. I guess I was right.
I have anxiety. I had finally gotten to the point in our relationship where I’d quieted that voice telling me I wasn’t good enough, that he deserved better. I had finally stopped worrying that every serious conversation would end in a break up. I knew there was a possibility that things would end, but I was no longer afraid of it. And I trusted him.
I am asexual, and my partner of four years told me that our relationship felt like a friendship because it lacked a sexual component on my end. And when he broke up, he didn’t call it a relationship - he called it whatever we had. I love him. Romantically. I told him so, but he doesn’t seem to have believed me. And you know what? I forgive him.
Don’t get me wrong - what he did was shitty. He cheated on me before I arrived to visit (over $400 on the plane tickets) and didn’t tell me we were breaking up until we were states away (I lost my luggage on the way back, and since it wasn’t checked in, I probably will never get it back). I want to punch him in the face - and I have no doubt he deserves it. But I don’t wish him any ill will beyond that.
I called my mom. She suggested whiskey. I hadn’t felt like crying until I talked to her. I did my make-up, put on a short dress with a plunging neckline and went out to the movies with friends. I had two drinks, but enough food and water that I didn’t even get buzzed. I felt tired. I feel tired now. Drained. I doubt I’m done with feelings about this. But I don’t have regrets.
I was honest about who I was and what I felt. I tried to make him understand, and it’s not my fault that he never did. I still love him right now. I don’t know what’s going to happen to my Friday night RPG games over Skype - all the other participants are his friends from college. I’ve come to call them my friends as well over the past five years (we were friends a year before we started dating), but they were his friends first and his friends longer. And he’s in those games too. I don’t want to give them up, but I also don’t know when I’ll be able to face him.
I’m not mad we broke up - I’m sad, and I’ll miss our relationship. But I’m not mad about that - I’m mad that he wasn’t adult enough to break up with me sooner. If he had broke up with me because he wanted to pursue another relationship, I wouldn’t have been mad - that’s life, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. But that isn’t what he said - he said he was already in a relationship. That means he waited until after his new relationship started before breaking up with me. And that’s shit.
We broke up once before, for a couple of months. I don’t remember why - probably the same reason we broke up now. But he didn’t cheat then, he was just honest. Said he’d needed time to get his own head straight. That’s fair - I wasn’t mad. I was upset, but I wasn’t mad. It was mature. It hurt, but it was the right thing to do. This was not.
I remember why we broke up now the first time, but won’t put it here, because it was personal for him. It was still the right thing to do at the time.
I don’t regret a thing - my relationship with him helped me to grow as a person in leaps and bounds. I’m a more secure, confident person now than I was then. His friend told him that, being several years younger than him, I was holding him back as a person. He’d told me about it. I thought it was a shitty thing to say, and asked if he agreed. He’d said it was more like he was helping me catch up. He’d said it with a smile in his voice.
We were long distance for half our relationship, so most of our conversations were by phone and text. Staying in touch with him was easier for me than staying in touch with anyone else, family included. I have ADHD in addition to depression and anxiety - I have a hard time keeping in touch. For me, it was a marvel that it felt so natural to maintain our communication. But it got harder in the past few months, as I realized I was initiating every conversation - leading to gaps in communication. Sometimes a day, sometimes up to a week. Never longer than that, as I always reached out. I thought he was tired, but asked if he was pulling away. I already talked about that, though.
I’m writing this to share with other asexuals who might find themselves in a relationship with an allosexual that doesn’t get it. To let you know to be honest about your asexuality, and how you feel. Repeat it if you need to. Don’t run if they say they need time - they really might just need time. But make yourself heard, so that even if your relationship ends in a shitshow like mine did, your self-worth is intact. That you will never feel angry at yourself, or assume that you’re not good enough because of your asexuality.
I know my story isn’t as extreme as what other asexuals have faced - I wasn’t abused, and he did try to listen. He tried to understand - he did. But his inability to reconcile my asexuality and his allosexuality isn’t my fault, and I don’t feel bad about that. I don’t feel like I didn’t love him enough, because I put in the effort. I tried to make him see the stars in my eyes, but when I compared him to the cosmos, he thought I was being co-dependent. I don’t hate him. I know him too well. But I am disappointed.
I am proud to be asexual, and proud I stood by it even when I could tell it wore on my partner. Because you can lose a partner - but you’ll always have yourself when it’s over. Don’t hide yourself for the person you’re with, because if they can’t handle who you really are, they’ll leave no matter what. And you’ll wonder if it was because there was something wrong with you, and that’s hardly ever the problem.
My ex-boyfriend probably broke up with me because of my asexuality, but I don’t see my asexuality as a problem. And I think others should know about that, too.
Aurora Lee Thornton is an asexual author of fantasy that lives in the United States. She’s not overly fond of giving out much more personal information than that. Aurora also quite naturally likes books – she’s been reading and writing since kindergarten (yes, writing too) and has yet to stop. Everything from cyberpunk to high fantasy is fair game – Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women sits next to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation and Tamora Pierce’s Tortall series on her shelf of favorite books (not physically, she sorts her books by genre first, but you understand the meaning). The one thing that has always captured her interest and stayed close to her heart, however, is dragons. If you’ve had any dragon sightings you’d like to share, she’d love to hear about it.
White is for every time I knew my heart,
But smugly told myself
I just adhered to a code of old morality
I never did believe in.
For the peace of being single,
Cuddling with the cat,
Thinking, "This is so much better,
For she wants nothing more from me."
Purple is for my friends
Brave enough to live their truth.
Givers of the language
To declare my own.
For your patience, dear.
Our struggle to understand
The hard path to meet half-way
When fireworks meet fairy lights.
Black is for every time I heard,
"When you meet the right lover
There will be fireworks
Bursting from your heart."
For the brokenness,
Of every failed relationship
Whose intimate demise was obvious
To everyone but me.
Grey is for every lustful movie scene
I cringed away from.
Wanting no place there
Among the intercourse of others.
For all the tears
When I felt I was broken.
Longing for the romance left,
Long after lust had died.
This flag is for pride,
That I wave proudly now
Over the battlefield of identity
And live free to claim.
Because I'm queer enough.
Queer enough to note
When you erase me.
Queer enough to hear
You silently append normative to every hetero.
Queer enough to hide
Who I am from those that love me.
Queer enough to bear
A good friend say my love is just weird.
Queer enough to need
Better words to explain.
Queer enough to have
A letter and a flag.
Queer enough to tell
You to fuck off.
Queer enough to matter.
For Rachel and Cayden
Deramin aspired to be an Information Security Architect until a chronic pain disorder aspired to make her miserable. They've compromised on poetry, writing, and art as a means of remaining joyously miserable, semi-productive, and spawning work that may outlive her. She discovered she was demisexual from D&D friends. Now in her 30s, she lives off a steady diet of tabletop roleplaying games, warm kindness, spite, gallows humor, kombucha, and farmers market fava beans in Eugene, Oregon. Twitter: @OTDDeramin // Website: https://chasetheeeling.tumblr.com/
Chalk pastel, acrylic paint
6 feet by 3 feet
I made this after experiencing a significant breakup. At least partially due to my asexuality, I have a very hard time opening up to people romantically/intimately. For this person, I felt entirely exposed, and so breaking up with them felt like the shattering of my world. This portrait is life size, physically exposing my body for its true proportions, mirroring the way I had felt emotionally and physically exposed to this person. The space represents the simultaneous emptiness I felt beside me as well as the infinite possibilities I now had, independent of this person. I wanted to empower myself while also acknowledging I had experienced a loss.
Elyse Jones is currently a college student studying English, Women's and Gender Studies, and Fine Art. She has loved reading, writing, and making artwork her entire life. She identifies as asexual, though she is not sure about her exact location on the ace spectrum. She loves Star Wars, her dog Jack, and educating people about asexuality.
“It’ll get better when you start having sex.”
I had been doing deep, calming breathing, feeling the blood and color return to my face. The words were tossed out so casually but the reassuring tone sent my heart racing again.
I’d never used the word “asexual” with my doctor before, but she knew I was a virgin without plans to change. I had only started thinking about asexuality when I began seeing her and it never seemed relevant. I’d come in, answer the pointless questions about my sexual activity and the (im)possibility of being pregnant, and move on to why I was actually there.
When it came to my first pap smear, though, it turned out that being an asexual virgin mattered. I avoided it until my late 20s, figuring that not being sexually active was a good excuse. I finally scheduled one with my primary care physician in a fit of responsibility-mindedness. I was more comfortable with her than most doctors I’d had and she was very competent. I would be fine.
...I wasn’t fine. It hurt like hell and I felt something akin to shame that I was finding it so difficult. Why wouldn’t my body just cooperate? A pap smear is supposed to be relatively routine. We’re trying to normalize the procedure so that people with cervixes won’t avoid it, but here I was on the verge of passing out.
Less than halfway through, my doctor paused and asked if I wanted to just try again another time. I was doing all I could to relax, to breathe, to work my way through the intense physical pain and the emotions that came with it. When she asked, that all went out the window and I caught myself starting to panic. Try it again? Soon? Hell no. We powered through.
There was a big moment of relief when she said we were finished. I had done it. I closed my eyes and restarted my calming breathing as my doctor - soon to be pregnant for the second time since I started seeing her - prattled about being able to wait three years between pap smears once I hit thirty. Then,
“It’ll get better when you start having sex.”
Tears welled up in my eyes as she continued to fill me in on next steps and left the room, so casually. I got my clothes on, hopped back on my motorcycle, and headed back to work. Which turned out to be a terrible idea, because discomfort and nausea washed over me all afternoon. Discomfort and nausea, and frustration, and anxiety about the next time and the time after that...
Every couple of months, my insurance sends me a notice that I am due for my “important women’s health screening.” Every couple of months, I put it straight in the trash.
Saralyn Smith (she/her) is an asexual demiromantic ciswoman currently living in Washington state with her absurd pup, Grayson. Everyone is always surprised to hear she rides a small motorcycle.
(Currently pledging $5 or more every month via Patreon)
Courtney Dobson, P4 Creations,
Sam Pachico, Seaweed/Nox,
Geoffrey Payne, Alex Stabler,
Unnecessary Cheese, David Allen
All works in The Asexual are created by writers, artists, and creators who identify under the ace umbrella. Owner retains copyright of work upon publication, but agrees to give The Asexual first serial/electronic rights and print rights as well as electronic and print archival rights. Owner also agrees that if the work is published subsequently, either online or in print, credit to The Asexual is provided. For more information visit TheAsexual.com. Cover photography by Michael Paramo.
Vol. 1, Issue 2
Vol. 1, Issue 2
The Asexual, Vol. 1, Issue 2
Editor-in-Chief: Michael Paramo
Layout Editor: Michael Paramo
To whom it may concern,
Since the release of Vol. 1, Issue 1, The Asexual has blossomed into a unique space for ace creators. With Issue 2, the journal has continued to expand, receiving more than double the total submissions. I want to thank everyone who submitted their precious creations as well as anyone who has supported this space for ace creators either online or offline. Your support means so much more than you know and has continued to inspire me to take this project to even higher places in the future.
With love and appreciation,
Maribel C. Pagan
You were born into this world
Not to be a person, but a mother
At least, that is what you were told
But never once thought to believe
As a child, you went to school
Learned biology, anatomy
And found that was all you saw:
Cells and nerves
As opposed to flesh and sweat
You watched your friends partner off
But craved the stars more
Getting lost in strings of lights
While they were stuck moaning on the ground
One day, you found a single spark
Out of place
For it was not caught in the map of your skies
But amidst the throng of human hearts
She warmed you
And at once, you found your fingers charred
Yearning for a foreign heat
That she obligingly burned into your chest
Like liquid fire in your veins
And dripping candle wax on your skin
You'd never once wanted what they had
Never understood the need
But she, and only she,
Set your soul alight
And your body ablaze
And this, you could accept
Dianne is a pseudonym for a 20-year-old demisexual girl who's not quite ready to tell her family she's been in love with a girl for 7 years now. She is an engineering student, and thus is constantly surrounded by hormonal boys, so you should definitely feel bad for her.
So here I am again,
lying on my back staring up at an LED light that changes between fluorescent colors every few minutes.
I feel like I did just a short while ago,
trapped underneath murky water
playing telephone with the world,
trying too desperately to fathom
the muffled sounds,
the obscured sights.
Where do the stars go when I enter the sky,
I heard the sun ask.
And to him the moon replied,
they are afraid of your light.
This is how I have learned to live,
afraid of my own light.
I don’t know whether I am to blame or them, but sooner or later that blame is going to have to be placed somewhere.
I look at you, and I pray it doesn’t fall on me.
you are a fleeting image,
something like piece of art that hangs never to be touched,
only to be seen.
I hate how slippery your hands are, like you can’t hold on to a single thing.
I tried so hard
I shrunk myself so that you wouldn’t have to hold on
so that I would just be there.
But my body has never fit right with anyone.
Maybe you are too afraid of the way I want to love you.
You lose interest.
in movies in
TV shows in me.
You lose all sense of direction you wander off you sweet fickle creature,
I can’t find you I get scared I have no maps I’m afraid of the way you keep
changing colors and I don’t know where to go from here.
I thought I could travel through time, watch your leaves change like a time lapse, I wanted to so badly.
But leaves only change in the fall and I think I was the only one falling.
So, then I thought I could travel backwards,
watch your flowers bloom in slow motion, I took a step back and tried so hard.
But the winter lasted too long, spring came too late time ran out you’re going to blossom and I won’t be there to see it.
Often times I find myself wanting to tell you everything,
explain the things that made me this way so that you understand me,
And how time has never been kind to me.
How I’m always too little too late.
I think maybe,
if you knew this somehow it would help.
But explanations only help if you explain them,
and I don’t know if this is something you want to put back together again.
enigmatic in nature,
hold a universe inside of you and it is ever-changing,
I can’t keep you in place.
Sean Dunne is a 17-year-old asexual senior in high school. She doesn’t know when she’ll get there, but she plans to study psychology in college someday. Her two main hobbies are writing and photography, and when she’s not doing either of those things she’s probably watching Netflix and/or avoiding schoolwork.
Serenity Chase is new to the Asexual scene and identifies as heteromantic. She is a 25-year-old college graduate with many different interests, including writing. She wrote this poem on one of her bad days and this will be her first time ever sharing her work with the public (so she is a little nervous).
“So… do you just see a person you like and suddenly have the urge to have sex with them?”
The entire lunch table around me went quiet, people pausing in their conversations or their homework to look up at me. Lauren, my friend sitting next to me, even looked up from her sketchbook, something she rarely did when she was focused.
Considering the attention it'd garnered, I almost wanted to take my question back.
Instead, I stared at Eric, the boy across from me, whose eyes were wide with surprise. He coughed, then furrowed one brow. “Y-yeah, I mean, not with other guys, but with girls, yeah, I get it all the time.”
“Even if you don't know her?”
“Mm-hmm, makes it even better sometimes, ‘cause then their personalities don't get in the way of fantasy.”
He laughed as his girlfriend sitting next to him elbowed him in the gut. “Hey!” She snapped, “Girls with personality are amazing. Trust me, I know from experience.”
She gave me a smug glare at this, which I blatantly ignored. Instead, I interrupted whatever Eric was going to say next with another question. “And you've always been like this?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, though it ramped up quite a bit when I went through middle school.”
He then gave me a curious look. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I said, feigning nonchalance as I looked down at my notebook and wrote out another sentence in my story.
Mentally, I was trying to figure things out, put together a puzzle that I didn't really have the pieces for yet. Why hadn't I had the same experiences as him? Was it because I wasn't a male? Was I just a late bloomer?
My downward spiral of thoughts was interrupted by a loud laugh from Eric’s girlfriend. “Wait, so you mean to tell me that you've never thought of or wanted to have sex… ever?”
I kept my eyes glued to my notebook, and she took my silence as a yes. She started cracking up, and Eric joined in.
I felt the familiar twist in my stomach, the sick feeling in my chest. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not again.
Turning to Lauren, I met her gaze before discreetly tapping my temple. She gave me a small nod before beginning to gather up her school things.
That was our signal, to tap the side of our head if we ever wanted out on a situation or to change the topic if we weren't okay talking about something in person. It was kinda stupid, I'll admit, but it was better than our verbal or text signal, which was the word “eggs” hidden in a random sentence.
As we both started to move away, I heard one final comment from the laughing couple. “Oh geez,” Eric coughed again, “that’s why no one want’s to date her! She’s too much of a prude!”
I felt my face burn bright red from shame and unwanted attention as I quickened my walking speed, eventually leaving Lauren behind until I reached the stairs leading up to the high school hallway. “Eliza, are you… okay?” Lauren asked as we started to climb.
I sighed. “To be honest? No, but I guess it’s my fault for askin’ stupid questions…”
“Don’t listen to them, they’re inconsiderate assholes.” She growled, before her tone lightened. “Besides… you’re not alone in how you feel.”
I looked back at her in surprise as we reached the top. “What… do you mean by that?”
“I’m demisexual heteroromantic.” she quickly explained. “I just don’t like using labels, so that’s why I don’t normally tell anyone, but seeing as we’re both on the spectrum, I assume that you’re asexual…?”
“Biromantic, yeah.” I felt the sick feeling in my stomach and chest start to disappear, replaced with something I couldn’t quite place. Words couldn’t define it, at least for now.
Lauren smiled. “You remember Mo, the girl I introduced you to at the beginning of the school year?”
I nodded. Mo went to the local public high school, and had been friends with Lauren in middle school, before Lauren transferred to the charter school. Very cute, as I’d seen from our multiple video chats and the one time I’d gotten to meet her in person.
“Well, she’s pansexual, so I guess you could call the three of us… the queer musketeers.”
We both laughed at this, our mirthful voices carrying down the hallway. As I continued to chat with her, I finally realized what I could define the feeling in my chest as.
For the first time ever, not only had I been able to accept who I really was, but so did my closest friend.
And it was a wonderful feeling.
Ms. Ace is an aspiring asexual biromantic high school writer who has three goals in life: to become a journalist for a literary magazine, to destroy ableism and acephobia, and to live in an apartment with her (future) partner and three sphynx cats… not necessarily in that order. She lives in St. Paul, MN and one day hopes to go to the University of Minnesota and major in Journalism and English.
Titular motifs repeated across the notebook
of love, rebellion and truth
but no word on my desire
When she suckled the breasts
six years old
she could taste the sweetness she said
at the age of eighteen
I passed semen in my underpants
on a chilling October morning
with a dream of her merging into Audrey Hepburn
androgynous, mongoloid, feminine
Celibate meditation on body
dissolved that morning
and I returned the book on Sylvia Plath to the library
She got wet looking at a handsome man
took a man from behind and in the mouth
but couldn't let him enter
She got wet looking at a handsome man
but couldn't let the ugly one enter
she talked of Mills & Boons
and erotic literature
but claimed to be asexual
She got wet looking at a handsome man
kissed and groped a woman
but couldn’t let an object enter
The body moved
Through thin air
And grasped for me
The sensation of touch
Is much like
Replete with memories
And slow burning pain
Of a photo flooding with white
Of invisible lens flares
Of unrecognizable objects disappearing from view
"Take me with you"
He had uttered
Amidst the crowded street
Drunken nights of languish
The street lights dissolved
Any sense of belonging in the city
He clamped himself like a
Woman covering her breasts
"Your dreams don’t mean anything."
"Let the light flood in."
Shunya Ta is a non-binary demi-sexual being who resides in the city of Calcutta on the east coast of India. They spend their time reading, writing, and contemplating about a future world. Recent work has appeared in The Asexual.
I am asexual. Why is that difficult to say? Especially in front of people. Why is it something I almost feel shame in admitting? Why does it feel like I’m telling everyone I’m a freak?
What kind of world do we live in where we are encouraged to feel ashamed for how we feel, ashamed for what we look like, ashamed for who we are? What kind of world leaves us to our own devices to work out what makes us different, instead of reminding us how we’re all the same?
I am asexual. It took me years to get to this point, years to understand what it means and feel comfortable using this word to describe myself – but it describes me. It’s who I am. And that’s what everyone deserves; a word, a phrase, a term that means them. That reminds us that we are all just people, human beings. That we are all normal.
Normal: a word which lost its meaning long ago, a word devoured by those society favours, used to describe only themselves, a word the majority cannot use because we simply do not conform with these narrow expectations.
Get a boyfriend, get a husband: some people don’t want that. Get a girlfriend, get a wife: some people don’t want that. Have sex, start a family: some people don’t want that. I don’t want that.
Because I am asexual. Yet we cling to these old-fashioned definitions – that humans are made to a standard; males one way and females another, and that’s just how it is. And anything that deviates from that is labelled a freak.
But nobody chooses who they are. Nobody creates their character at the start of the game; nobody chooses to be bi or gay or ace or aro or trans. Nobody joins LGBT groups for attention because they’re a “special snowflake”. We’re not secretly straight or repressed or victims of trauma. It’s not because of depression or mental health issues. It’s just who we are. Why should we feel ashamed for telling people who we are? How are we not normal?
The sad truth is some people see words like ‘asexual’ and read ‘freak’. But that’s not what it really means. It means there are other people like us. Other people that are okay, and surviving. And happy. It’s a way for other people to understand us, a way for us to understand ourselves. Which is what we all crave, each and every one of us: to be respected, to be understood, to be normal.
You’re Bisexual? Normal Person. Gay? Normal Person. Pansexual? Normal Person. Transgender? Normal Person. Aromantic? Normal Person. Demisexual? Normal Person. Asexual. Normal Person. You have anxiety? It doesn’t matter. Normal Person. Depression. Normal Person. PTSD… I could go on.
We are all just another dot on the human spectrum, a unique composition of desires and feelings and thoughts. Just because I don’t want to procreate, just because someone’s assigned gender doesn’t sit well with their skin, just because a man likes both Jack and Jill, it doesn’t matter. Just because some of us can’t do something another can, or some of us don’t want to, it doesn’t matter. We’re all different; we’re all unique; and because of that… we’re all the same.
And we are all normal. And it might take some time, but once we can understand what that means and feel comfortable using this word to describe ourselves, then that is what we are. A word everyone deserves; a word, a phrase, a term that means them. That reminds us that we are all just people, human beings, that we are not alone, that we are not broken, we are not freaks, we are not weird. We are just like everyone else.
It’s about time we show the world that we’re not afraid of telling everyone who we are. The day we can all claim our right of feeling normal. And nobody – not even the President or the Prime Minister – can take that away from us, no matter how hard they try.
Because, deep down, we know, and I know. And I won’t stop screaming it until everyone else knows as well: I. AM. ASEXUAL. And that means I’m normal.
Alex Stabler is a 19-year old human being who also happens to be asexual. He is currently studying Creative Writing at Bath Spa University in Bath, England (obviously). His hobbies include conjuring up terrific puns, sleeping, and dreaming of a future world in which he gets paid to scribble words onto a page.
a red plastic bowl
counting minutes in the
post office line.
a loose thread
on my sweatshirt
I should stop pulling at.
the beige waiting
room, sniffling children,
cemented in the kitchen
trapped in the que
the painted tarmac.
folding the fresh
load of laundry.
for next week’s test.
the itch of an
old wool blanket.
on the coffee table.
sweeping pine needles off
watching rain water
off the grass.
room temperature water
in a blue glass.
this fertile womb
that shreds itself apart
month after month with no children
ones are not on
the docket of my life.
No woman or man will change this
I suffer through
this mess of womanhood
year after year with no trial
is flooded on
to me with title wave
expectations, but I’m filled with
and blood are all
that’s going to pour out
of me and that’s fine, I am
that formed me against my
consent, so now I’m making my
a murdered crop
if the weeds were never
seeded and the earth was never
try to shame me.
You have no say in the
use of my garden’s potential
if I still have
to settle for dealing
with sand and debris, I am
Tori Roozekrans is an aromantic asexual poet who is trying to focus on writing poems about asexuality whenever she can escape the combined clutches of college, work, and her cat. More than anything she wants to share her work with her fellow aces in an attempt to inspire others to catch the creative bug and bring the community closer together.
My body, my right
Does it sound right???
No, I don’t need approval no longer
Because I have started believing in myself
This journey started a long ago
How can I let it forgo
Now destiny has unfolded
Made me boldest
In hyper-sexualized society where everyone wants more…
I tell you I am neither spinster nor whore
I am just, me & myself
Not an elf
I might not fit in your narrative
That doesn’t make me less creative & inactive
Don’t tell me my Asexuality needs to be ‘overcome’
Because I have embraced it wholesome
I am not going to shun
It’s not a pun
I will fight to bring a revolution
Till acceptance of it as a valid orientation.
Mehreen Qaisar is a young Pakistani Feminist & Researcher in the government organization; her area of interest is Gender & Human Rights. She is a Body Positive Ace born with Asperger’s Syndrome; she has disdain for any feminist & human rights movement which is not inclusive. Can be reached at Twitter @Mehreen_Qaisar
I came out as asexual in a very unofficial way, which was the best thing to do. No letter, no long Facebook update confession, no exclusive "we need to talk" with relatives or friends. I simply started throwing it into dating conversations whenever it was appropriate to do so. I am today a very out and proud asexual, still questioning my romantic orientation at the moment as I think I'm heteroromantic, yet it seems like I don't get to that level with anyone I have met so far, am I aromantic as well? Life will tell if I'm really hetero, demi, or grey romantic, but sex-repulsed asexual has been there since way before I knew a whole community of asexuals existed out there somewhere.
I feel this story needs to be told because the feeling of relief and liberation the community has given to me is something I did not expect in life, I had already given up on this hypersexualised ableist humanity and I had a lifelong history of suicidal thoughts and 2 attempts before I reached this state of unapologetic pride I lost as a kid. I'm free from the "borrowed confusion" the straight and fully able humans gave to me. How did that happen?
I was born with a congenital visual impairment, my mom got ill while pregnant and it affected my eyes. It’s not genetic, it’s not progressive, it simply messed up with me before I got out of a womb. Since I learned to read, which was quite early for kids in that country, thanks to the stubbornness of my biological mom to make me learn beforehand in order to survive a regular children school as the only school for children with special needs. In that place was all mixed disabilities and it wasn’t really helping those kids to develop their knowledge. This was the first struggle I handled. I was fascinated by books and I was much more into those astronomy and dinosaur books for kids when I started to notice the coupling thing at school yards. Over there it starts early, kids as young as 6-7 are already into crushes and kisses. This memory was my first proof of asexuality. I remember running away from a kid chasing me for kisses and I shouted loud and clear at him how disgusting it was "How old do you think we are, 30?! We're in primary, we don't even have hormones and you are kissing around? How gross!"
Teachers freaked out, kids freaked out, and my back then unapologetic self thought "they are playing soap opera, it's so silly, and disgusting". Mind you that a 6-7-year-old GIRL who knows about hormones before puberty in that country is an equivalent to an extra-terrestrial contacting Earth for the first time. This quirky behaviour of "I rather read books, or try to read struggling with a magnifier than kissing" has given me a whole school history of daily abuse. I will not go into detail, as I have already talked enough about this abusive hypersexualised ableist country which is the most sexualised society I'm aware of til today.
Fast forward to when I moved to Hungary. Still a virgin, not wanting anything with anyone and dismissing my biological mother's silly jokes about not bringing her a "lil Hungarian" before I finished my university studies (again, gross).
A year went by, nothing. The new country felt more like home than any other place I lived in before. I was found attractive by some guys, for all the wrong reasons (exotic girl!) yet to me they looked like any other guy. The price of being biracial, you look like a souvenir to everyone yet to you people are just people. I thought for a while this might be the cause of my repulsion. No. I still did not find anyone attractive. Aesthetically pleasing yes, a few, but never wanting more.
Time went by and I made a few close friends in town, mostly older than me and straight. They try to help, thinking "she has not met the right one yet,” overlapping the fact that I can't play the Romeo and Juliet flirt game from the opposite side of the road with any "attractive guy" that walks nearby. For years I thought this was my case and I kept the straight label while crying along Dido's "White flag" music video, thinking "the right one could have already passed me by a thousand times and I didn't see him.” I read this and I laugh of my days of borrowed confusion. A friend in our random conversations once suggested to try online dating. I understood it as a well-intended attempt to help me connect with someone. And so, I did. Opened up a few dating profiles, avoiding Tinder of course, how can I use an exclusively visual app after all? I went for those where people can write their info, and I put effort into mine, as honest as I always was about everything, except still keeping the straight orientation for my lack of knowledge that my jokes about being asexual were actually very likely to be true. I met some guys online. The usual "hi" messages, the meaningless touristy hook-uppers, the "how can you read if you're blind?" conversation starters, the "yo sexy lady" starters... patience, I told myself.
Until one day, an engineer student messaged me with a longer starter. I thought well, he seems honest, let's reply. We messaged back and forth before we went on a first date. My friend who suggested me to do this online dating thing came along with her husband so I had the safety of eye witnesses in case of whatever. It went alright I guess, but the "love" went more on his side. He was so touchy, all the time, everywhere, in public. I still felt it gross, and my gut feeling was causing me a headache for keep trying that nonsense. Needless to say, he was already showing slight obsessive/possessive signs, which after a short trip to Helsinki, I noticed clearly and decided to break up that mess.
I still kept the dating profile for a few weeks, but I only got more of the same "hi" "sexy lady" "how can you read this?" I stopped.
After almost a year of that dating safari I found AVEN thanks to some asexual activists on YouTube and a lesbian friend of mine who shared a post about asexuality.
It’s not my crappy vision, it is not being biracial, it is not that I haven't found the one yet, I have a very clear and detailed idea of the partner I am looking for, and he's not the usual straight girl standard. It feels like I already know him, his skills and his imperfections, I am a writer in the closet... it’s somewhat like I built up a character that I would love to meet in the real world, with all his good and his crap and I still don't want sex with him. Talking about fan crushes, I've never understood, and I tested myself with my crappy vision to see if I could find a famous actor/athlete/musician/etc., attractive. In fact, all that amount of muscle and Photoshop scares the hell out of me. My "fictional book character" is nothing like that and probably not human, I said to myself.
Once I met the online asexual communities, I saw the light (how cheesy), I noticed the humongous difference between messaging style and I even met a few who are into similar hobbies or interests. The ice has started to melt. I am not broken, my eyes might be, not the rest of me. I'm not ugly, neither a souvenir. I am not picky, I take care of myself as I'm very aware of the vulnerable position I am in, it is the wisest thing to do and it is quite healthy to know what you want. I carry all my "unwanted" labels and I'm a professional weirdo.
I'm unapologetic once again, I recovered what I once lost and I am a proud biracial, legally blind, sex-repulsed asexual, child free by choice, non-religious citizen of the world woman. If I could survive, I know we all can. We exist and we are human.
This is my attempt of retribution for the community which has saved me from my own ice shield, which I got courtesy of an over-normative, square-minded society.
I hope this helps whoever reads this, if anyone at all.
Thank you for existing.
Tara Wills is a 26-year-old psychology student at ELTE University in Budapest, Hungary. She has produced her own EP album in 2012 and is currently taking a break from music while studying, working part time as a pet sitter / dog walker, and running a photography project called “The Blind Photographer – Budapest.” She is a proud Sex-repulsed asexual, biracial, legally blind, non-religious, citizen of the world woman currently searching for ways to take part in asexuality activism.
And not just queer as in a sexual orientation or gender identity that falls outside the heterosexual mainstream or gender binary,
Not even simply queer as in strange or odd from a conventional standpoint-
I mean queer as in of a questionable nature or character.
Queer as in
Out of the Big Three of sexuality,
I never felt that any one fit me, but like
an uncomfortable label there was this feeling
scratching at me: I didn’t have a label.
I could never figure out
who I was attracted to (or if there was a
who to figure out at all) and while
everyone else had done it for themselves,
they couldn’t help me.
Knowing everybody had found, understood, and
prized this piece of themselves that interlocked
perfectly with their lives, and as many terms I’d
experimented with like paint samples, there was
always a shade of doubt so that no color matched me
I mean queer as in bad, worthless, or counterfeit.
Queer as in
I found myself in an obscure,
whispered term that was perfect
in resources and in my life, but not
in the sex-saturated world or the sex-saturated community.
I found myself hoping more than anything that I
would not only meet a girl but
meet one who didn’t just want a hookup,
finding nothing but disappointment in the world
I’d anticipated joining for so long, and eventually
making up excuses for skipping pride events.
I found myself shimmying into place
to belong, and feeling somewhat jammed in
but slowly adjusting to the pressure.
No matter how familiar, though,
pressure always remains uncomfortable.
I mean queer as in not physically feeling right or well.
Queer as in
Have you seen the commercials with scantily clad women
And shirtless men used to move product because everybody
Will buy spontaneously based on elevated levels of hormones?
Or the one where the man treats his salad like he can have sex with it?
Have you seen the groups of teenage boys and girls
discussing their significant others and sexual exploits
(with their significant others or not) and giggling
as though it means absolutely nothing?
Have you ever seen someone looking determinedly away
While those commercials play? Seen anyone blush
When everyone chatters? Me.
I’ll never quite understand why the jokes are funny,
Why the acts are appealing, and I’ve heard people
Whisper behind my back that I’m awkward or abnormal.
No, I want to say,
Moira Armstrong is a junior at Howland High School, where she enjoys stressing over honors classes and extracurriculars. Her favorite is the speech and debate team, where she competes in original oratory and serves as president. In her very limited free time, she likes to color, volunteer, and, of course, write. Her work has also been published in two Creative Communications Poetry Collections, Blue Marble Review, and The Asexual Journal, and is forthcoming in After the Pause.
“I haven’t seen you in ages!” an aunt exclaims, even though I saw her not even a month prior at a barbecue.
Another praises me: “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman… you look just like your mother.”
“How long until you bring a boy over?”
My grandmother asks the same question every time I visit her house.
This is what any gathering of my family is to me, even if visits are close together, the fact that I have never brought a boyfriend to these types of functions sends unease through those related to me. They may not be as out in the open about their suspicions like my mother, who makes homophobic comments at the dinner table and places bets on my sexuality, but I know they whisper about me. I know they talk about me over the phone, muttering things about sin and going to Hell. I pretend not to hear, for their sake and mine, because being silent is easier than trying to explain my lack of interest in anything, romantic or sexual, to people who believe things that I’m not willing to put into words.
There’s no easy way to explain the frustration I felt in elementary school when my parents would tease me about my best friend, a boy, who I did everything with. We saved seats on the bus, pushed each other on the swing set, and even wrote letters because we didn’t have cell phones. Every time I spoke of him at home, a mention of his name brought verse after verse of the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song upon me. I’d get angry at their accusations because they never believed my assertions of us just being friends. They never listened, waving me off with a laugh and an offhand comment about how my defensiveness equaled embarrassment at being attracted to someone. I didn’t understand dating back then because to me everyone was just a possible friend. I thought people who dated were weird because all they did was break up after a day or two and then hate each other. I never had a crush in elementary school.
Middle school was strange. Sixth grade was me trying to be friends with people who didn’t care about me. It was me wearing clothes I didn’t like, making snack runs during basketball games, and traveling to the bathroom in packs. I never dated then either and came to resent the vicious cycle that came with it. The cooing of preteens, the sloppy kisses and fumbling hands, the constant texting, nonstop chatter about how so-and-so is just perfect, the questions that came with me never having a boyfriend, the crying and the yelling when relationships crumbled to hate. It always ended with me listening to how other girls wished they were like me, a complete 360 from when they were in a relationship. I got so tired of it that by the seventh grade I just stopped hanging out with them. I was reunited with my childhood friend that year after being separated from him for a long time after switching schools and suddenly everyone talked about us. They, much like my parents before, whispered about how we shared earbuds, always partnered up, and sat next to each other. It was another year of deflecting rumors and questions and other people asking me out. I always felt bad about declining them because I never really gave clear answers when they asked me why. I couldn’t just tell them that I didn’t know, that I just didn’t feel that way towards anyone.
Eight and ninth grades were a blur. More me rejecting various boys in my class, more rumors about me except now everyone thought that I was a lesbian. More pressure from family to bring home a boyfriend.
Sophomore year I caved in. I just wanted people to leave me alone so when a boy who I’d turned down in middle school tried again, this time I said yes. He was kind and enjoyed the same movies and music I did so if I were to be romantically involved with anyone I thought it would be with someone like him. It was alright for the most part, he was sweet, holding doors and calling me cutie. We held hands while we walked to class and leaned our heads on each other’s shoulders on the bus. Everything was okay until a month passed and he told me he loved me. It was abrupt and in my surprise and confusion I stuttered out the same. I went home that day puzzled and a bit alarmed. I didn’t know what that kind of love was. I valued him as a person and appreciated his feelings but did I want to spend the rest of my life with him? I pondered over that thought for four whole months. I hated saying that I loved him back and kissing him on the cheek after. I hated the way he looked at me with adoration. I hated me. So, one day at the door to my pre-calculus class during my first semester of junior year, I broke up with him. I asked if we could just be friends but I never got an answer… or a chance to explain anything. He sort of froze up and didn’t say anything for a moment before walking off. He never talked to me again and avoided me by having a friend drive him home so he didn’t have to ride the bus. I never got to tell him that he deserved someone who could love him back. Someone who could look at him the way he looked at me. Instead, I got told rumors passed around after we separated that I was heartless. I didn’t deny it because I kind of was. I used that poor boy to quell the accusations of both my family and my peers but only made them worse in the end.
How could I possibly let someone so good-looking and intelligent go?
Everyone had their opinions solidified, and I don’t even need to explain what those were.
The second semester of my junior year I finally figured it out, or at least part of it, because who really knows every single thing about themselves? I learned about the aromantic and asexual spectrums and things started to make sense. I talked to people like me on forums and on Twitter, people who shared stories and insight, and helped me realize who I am. I found the courage to tell my friends and add it to my profiles on social media. Everyone who knows supports me, but not everyone knows. My family is still uninformed, still grasping onto their false ideas and whispered conversations, but I know who I am.
I am Kylie, senior in high school who worships pizza, ramen noodles, and slushies. I am Kylie, a girl who loves writing and coding. I am Kylie, a future computer animation major. I am Kylie, a proud AroAce.
Kylie Wood is a senior at Grant County High School who enjoys reading comics, fangirling over Gotham, and writing the occasional fanfiction. She consumes more pizza than she should, spends a copious amount of time playing The Sims 3, and has a bad habit of procrastinating. What free time she has is dedicated to her school’s marching band, where she performs in its color guard and gets wicked-bad tan lines. She hopes to be accepted into Full Sail University, major in Computer Animation, and thinks it would be super rad to work on a Marvel film.
I embrace a view
That does not belong.
I belong to a group, forever
considered to be unreal, forever
considered to be misidentifying
individuals, who are too
confused to know themselves.
I chose a name
that was not my own,
that determined who I was,
that said I couldn’t be other-than.
I am other-than. I am not
the name I have chosen, because
who I am is more complicated
than a name claiming to be me,
claiming to represent me.
I am not who you think I am, perhaps
because I have been calling myself
something different, something far
different from who I am.
Surely you understand.
I think everyone understands how it
feels to be considered something
you’re truly not, even when
some of us accept this false name.
Well, no more conforming
to society’s rules, established by
an eagle god who asks for less diversity.
I struggle in a nation that is
demanding less from me yet
wants more than I can offer.
I am who I am.
I will do what I can.
Nothing can change that.
Not even the name
I falsely call myself.
Maribel C. Pagan has appeared or is forthcoming in the first issue of Zaum, the first issue of The Asexual, Persephone’s Daughters, Every Day Fiction, and others. She has received the Junior Reading Giants Award, has made the President's List in Mohawk Valley Community College, and has received a number of other awards and scholarships. Additionally, she is the host of The Maddie Show on WLMU Radio, a Prose Reader for Apprehension Magazine, and a singer and musician for The Angelic Family Choir. Visit Maribel at http://therollinghills.wordpress.com/.
I can’t remember exactly when I found out what sex is.
I can remember being in third grade and already knowing the shame of speaking of ‘eso’ around any adult and the embarrassment from mentioning it around my peers. Even looking up the word in the dictionary made me feel guilty, as if text itself would leave a visible mark that allowed everyone to know I was too curious for my own good.
What I can remember is the quick developing obsession with anything that involved two beings doing ‘eso’. I’d casually browse through anatomy books and linger on the reproductive system. I’d stay up late and pretend to be asleep so I could watch soft-core porn on cable TV. When sex scenes came on in novelas, I’d feign innocence and disinterest in what my mother would tell me to look away from. Even animal documentaries could pique my interest.
With gained access to the internet (and delete history), my need for knowledge finally began to be quenched. By the time I was eleven I knew more about sex, outside of practice, than what the typical American does by graduation.
Throughout this journey of discovery, I never really stopped to consider my own position in the greater scheme of sex. My imagination was limited to picturing myself as an observer—never a participant. There was no one around that I could talk to about anything regarding sex without receiving a textbook regurgitation or regaño, so I simply made up my mind that I’d eventually grow into wanting to have it myself and develop the capacity to participate.
Years later, I’m still trying to figure out my relationship with sex. I’m fortunate enough to have a handful of people that I know understand and support me boundlessly, but I know it’s not the same for everyone. I’m aware of how difficult it can be to find validation as being “just asexual.” As someone who is also panromantic it’s been less difficult for me to participate in the queer community, but I still find myself having to leave out asexual from my identity in order to feel more welcomed. I don’t mind talking about sex or my few sexual experiences, but I hate it being the center of so many conversations. It’s always been a fascinating phenomenon for me, and I’ll always want to learn more, but I refuse to let it continue restraining my development.
Joanny Leyva is a grey ace Xicana from Southern California. She currently is an Ethnic Studies scholar in the Bay Area and hopes to pursue work in public policy. In her spare time she enjoys cooking, gardening, and going on existential rants.
there is power in my asexuality
and yet, power transforms so often into pity
within your vicious eyes looking upon me
some broken anomaly
flickering switches, oscillating off and on
there must be some faulty wiring concealed within
and so, you connived and prodded me
opening my insides with your tools of the mind and body
and yet, to your astonishment you discovered
my levers, pulleys, and belts operated to your flawed standard
and yet, still, I did not function as you or he intended
send my damaged body back, a new motherboard was needed
but they could not fix an incorrectly assembled machine
my mind came under recall, HSDD was the director
but there was no powering down this body defective
for my perception changed, and no repair was needed
and still they could attempt, twisting the screw deep within
pushing until a spring is sprung, ejection
you can spin the head and pull it back
like empty vessels, filled and put on a track
and yet, I am still mine
under these polystyrene sheets
no pulsations in deplete
not bound to the broken
or hung in my sleep
your controllers are obsolete
Michael Paramo is a 24-year-old queer asexual Latinx in California. Their academic work has been accepted for presentation by the National Women's Studies Association, the American Culture Association / Popular Culture Association, as well as the U.S. branch of the International Association for the Study of Popular Music. Their research interests concern queerness and asexuality as well as their many intersections.
All works published are original work by the authors. Owner retains copyright of work upon publication, but agrees to give The Asexual first serial/electronic rights, and electronic archival rights. Owner also agrees that if the work is published subsequently, either online or in print, credit to The Asexual is provided. For more information on submissions visit: TheAsexual.com
Photography by Michael Paramo.
Vol. 1, Issue 1
Vol. 1, Issue 1
The Asexual, Vol. 1, Issue 1
Editor-in-Chief: Michael Paramo
Layout Editor: Michael Paramo
To whom it may concern,
I began The Asexual in October 2016 with some concerns, regarding both my limited experience as well as whether anyone would submit to this journal, yet remained hopeful. I have since been overwhelmed with the response, having now received a varied collection of poems, prose, personal essays, and more from writers who identify under the ace umbrella. Some of these writings are included in the subsequent pages of this first issue in addition to a short piece by myself. I would like to thank everyone who has submitted their beautiful words for this debut issue as well as anyone who has supported the journal on social media and elsewhere. I aspire to continue this project and develop it further in the future.
With love and appreciation,
Shannon O. Sawyer
Maribel C. Pagan
Kenyatta JP Garcia
Kenyatta JP Garcia
We all have flaws and weak knees.
For me, it is in the man’s arms,
his face, his chest, his hair,
but never his penis, if he were to even have one.
It may as well be a snake.
Are snakes that small?
and they are much more beautiful.
Dick pics are such a turn-off.
Let my man be clothed,
For I could love only as best as I could,
to be classified as incomplete,
either from hatred or pity,
some sorry form of recognition.
Most often though it is just nothing.
“You’re just gay.”
“You’re just a faggot.”
I’ll show you a faggot.
Michael Paramo is a queer non-binary asexual Latinx master's student in California. Their academic work has been accepted for presentation at national conferences, such as by the Popular Culture Association/American Culture Association as well as the U.S. branch of the International Association for the Study of Popular Music. Their research interests include queer studies, intersectional approaches, media representation, romantic attraction, gender identity, and asexuality. They also deeply enjoy the pleasure that music brings into their life.
I have no desire
for a thing or being.
I have contemplated in solitude
and meditated on my body
to direct desire
words, objects, and bodies
yet my body seeks only death
like silent water in the night
gazing at the stars
wary of the day’s pollution
the washer man's obscene
touch and the nakedness
invading the sphere
all over me.
There is no thing
that you can grasp
your own ground.
You may move around
your senses like
a hand grasping
the other body through
beyond the body
lies what you may
living or dead.
I, a (wo)man, splurge
my inner blood
and mucus onto the
sheath of reality
to show you that
Man bleeds without
the body burns
without any fire.
Shunya Ta is a non-binary demi-sexual being who resides in the city of Calcutta on the east coast of India. They spend their time reading, writing, and contemplating about a future world.
Listen for the rustle; was it a bear in the forest?
Or it could have simply been the air in the forest
Lay down your burdens.
Let everything lay bare in the forest.
Whisper to me, love, and to no one else
Let no one hear your prayer in the forest.
“Sometimes, the King is a woman”
A woman with shining gold hair in the forest.
See the nymphs play! Watch them run!
Running without a care in the forest.
Go no further - listen, you fool!
Do you not hear that blare in the forest?
And the blood ran red through the trees
Worse than those four mares in the forest.
There, in the dark, lay a ring
Where Queen Mab makes her chair in the forest.
Tread with soft and velvet steps
His Grace alone keeps you, heir, in the forest.
Amanda Amos is a young writer who desperately wishes to not starve upon graduation. An adamant short story writer, she's been peer pressured into giving poetry one last chance to make it work before she retires into the seclusion of character arcs forever. As a writer of short stories, however, she has always been quite prolific within modern fantasy and magical realism, having sold out from the idealistic high fantasy of her youth. Life comes at you fast.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first Pride parade. I wasn’t afraid of protestors or getting lost in Portsmouth where brick was worn down by my sneakers and the salt of New Hampshire water. On that day rust brick was painted rainbow. People dressed in vibrant colors, hugging new friends that became family within a few words.
I sat on the sidelines. Desaturated in black, white, gray, and purple. The colors of the asexual flag.
I had heard other asexual people were attending, but this was an event of hundreds within the LGBTQIA+ community that flooded the streets. They overflowed palms, spilling onto land while the few asexuals clung to the breakers.
There were videos of acephobia at Pride parades, the cold shoulder, language lit by low heat burners, always saying “you don’t belong” with silence. Don’t acknowledge their presence. Don’t acknowledge their identity. Don’t acknowledge their correctional rape. Don’t acknowledge their denial of healthcare, or adoption, or everything the LGBTQIA+ community hungers for too. Don’t say asexual out loud, because that would mean validation.
The program shook in my hand as I stared at the acronym, LGBTQA; lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning, and ally. Already so many identities lost in translation, but ally had become a slap to my face. My cheeks were purple with the bruise of “ally.” Allies. Allies. Allies. Even during the speeches, they never said it. Asexual.
When one speaker listed, more hope stung my chest, nonbinary, genderfluid, and I waited. But there it was again. Ally. How many of the people here said, “I belong, I’m an ally! I know lots of gay people!” Some of them don’t take the colors. They sit and listen, know when to be silent and when to use their privilege to advocate. But the ones at Pride wear rainbows in symbols of support and rip them from their bodies the next day. They don’t bleed the colors.
The only booth that mentioned my orientation by name was a church with a small graph that listed “know your flag.” And there they were, my flag listed the word Asexual bold for those who looked the other way. I took a rainbow flag from them, visited twice, lingered there like a seagull waiting for a flock, for others with the same hunger.
But I carried a smile that strained ink. If I just drank the weight of that word in its frequency I would fall into the sea just a few blocks away. My friends placed hands on my shoulders, both wearing the rainbows of the gay community they belonged to with empathetic, “I know.” Neither of them were asexual, but they knew how it hurt. No excuses, no apologies, only exhaustion.
It’s exhaustion from lifting and scraping the bottom of the barrel from the outside; it is where barnacles and clams nest, invisible. I am not silent with the metal tools in my hand. I eat them raw and consume what little I can scrounge. I want to devour the word Ally like I consume mussels and clams. I want to heat water with rage, rip open who they are and sink my teeth into what they take from asexual people.
I picked at mussels with my fork in a restaurant when it ended, silent because I wondered how many allies slipped inside. They wear rainbows in symbols of support and rip them from their bodies the next day, wash the brine away. They don’t bleed the colors.
I’ve learned that anger is much stronger than placid silence. People believe the ocean to be safe until the tide swallows them whole and smashes their bodies against the breakers. When they say ally, I scream asexual, yell my lungs raw until the alveoli pop inside my body. I wonder when those allies open me with a scalpel if they will unleash a tidal wave, or a hurricane.
Shannon O. Sawyer is a graduate from the New Hampshire Institute of Art with her BFA in Creative Writing. She has edited the 2015 and 2016 edition of Ayris Magazine, has works published in Cartoons Underground, The Fem, and Quail Bell Magazine. She is currently a scriptwriter for the audio drama podcast, Jim Robbie and the Wanderers and works as an intern for the Cambridge Writing Workshop. In her spare time she enjoys drawing, watching cartoons, being an angry asexual, and screaming at heteronormative books in her local book stores.
bright eyes work like rock salt
it snakes in past the glassy layer
it’s an expensive kind of fear
it hinges on somebody else’s hurt
your pollination is convincing
honey still won’t dissolve the slick
the others slipped
the others bruised
I don’t think I can catch you
yes my stomach was churning not a crush it was
you loved me I couldn’t see like you (I still can’t see why)
I’m not an angel not a saint so why am I your girl?
stay here with my cups of ambition and
try not to fall
I remember the first time you kissed me, leaving a
pink lipstick mark I rubbed off with a cupped hand
full of water.
I didn’t want your print didn’t want it didn’t want you
at least not the way you wanted me
to chase away your hallucinogenic baby ghosts
did you leave because I couldn’t see like you did?
I could’ve failed you and never known and
that’s what haunts me the most like you’re
haunted by whatever (I truly don’t remember)
Moira Armstrong is a junior at Howland High School, where she enjoys stressing over honors classes and extracurriculars. Her favorite is the speech and debate team, where she competes in original oratory and serves as president. In her very limited free time, she likes to volunteer, color, and, of course, write. Her work has also been published in the Power of the Pen Book of Winners, two Creative Communications Poetry Collections, and Blue Marble Review.
It wasn't because they loved each other. On the contrary, they seemed to be indifferent to one another. No one could quite understand what had brought them together as a couple, not even the two persons themselves.
This convinced both sides of the family to object to the marriage. That, and such a couple as them, who barely knew each other, could not possibly be paired up. And so the couple solved the problem: they eloped.
Very shortly afterwards, the husband left for the war. The wife didn't mind. She often preferred to be left alone. It only gave her more freedom to pursue her dreams of entering the workforce.
No fancy wedding. No honeymoon.
No first night together.
The husband returned to the country. He had received an injury in the battlefield, said the letter.
And so she cared for him. Provided him with the necessities: bandaging, food, and so on. She also made certain he was assisted in his healing, and she helped him learn to walk again.
It was the first time she had truly held him in her arms. It was the first time she truly realized that they were a married couple living under the same roof. Surely he felt the same way.
The year passed quickly. When he was able to walk again, she then decided to leave by herself, and she told him so. She would be traveling to Africa as a missionary. He had had his chance to get away. Now it was her turn.
It was when she was departing that she realized they had still not shared their first night together.
She returned home by boat. She was greeted by a man carrying a bouquet.
Because that was what married couples did. The husband would greet the wife with a bouquet. Especially after such a long trip.
She approached him, took the bouquet, and gave him a hug. They hadn't kissed since the day they had eloped.
But he spoke to her, told her how his new publishing house was going. She, in turn, shared how her life as a missionary was: an exploration of a new place, a new life of its own, and an adventure to cherish. Maybe she didn't promote her religion as much as she was informed to, but the new place was enough to excite her.
Once she arrived at home, she noticed that they now had a king-sized bed. Not two separate beds. She took one side, he took another.
They shared the bed, but not the night.
After a few weeks of sharing the same bed, her husband finally asked her, "Are you sure you don't want to?"
She shook her head. "I'm sure."
Opposite sides of the same bed. A married couple bound by day.
But not by night.
One night, months later, she finally crawled to his side. "Can we do it?"
A pause. Then he nodded. "Sure."
The first night they shared together ended in their falling asleep in each other's arms.
Their first night felt like their last. Afterwards, they shared the same bed, but not each other.
The husband's business grew, reaching thousands of customers daily. The wife began studying for a new degree. Their days were often so occupied that they rarely saw one another. One of the only times they truly saw each other was at the dinner table, when they sat across from each other slowly munching on their food. And then the bed came shortly afterward, when they shared the same bed but not the night.
It was then he announced he would have to make a lengthy business trip to another country. He would return soon, he assured her. She nodded in consent.
He left again.
She found out he had been arrested on the accusation that he was a spy.
She did not know what to make of it. She only inquired to see if it was true. Most said, "no."
It took months to recover him, but soon he was finally freed. It was then she took up the courage to ask, "Is it true?"
It took him a moment. Then he nodded.
She placed her hands on either cheek. He smiled at her, tears in his eyes. She smiled a sad one in return, indicating understanding.
She was invited to her father's funeral. She and her husband came. The priest blessed the empty carcass her father had left behind. She and her husband bowed their heads in response.
It was after the funeral that her mother asked them, "Why did you defy our wishes?"
"It was our choice," the wife protested.
"It was your act of defiance that killed him."
"How could that be? We married twenty years ago. If he had died then, I would believe that," the husband retorted.
Her mother huffed and waltzed away, leaving the wife to her own thoughts.
Twenty years. How could so much time have passed? Was this how all married couples were like? Did it feel as strange to them as it did to her? Twenty years had come and gone, yet she still did not know whether or not she even loved her husband. Or if he loved her at all.
They returned home, holding hands.
As if their love was true.
But was it?
He prepared her a special dinner. He shifted uneasily between his feet, saying, "Thank you for being with me all of these years."
She smiled in return. "Thank you too."
They ate together. They shared the bed together.
They shared the night together.
It was cancer.
He didn't have much longer to live, the doctor said, so live it well.
Their fingers curled in each other's, hands intertwined as the wife responded, "He will be well cared for. He will live a joyous life till the end."
She prepared one last vacation for them, this time to South America.
He grew far more ill shortly after their return home over a year later. She continued to care for him in his illness.
Things got worse one day. The couple found themselves at the hospital.
The doctor said he didn't have much longer.
While lying in his bed one day, he finally asked her the question the two of them had pondered their whole lives, "Do you love me?"
She smiled and clasped his hands in her own. She replied, "I love you.” Pause. Then, “But not in the way you may think."
A small smile grew on his lips.
"Do you love me too?"
But he didn't answer.
His eyes had closed for the last time.
Maribel C. Pagan has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, The Stray Branch, Moledro, and others. She has received the Junior Reading Giants Award, has made the President's List in Mohawk Valley Community College, and others. Additionally, she is the host of The Maddie Show on WLMU Radio, and a singer and musician for The Angelic Family Choir, a family singing group that has appeared on EWTN Global Radio Network. You can find out more about Maribel at http://therollinghills.wordpress.com/
In a week, the squirrel was dead or maybe it was another squirrel but dying is what it did. At least this one did.
It’s what happens. Dying. It’s going to die. This one and that one. Be dead. Being dead. But, first, the dying happens. It happened to it. Maybe it happened within a week. Maybe it was another it. But, it died. It was dead.
Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out.
Same cigarette to the lips. Same time. Same place.
A human clock for the work week.
All converge here for some reason, one would venture to guess.
Reasonably, paths cross. Path can run parallel but these haven’t.
Strength has been stolen from what’s been decided.
On paper, other worries were left out of this fight.
Devotion and hunger ravage gifts. Loyalty stalls.
Blessings waste away as stimulation disappears.
In the swamp. In the sand. Sinking. Lost.
A wall will never be a sanctuary.
But smoke may be a refuge.
Some sense to be made in consuming.
Kenyatta JP Garcia is the author of Slow Living (West Vine Press) as well Yawning on the Sands and This Sentimental Education. They are a poet and humorist originally from Brooklyn, NY but currently live in Albany, NY. When they're not writing, they're consumed by comic books and contemplating the many possibilities of speculative literature. One day, they hope they'll make enough money to become a cyborg, but until then, they'll just dream.
Oh, sorry! You didn’t see me here.
But that’s okay, because nobody notices normal.
Nobody thinks to ask “Hey, are you…” No. You’d rather assume.
And whilst you’re making an ass out of you, I remain unnoticed. Unknown.
Invisible in my own home because what could be worse than being unknown?
So there you all are, homogenised in your heteronormativity, and you see me - except you don’t.
Not really. You see what you want to see. A young man. Set free. Exploring romantic activity.
And with women as well! Oh, how swell! Let’s not dwell on the fact that not once did he desire a sexual act.
No, not once did he cast that there line out to sea nor step foot in the waters of sexuality.
But of course, how could he? He’s been raised in a man-praising, slut-shaming, sex-crazy society!
Where the highest form of art is bare-naked nudity and the highest form of pleasure is triple X-rated pornography.
During puberty, young boys are taught that if they cannot think with their heads, then they should think with their heads.
And that piss is not the only thing with which they’ll wet the bed. Whether it be TV and movies, or their hordes of male friends,
or the billboards that are plastered with ladies’ rear ends, young boys are taught that their penis comes first.
If those are the base standards for manhood, then you can go ahead and crown me the worst.
You might tell me it’s a matter of pride. That if I’m feeling erased then I should carve my face into stone.
That I’m not alone.
That there is a whole community out there waiting for me, arms open wide. L.G.B.T.Q.A PRIDE!!
But don’t forget! The A stands for Ally.
And why are you looking at girls when you’re a guy? You don’t belong here. You’re not really queer. You’re just after the attention.
These people complain about having to fight for their right to party when I have to fight for my right to be a part of the party in which the celebration of a win is a kiss which I would not miss if I missed.
No, I insist.
Tell me again how I should enlist in an army which denies I exist.
After all, if I’m heard and not seen, then my problems don’t matter, and I should be grateful for how lucky that makes me.
Is it really so bad when the invisible man asks to be seen?
Is it so absurd that there could be people out there who don’t find themselves concerned with that most primal urge when with every other word, they are the boy who is begging to be heard?
Oh, sorry! You didn’t see me here. But that’s okay, because nobody ever sees the invisible.
Gregory Morrison is a Literature student at the University of Salford. He first realised he was asexual at sixteen years old, and has spent the four years since that point wondering just what the big deal is anyway. His family describe him as “the weird one”. His friends describe him as “a real life vampire”. He describes himself as “a pretentious nerd who tries way too hard”. When he isn’t reading superhero comics or writing poetry, he can be found making videos for his YouTube channel ThatGingerBrit
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Photography by Michael Paramo.