The Asexual journal is an independent platform publishing work by asexual, aromantic, and agender authors.
Thanks to discovering asexuality, I see “no” as whole because we are whole.
I didn’t know there was a word for people like me, so I never looked for one.
Where my identity as an asexual is seen as a choice hastily made, as if I only need a little persuasion, as if I just one day decided to stop being sexually attracted to others.
Before I could name it, I felt my asexuality as truly as my feet felt every step of a run. I now claim it as fully as I claim my body.
This card is my life. I am always engaged in combat.
But for now, I’m holding on. Because there’s nothing wrong with me. And there never was.
And there is a label for people like me: asexuality. But how do I condense myself into the ‘a’ in ‘asexuality’? That ‘a’ means ‘not.’ That ‘a’ means ‘lacking.’
Coming to terms with being aromantic asexual offered an opportunity to pursue what I wanted for myself. To reject the premise that my existence is centered on my appeal to men.
To have every cuddle, every kiss, every hug, just be seen as a path to sex - I didn’t want that.
You think everyone’s just faking it because that’s what’s cool, but you still don’t get why it’s cool.
We market bitterness as a marker of adulthood (…) Set aside such childish things as sweetness and grow up.
Once upon a time, the girl met another asexual. “Holy shit,” she said, “This has never happened to me before. It’s like meeting a unicorn!”
I can organize my relationships by asking myself how emotionally close and how interdependent I would like to be with a person.
This box was getting smaller by the second. Where did all the air go?
“Oh and Clara, when are you going to get a boyfriend?" She said it like boyfriends were fruits which could be plucked from trees or ornaments necessary to authorize membership in the “normal teenage girls” club.
You’ve always felt like the odd one out, never fast enough at catching the innuendos, convinced your friends’ outbursts were mere exaggerations.
Hope is a hill your dreams die on when you're wrong.
But, for me, physical comfort never meant sex.
I envy people who understand attraction to the point where they don’t even have to think about it.
I think my life would be better without the concept of ‘attraction’ constantly invading my thoughts. I overthink it, I see it everywhere. I can’t escape from it.
We live in a world now where any type of physical contact between two adults is seen as sexual.
The way I’ve begun to see it, I was always who I am, even if I wasn’t aware of it.
It's not my breasts or my uterus that define who I am, just as my disabled leg does not define it. My mind defines who I am.
No matter how I look, I do not belong to any gendered category. I am just being me.
If you could only alter you as in a game, stretching cheekbones and thinning legs to mannish ones, pulling out little hairs along your chin — if only it were cheap.
I suppose I was unhappy with myself / Until my body started resembling an unwelcome guest / Maybe I just never gave it much thought / I let people paint and put a name on it
Because even if gender isn’t something to ponder and question and agonize over for days or weeks or months or even years for them, it is for us.
When I am awake, I act. Do my actions make me male? Do they make me female? Does doing things give me a gender?
Modern society has made progress towards acceptance of LGBTQIA individuals, but asexuality remains under the radar.
At one time I would've given almost anything to be a late bloomer and not asexual. I wanted so badly to fit in that I would have given up this beautiful part of me in a second.