The first time I saw the word “asexual” was in a biology textbook.
- (Asexual reproduction. Something amoebas do.)
The second time I saw it was in an online article about an asexual woman dating a
heterosexual man.
- (Anonymous: “That guy got friend-zoned so hard he made it into the news.)
The third time I saw it, I was typing it into Google’s search bar.
- (When a boy puts his tongue in my mouth, there’s supposed to be a “spark,” isn’t there?)
The fourth time I saw it was in me, when I finally understood how to define myself.
- (Asexual. Noun. Someone who does not experience sexual attraction.)
Where I didn’t see it was in my mother’s understanding, when I told her what I had
learned.
- (“Oh honey, there’s nothing wrong with you.”)
Nor did I see it in my friend’s acceptance of me when I opened up to him.
- (“Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”)
I didn’t see it in my perfectly regular hormone balance, no matter how many times they
asked me.
- (“Have you had your hormones checked?”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
- “Isn’t there a pill for that?”)
I didn’t see it in the Davidson 101 Sexuality poll either.
- (“Q” for “Questioning” since everyone tells me that’s what I must be doing.)
I don’t even see it in LGBTQIA, which is always cleaved down the middle because too
many letters—too many identities—is unpalatable to most.
- (“A stands for ally!”
- “LGBTQIA? That’s a bit too much, don’t you think?”)
And sometimes—
I don’t see me.
Because being 1% of the population makes me negligible.
Because seven hundred thousand people worldwide don’t really count.
And when I don’t see me,
I have to pretend I’m not me.
Because it’s easier to pretend than it is to explain.
And it’s easier to fake it than it is to hear someone say that I am broken—
that I am lacking something inherently human.
Or worse, for some stranger to tell me
that I will never truly understand how to love another person,
- if I’m not fucking them.
