(Disclaimer That I Shouldn’t Have To Make, But To Shut Up the Choir Pedantic: These are my observations and experiences of my own life. They are not universal. They are not condemnations on your life. If it ain’t about you, DON’T MAKE IT ABOUT YOU.)
When I realized that asexuality was a thing, and it was very much my thing,I felt two emotions: shame and relief.
Y’all have to understand, without getting into the details, the sort of piping hot mess I was. I had so many fucked up ideas about sex, and a ton of hatred for myself that I tried to drown out by drinking and sex and ugh. Piping hot mess, everyone. Piping. Hot.
The shame was me not realizing it for so long and selling all of those people I’ve slept with a false bill of goods, the identities that I tried to fit myself into (kink and poly) were all lies I was telling other people, ignoring the fetishization of my black body in primarily white scenes, even the damage I had been doing to myself for years trying to be something I damn well wasn’t.
That’s something I’ve mostly processed.
The relief though? Oh my fuck, the relief. See, asexuality comes in a plethora of ways. Me, it’s the “I can watch/read/write erotica, but anything involving my body or the female body in general – I can’t deal with” sort. Hell, I could watch the very rare amount of porn with trans men, and be fine, because it’s not a female body, duh.
I could watch all of that and not feel wrong for only enjoying it on an observant level.
I rather like my breasts and wearing things that show them off. I can say, no brag, that my tits are the shit. And for all those years of showing them off to try (and frankly succeed) at being sexy for others, I can now display them for my own joy. Corsets, properly fitting bras, low cut shirts, rock them out!
Same with wearing makeup, a hobby I didn’t even really get into until the whole “I’m doing this for myself” mindset was set in. Now I get all kinds of experimental. Black lipstick, purple eyebrows? Rock that out!
Same with pretty clothes. When I get something lovely, I can’t wait to find an excuse to wear it. I honestly didn’t think there was any reason to get dolled up, which is fucked up and really made my mental relationship with other women, prettier women, more popular women absolute shit. I hated them for no good reason.
It even changed my drinking habits. No more overdoing it until I could handle being fucked, or feel so shitty if that couldn’t happen that the self hate spiral was just that much easier to sink into. If I wasn’t fuckable, then what worth did I have?
And being able to just…cuddle and roll over to sleep? No expectations of getting into this or that position, getting all sweaty, never, ever, ever having an orgasm with any partner ever, and then ugh, having to clean up the aftermath? Rocking like a baby in a cradle.
Letting my hairs grow out (save for my chin, because that makes me feel odd and I’ll never be able to grow a half decent beard 🙁 ), no worries about a lover’s preferences. Rock. On.
Not having to share my time and spoons with more than one person, and being nearly sick with jealousy – and hating myself because I wasn’t doing it right – when it was damn obvious I was cramming myself into a space that wasn’t for me? Rocking and a rolling, rocking and a reeling, Barbara Ann.
To be loved and accepted just the way I am? Not just rocking. Rocking like a fucking hurricane.
The hot mess that is me now doesn’t even compare to the confused self-hating hypersexual raging garbage fire that was me.
The relief of not having to do what I thought I had to do to be desired, loved, wanted is so palatable that I’m tearing up as I type this. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you all the sexy sweaty Xiumin gif…this time.