Asexual Awareness Week 2023: Jessamyn’s Story
Q+ Magazine is charging forward through Asexual Awareness Week, doing our darndest to give the ace folks ready to talk about their sexuality and their experiences, a platform to do so! Like with all good storytelling, the more you engage with, the more commonalities with experiences you’ll find. But what we love about our collection of ace stories is that while commonalities exist, the differences are vast and wide. Jessamyn’s story is our third installment this week and her understanding of herself and her asexuality is definitely worth reading.
While many are only just discovering what asexuality is and learning about this part of themselves, Jessamyn has a firm grasp on this side of her sexuality. She has been witnessing asexuality in society for a long time and definitely has feelings about how it plays out in our society.
As you read Jessamyn’s story, you’ll see that she isn’t big into claiming labels, even though she allows herself to live with the ace one. When you get through her tale, you’ll understand why.
We hope you enjoy this unique and eloquently told version of the asexual experience.
How old were you when you realized you were asexual?
I was 18.
What was the process of discovering your asexuality like for you?
As a young girl growing up in the 90s and early 2000s, I was lucky enough to live in a community that was very affirming of LGBTQ people. There was an active “Gay Straight Alliance” (as it was called at the time) in my high school, a course offered in my high school called “Gay and Lesbian Literature” (the only such high school course in the country when it was introduced,) and figuring out one’s sexuality was considered a normal part “figuring yourself out.”
Yet even in such an accepting and supportive community, it was still the early 2000s. The term “asexual” was not in popular use at the time, and no one had ever seemed to have heard of someone who just didn’t have a crush on anyone, ever. The consensus seemed to be that I was a late bloomer who would someday grow out of it. (After all, everyone “grows up” someday, right?)
This led to a lot of years of nervously examining and second-guessing myself and my relationships with others. I knew I wasn’t into boys, and I didn’t think I was into girls, at least in a romantic way – but if I didn’t like boys, did this mean that my friendships with my best girl friends were actually more than just friendships? “Everyone falls in love sometime,” promised a popular song at the time, though to me it felt more like a threat. I was secretly terrified by the thought that someday, whether I liked it or not, I would develop romantic and physical attractions to others and that there was nothing I could do about it.
I wouldn’t say I spent a lot of time thinking about this – indeed, I aggressively avoided thoughts like this as much as I could, and I certainly had a lot else vying for my attention in high school. But when I did think about it, I felt deeply uncomfortable.
It was a week before Valentine’s Day, and I was in my first year of college when I decided that since I’d never had any crushes on anyone of any gender, then barring any future evidence to the contrary, I must simply be asexual, and could stop worrying about it. I’d only heard the term “asexual” used once (and that in a context that implied, “You can’t just be asexual! You must be something!”) but I decided that since I was an adult, I could make up my own mind about what I was. And let me tell you, the weight off my mind was enormous.
And in hindsight, it was the only thing that made sense. The thing is, I had always known I had never wanted any part in romance, and that anything even remotely related to sex bothered me intensely. Kids can be remarkably perceptive and self-aware – far more so, in many cases, than adults.
I’d always been bothered by exposure to displays of romance, even in the chaste G and PG-rated I watched as a kid, and as I entered middle school and my friends became interested in adolescence and boys and began going to dances and fashion, I’d felt like people were dragging me by my hair into adolescence when all I wanted was to remain a kid. I knew I was never into any of it and felt deeply superior to everyone else who seemed to be caving to “animal instincts” as I liked to think of it. At the same time, I felt more and more isolated and out of place.
Lacking the self-awareness and maturity that I would learn later, I began lashing out at all boys who paid me even the slightest bit of attention, even when they were being nice to me, which is something I’ve regretted ever since I’ve often wished I could go back and apologize to those kids, especially the boys, for the pain I no doubt caused some of them.
By high school, I was surrounding myself entirely with girls, which largely offered me a safe space from feeling different. This continued throughout college – it was simply easier to fit in when men were out of the picture. Now, I have a lot of male friends, and I treasure their friendships, but I wasn’t able to be comfortable in their company before I figured out that I was ace (I was lucky that I figured it out pretty early, compared to a lot of people).
Throughout my 20s and 30s I’ve made some really wonderful friendships with men, for which I’m deeply grateful, but if I am totally honest, I often secretly miss the all-girls environment of my teens and early 20s. There’s a special, safe, happy feeling there for me.
What part of the asexual community do you identify as? Can you explain how that plays out for you and in your relationships?
I don’t love labels, to be honest, so I usually use verbs rather than adjectives. I personally find it more useful to say “I don’t find myself sexually attracted to anyone, and I seldom experience crushes,” or, “The idea of sex makes me deeply uncomfortable,” than “I am X, Y, Z.” It tends to invite more of a conversation for those curious, and be clearer for those who aren’t familiar with terms pertaining to ASPEC people.
As far as the asexual community is concerned, I would love to develop a real-life community with other people like me. I’ve only ever known one or two other aces, and that was years ago. Online communities help, but we tend to be hard to find out in the real world. It can be lonely to always be the only one of you that you know. It helps to have other single, non-Ace friends, of course.
Are you ‘out’ as asexual?
I’ve never been “in.” I’ve never felt the desire to hide or conceal being ace, though I think many, if not most people don’t know this about me simply because there’s not a lot to talk about in that department. Topics of conversation don’t usually center around what you aren’t or what you don’t do. I do confuse a lot of people’s gaydar, though.
What is something you wish more people understood about asexuality in general or your banner of asexuality?
Honestly, I’ve been lucky in that even when the people in my life haven’t understood how I could not be romantically or physically attracted to people, they believed me and tried to understand. One thing that would be nice, though, would be more representations of people in real life, and characters in media, who are living full, connected, and even sometimes partnered lifestyles and are also ace. I get the sense that many people think of asexuals as loners, which often isn’t true. We crave connection in most of the same ways as other people do.
Who is your fave asexual character in film, TV, books, or any other kind of media?
When I was in middle and high school, I was introduced to the stories surrounding the maiden goddesses Athena and Artemis, Artemis’s followers the huntresses, and the Amazons. These characters were kicking butt and rocking the maiden lifestyle, and I loved reading about them. In ninth grade, my Latin class read the myth about Daphne, the nymph whom Cupid struck with an arrow that made her want nothing to do with love and marriage.
An “imitator of unmarried Diana,” Daphne preferred to run around in the woods with her dogs. I loved Daphne. I was very indignant when she had to turn into a tree to get away from a god who was pursuing her.
I still love these stories and these goddesses. If Artemis showed up at my door with her community of huntresses and invited me to run away with them, I’d go in a heartbeat.
I also really liked Jo March in Little Women. She and I seemed very similar in many, many ways. Of course, she marries at the end, but I could tell when I read it that that was probably owing to demands on 19th-century authors that all female characters be married at the end.
In terms of ace characters in modern literature or media centering ace characters… it would be nice to find one, to be honest. Especially one who’s at the center of their story and thriving, in a story that isn’t entirely about them being ace or doesn’t keep hinting at a romance between them and other characters. It says a lot about modern society that I feel most represented in stories that are thousands of years old! Elsa in Frozen and Moana are pretty cool, though.
I have to confess that while I’m really excited for more gay and lesbian relationships appearing on TV and in movies (because representation matters!) it makes me sad when older stories I love are adapted to explicitly include partnerships that are more explicitly romantic than they once were. The ambiguous or unspecified nature of these relationships used to leave room for people like me to see ourselves in them, too, but when their formerly platonic (or unspecified) relationships are redefined as romantic, it’s harder to see myself quite so much in characters I used to relate to. Similarly, I’ve always felt disappointed if I reach the end of a book or movie and the writer couples off the protagonist as a way to “tie up loose ends,” as if the character needs a partner for the book to reach a satisfying conclusion
Similarly, I’ve always felt disappointed if I reach the end of a book or movie and the writer couples off the protagonist.
We loved how thoughtful Jessymn’s story was. It’s clear that she has spent a lot of time navigating this part of her sexuality and she armed herself with the tools to do so even during a period of time where such tools might not have been explicitly available. We stan a person that is determined to live their truth and understand who they are.
But Jessamyn’s story is just one of many. We’ll continue to bring the goods this week, shine a light on this complex, yet beautiful sexuality, and hopefully educate some along the way.
Thanks to Jessamyn for sharing her story, we are happier for it.
If you missed our previous stories, you can find Caitlin’s here and Justin’s here. Follow us on X and Instagram for all queer stuff!
