queerness & non-sexual intimacy
compulsory sexuality, asexuality, and the secret third thing
I. Asexual Queers
As an aspec person, I did not feel comfortable labeling myself as “queer” until my mid-twenties. In part, this was because I didn’t fully understand my sexuality or my identity, so there wasn’t a label that actually felt like it fit. But mostly this is because I didn’t believe my sexuality belonged under the queer umbrella. I never wanted to step on anybody’s toes or abuse a word that is historically a slur, so for years I believed that “queer” could not apply to me. I was not sexually attracted to women, so therefore, I could not be queer. End of story.
Except, not really.
There’s a lot of debate in the LGBTQ community about asexuality and queerness. People have told me to my face that I’m not queer enough or I’m not gay enough, and that made it even more difficult for me to figure out just how to belong in this community. I talked myself in circles trying to balance my inherent otherness, my lack of sexual attraction, with my obvious lack of “gayness.” I’m not a lesbian. I’m not even bisexual. I’m just a person who does not have interest in sex. How does that fit in a community that is fighting for the right to have sex with the same sex?
I’m not gonna waste time here. Aspec people are fighting for the right to NOT have sex. To not partner. To step outside the box of heteronormativity. It’s just that when we step out the box, we’re also side-stepping homosexuality. We’re often fighting against allo/amatonormativity1, and that means it’s us against the world, baby. We are it.
One of the things that always bothered me about aphobic people is that they’re so fixated on the idea that aspec people don’t face oppression in the same way that homosexual people do. That we’re not queer enough because we’re not discriminated enough. That we’re basically straight because we’re “not gay.” And sure, there’s a wide range of identities under the aspec umbrella — there are heteroromantic asexual people who have straight partners and can pass as straight — so maybe you could make an argument that some ace people are more straight than others, but that’s categorically incorrect. Aspec people of any and every identity exist outside the realm of the typical societal norm of heterosexuality, which means that even if we aren’t technically “gay,” and even if we are romantically attracted to the opposite sex like any straight person, it should not and does not matter. We don’t experience sexual attraction (or romantic attraction) the same way straight people do. We’re not straight. And if we’re not straight, we’re queer.
A lot of aspec “oppression” is more subtle than it is for homosexual people or trans people. Most of us aren’t getting sent to conversion camps. People don’t talk about hate-crimes or murders against asexual people, and they aren’t setting up anti-asexual bills the way they have anti-trans bills. But that doesn’t mean people accept us or acknowledge us or support us. Aspec people are threatened by rape, by people claiming that if we just had sex we’d be normal. And a lot of times, the greater (straighter) public still fails to recognize that aspec people exist at all. There’s still stigma and still systemic oppression…it just looks different.
Our society is built around partnership. In the US, most benefits go to married couples or families. You get tax deductions, insurance benefits, all sorts of goodies just because you decide to partner up. And I understand why that’s beneficial for society, why that may have been more necessary to advocate for historically, but it does intrinsically harm single people now. It harms aspec and aro people who choose to remain single. This is also harmful to straight and gay and other queer people who do experience sexual attraction, who maybe engage in sex or romance, but choose to not get married. It just affects more aspec people because, well, we are usually the ones who don’t have a choice in being single. Your biology may have set you up to be gay or to be straight, but mine set me up to be ace. It shouldn’t be my fault I can’t “find a partner” when I’m just not wired that way.
II. Compulsory Sexuality
I think one of the real issues when it comes to aspec people and aphobia and the inclusion of ace people in the queer community, is that our society often equates queerness with sex. Sex-positive. Sex-forward. Sex-inclusive. And obviously there’s nothing wrong with sex. We should be sex-positive! We should be allowed to sexually express ourselves freely without shame! But when we create a culture that is so hyperfixated on sex, that insists that the physical acts of sex are the be-all end-all of your sexual identity (I know how that sounds, bear with me), we’re cutting off an entire group of non-straight, non-gay people who need to be supported within the queer community. More than that, we’re limiting ourselves and our lives, and we’re restricting ourselves from enjoying relationships that come from places other than sex.
There’s a term called “compulsory sexuality” that I read about from Sherronda J. Brown. She has a whole book about it in relation to black asexuality, and you should really read that because she says more than I ever could about the subject. But I want to mention it as a starting point and a reason why queerness is often equated to sex and physical sexuality at that.
Our society has created a sex-obsessed culture where we prioritize sexuality above almost everything else. Sex permeates our marketing, our media, and even our conversations. It’s not always obvious, and sure we like to pretend we’re all vanilla Christians who remain abstinent until marriage and blah blah blah, but if you spend an hour of your day looking for sex, you’ll find it everywhere. Your ads. Your TikToks. That movie or TV show. That song you put on shuffle. And if it’s not about sex or physical intimacy, then it’s probably about romance. Love. Dating. Marriage. It never stops.
And this isn’t exclusive to straight communities. Queer people like to joke that straight people are annoying about their partnerships, but as an aspec person I can tell you that gay people can also be annoying about their partnerships. (Said with love!!) Allosexual queer people are vocal about their sexuality for obvious reasons. They’re fighting hard for the right to be sexual in whatever way they choose. They deserve to be out on the streets of Pride advocating for whatever kinky sex brings them pleasure! But then where does that put me? Where does that put aspec people in a community that is not straight and yet still feels alienating with its overwhelming sexuality?
How do we call ourselves queer if our queerness does not support non-sexual queer people? If we take the feelings out of the equation, the attraction and the sex and the partnership, what are we left with? How do you find intimacy without attraction? How do you cultivate intimacy with an unconventional attraction? How do you prioritize intimacy that is not conventional, that does not always rely on attraction or sex or romance, and what does that relationship look like in a world where the only “proof” of intimacy and commitment and connection is having sex and/or being physical and/or being “romantic” and/or getting married?
III. Queer Relationships
The truth is, non-sexual queerness is not limited to aspec people. In fact, I think all queer people approach all types of relationships differently than straight people, regardless of which part of the umbrella they fall under. Because we are other, because we exist outside of the societal norm of heterosexuality, we experience the world differently and that leads us to form relationships differently. It’s just that a lot of world focuses on sexual relationships and partnerships above all else.
I’m going to spend most of my time talking about platonic friendships because that’s a significant and obvious non-sexual relationship to dissect (and it’s important to me), but there are so many intricate and unique relationships out there that queer people have developed. And a lot of them don’t have names or labels. I think queer people have always existed in a liminal space when it comes to interpersonal relationships. We have been forced to label ourselves or categorize ourselves in order to be more palatable to straight people, to other queer people, when in truth, we are still just other. One of the great joys of being queer is knowing that whoever you are, whatever you do, you are enough. You don’t have to be anything or anyone. You just are. And every day you wake up, you choose what that looks like. Even if it’s weird or unconventional or doesn’t make a lot of sense to anybody else.
I’d argue that queerness often revolves around the way you care for another person, and that generally falls outside societal norms. We all joke about gay yearning or queer intimacy, how queer media often involves a lot of pining or secret feelings or hidden desire, but it’s that yearning that plays such a huge role in all our relationships. Queer people were born in the shadows, and we sometimes live huge chunks of our lives hidden behind walls. But inside that darkness, we have spent generations cultivating desire and intimacy and joy and love. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s why we shine so much brighter when we’re finally out in the sun.
This need for intimacy but feeling unworthy, but not knowing where to find it, but worrying that you have to hide it, is often what unites allo and aspec queer people. Even if we don’t all experience sexual attraction in the same way, a lot of us still seek out care. How do get our needs met (sexual, physical, emotional, etc) when we exist outside of the heteronormative system in place?
Sometimes we have to get creative.
There’s a community aspect to queerness that has grown out of decades of marginalization. Whether you have a partner or not, you are probably aware of the greater community of queer people around you. Your chosen family perhaps. The people you walk with at Pride. The group you call on to go protest with. The people who you want to protect when you go out at night. The people you talk with online, across the country, all over the world. Your friends. Your lovers. Your peers. Not that straight people don’t have community, but I’ve been apart of straight communities and queer communities alike, and there’s usually something more protective about queer communities. It’s more intense. It’s more intimate. It’s more vulnerable.
I wonder if we crave intimacy so desperately because we have spent generations being told we don’t deserve it.
Furthermore, the lines tend to become blurred in queer communities and relationships. Friends become lovers become friends. And this doesn’t mean partnership is less important, I think it often means that “lesser” relationships become more important. Friendships are more important to queer people because often that’s all we have. With aspec people especially, this can become even more amplified when our “partners” are actually our friends. It’s more difficult to label your relationships the way straight people do — this is my spouse, this is my best friend, this is my bible study — because it’s all very messy in the best way. We can’t fit our relationships into boxes because each of them serves a different and unique purpose and each of them is almost equally important.
When we look at queer relationships, I think a lot of queer people value action just as much as feelings. Queerness may stem from unconventional, non-straight attraction (or lack-thereof), but it works in tandem with care and intimacy. We build communities and relationships that only exist because we acknowledge that we need each other. We are unique individuals expressing our own genders in new ways and a lot of us do crave exclusive partnerships, but at the end of the day, we cannot exist without our communities. And we recognize that there are an infinite number of ways to care for ourselves and other people.
But that gets to the heart of the issue at hand. Is queerness more than just sex? I don’t think you can look at queerness just under the microscope of sex. It’s interconnected with so many different aspects of life - family, gender identity, friendship, community, country, race, class - and so if it isn’t just about sex, and if queer people can be sex-repulsed or sex-indifferent or asexual or aromantic or any of these unconventional “minor” labels, then how could we ever limit queerness to the physical act of sex?
IV. Nonsexual Queerness
Since queer people exist outside the norm and are frequently marginalized, there is a need for tenderness and care that heterosexual people don’t quite have. yes, hetero people and couples care for each other, obviously, and I know care isn’t exclusive to queer people, but queer people rely on so many people to support them - whether that’s romance or friendship or community - because so often their core support system fails them. We must find our “love” from all corners of our life because society has failed us. (And I do mean “love” colloquially because a lot of aspec and aro people do not want or need Love.)
I also think queer people use nonsexual acts of love and care to demonstrate intimacy because so often we are forced to hide who we are. Maybe we can’t always make out in public or get married, but I can sit next to you, I can cook you a meal, I can help you in other ways. We must come up with subtler ways of showing we care.
And often these “subtler” ways of care are intimacies that are more intimate than straight people are comfortable with. We aren’t sexually attracted to each other, but I like cuddling with you when we watch a movie. We aren’t married, but can you get groceries for me on the way home? We’re not related by blood but I do expect you to drop everything and help me right now with this emergency. This type of care and intimacy is huge in other marginalized communities too. Disabled people, for example, do care work better than most of us because they’ve had to in order to survive. Caring is a love language all on its own, but a lot of straight people limit their care to their partners, their families, maybe their churches.
As an ace person whose “partners” are her friends, I’ve frequently had people question whether I’m dating my best friends. Usually it comes from straight people or parents or people online, but this is often because I care “too much” about people I’m not officially dating. I’ve self-published a book that was about and dedicated to my best friend. I once gifted a very personal and intimate poem about how me and my other best friend were fated soulmates. I will spend hundreds of dollars on gifts for my friends when I’m able to. I make big sacrifices and drop everything and get way too intimate with people I care about. And all the while, I am not attracted to them in the least. And yet somehow, doing these things seems to signal to straight people that I totally want to have sex with my friends.
Compulsory sexuality has permeated our society in such a way that we’ve created this hierarchy where sex and partnership and romance are always at the top, and it leads people to jump to these types of conclusions all the time. Even in straight relationships, if a guy and a girl spend a little too much time together, we often assume it must be a sexual relationship. Or if it isn’t sexual right now, it will be sometime in the future.
Why is this nonsexual intimacy so intimidating to non-queer people? (Or hell, sometimes even to queer people. They’re not exempt from jumping to conclusions about sex.) Does it threaten partnerships? Does it invoke jealousy or mistrust? Does it make people realize that they could have so many more forms of intimacy than they’re getting from their spouse alone? Or does it just widen the gap between them and us, further proving that we are other and we should not be allowed to exist?
V. The Secret Third Thing
One thing the gay internet loves to say is “There’s no heterosexual explanation for this!” Usually this is in relation to media, in scenes where two same-sex people are interacting intimately. Sometimes this leads to sexual or romantic relationships on screen or on the page, but more often than not…it doesn’t. (This is where “queer-baiting” often gets thrown around.)
There are infinite examples of this in media. Most famous for my generation would probably be Johnlock (Sherlock and Watson, specifically in BBC’s Sherlock, but that’s a ship that’s been around for generations) or Destiel (Dean Winchester and Castiel from Supernatural, which lead to the pivotal 2020 meme that people now use to reveal shocking news headlines), but these types of ships are a dime a dozen. Recently the internet has been all over Buddie (Buck and Eddie, the firefighters from 911), but some of my personal favorites include Lokius (Loki and Mobius from the Loki show) and Nandermo (Nandor and Guillermo from the What We Do in the Shadows show).
It’s this idea that two people of the same sex or gender have a relationship that’s a little too intimate, too vulnerable, too caring to be anything but gay. It’s played out in Parks & Recreation in an episode where Ann is trying to find a sperm donor and she enlists Leslie’s help. The two of them are such close friends, both women, that a stranger mistakes them for a homosexual couple. Tragically, they are both straight.
This too comes back to compulsory sexuality. In a sex-obsessed world, certain forms of intimacy signal that a relationship must be sexual (or romantic) in nature, that one cannot care for another person with intensity unless there is attraction involved.
Which is bullshit, obviously.
Outside of being incorrect and limiting or reducing allosexual relationships, this idea also erases non-sexual and non-partnered people. There’s no heterosexual explanation for this! But what if there’s not homosexual explanation for this either? What if there’s no sexual explanation for this form of intimacy? In a lot of cases, that “secret third thing” might be friendship, but it might not. It’s a liminal space just like most queer relationships and people.
I think our society likes to put labels on things because it makes our world easier to understand and easier to digest, but more than that, it gives certain things value. If we label our partnership as a legalized marriage, it’s more valuable. We get legal benefits. We can throw a big party. The church will allow us to have sex or make babies or live together. So when we cannot define a gender or an identity or a relationship, suddenly we cannot monetize on it. That liminality becomes a threat. (This isn’t a discount to labels or more conventional relationships or genders, by the way.)
The truth is, a lot of those “queer-baiting” ships that people complain about (Why isn’t the gay couple canon? Why would you signal that they’re gay if they aren’t going to kiss on screen? How can I support a show that does not show canon gay sex?) that do not fit into society’s pre-packaged idea of sexual or romantic queerness…are still queer. Okay, so maybe not intentionally. Maybe not “canonically” because the writers did not sit down to write a gay man or a lesbian woman. And maybe that does mean we can’t run around claiming certain shows are the pinnacle of gay representation. But that does not negate the queerness we see with our very eyes.
The Thomas theorem says that If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences. All these ships like Destiel and Buddie may not culminate in an on-screen kiss, but that does not mean they aren’t queer ships. Evan Buckley is canonically bisexual, so maybe he as a character is canonically queer, but his relationship with Eddie Diaz doesn’t have to be sexual to be queer. They often co-parent a kid together. Eddie changes his will so that Buck will be Chris’s legal guardian should something bad happen. These two men share a closeness that is more intimate than most heterosexual men are comfortable with. But they don’t kiss or have sex or move in together. At one point Buck’s ex-boyfriend claims that Buck is or was in love with Eddie, and rather than refute it, Buck just becomes curious about it. How can all of this coexist?
It’s as if these stories are built up over time, with speculation and fan-theories and in-text/on-screen evidence, and then as soon as a showrunner says they won’t kiss, everything is off the table. Sorry, your two men who are willing to die for each other aren’t going to get married, that means their relationship is utterly worthless and heterosexually normal. Not Gay is not the opposite of Straight, just like Not Straight doesn’t immediately indicate that something is Gay.
More than that, queerness and homosexuality has always been liminal. Just as homosexual people were born and raised in the closet, so much of queerness is nurtured in the subtext. It’s about small touches, hand gestures, wandering eyes. It’s about subtle acts of care, words that go unsaid, implications upon implications. We’ve had to bury our queerness between the lines of text, behind paintings and under floorboards, so it’s no wonder we spend so much time dissecting relationships searching for clues.
The clues you find are real. It’s just that you’re so focused on sex and romance that you fail to recognize the importance and value in non-sexual queerness. Obviously it’s great when gay people kiss, I get it, I root for that myself, but I’m sick of people acting like non-sexual queerness and friendships and QPRs and other liminal queer relationships lack the value of a canonical gay kiss or a queer sex scene. These things can and should coexist. They just mean different things.
VI. Revolutionary Queerness
The funny thing is, I don’t think non-sexual intimacy NEEDS to be queer. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes my straight friends are more intimate with me than my queer friends are, and that isn’t entirely because of my actions. In another world, this type of deep intimacy outside of a partnership could be the norm. And in other parts of the world, I think that is a reality. In cultures that value community, that aren’t so individualized, that don’t put such a heavy emphasis on capitalism. It can be normal to live with family members well into old age. It can be normal to do care work as a community, to create systems that encourage non-partnered forms of intimacy and vulnerability.
Western culture, and the USA especially, is so deeply interested in partnership and our compulsive sexuality, and it’s difficult to overcome those tendencies.
A story like Our Friend (2019) shouldn’t be revolutionary, and yet. The film is based on a true story: when a woman gets cancer, her close male friend moves in with the family to help her husband and her kids while she undergoes treatment. Yes, it’s heart-breaking and sad and the whole thing will make you cry, but a lot of the film revolves around this idea that people are judging this trio of people for their strange friendship. How can two men share a woman like this? How can a grown adult put their life on hold to help someone they aren’t partnered with? How can a young family and a marriage make time to prioritize a single adult they aren’t related to by blood? Why is all of this so rare?
Obviously the reasons why these types of care and intimacy are so rare comes down to oppressive institutions like capitalism, racism, sexism, etc. And we’ve done an excellent job shaming people by encouraging this oppression, this marginalization. If we convince everyone that men and women cannot be friends as adults, we keep people isolated. If we convince married couples they cannot relate to their single friends, that single people cannot or will not be cared for in our society, we’ll get more coupling, more babies, more heteronormativity. The Christians get what they want. People will spend more money. The people in power stay in power etc.
But even if we overthrew all the norms and created a less individualized world built on caring for other people outside of your blood, outside of your marriage, outside of yourself, there would still be queer people. There would still be these liminal spaces and relationships that queer people build. Our brains and bodies and hearts and bodyminds run wild and free, and we love in a way that non-queer people often cannot comprehend. It is our queerness that creates our intimacy, our vulnerability, our care. It is our intimacy, the things we do in our non-sexual relationships, that make us queer just as much as whatever we do (or don’t do) in the bedroom.
Reading List
Books about asexuality, unconventional friendship, non-sexual queerness
Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture by Sherronda J. Brown
Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen
Gender Magic: Live Shamelessly, Reclaim Your Joy, & Step into Your Most Authentic Self by Rae McDaniel
It Was Vulgar and It Was Beautiful: How AIDS Activists Used Art to Fight a Pandemic by Jack Lowery
Loveless by Alice Oseman
My Friends by Fredrik Backman
Happy Place by Emily Henry
The Locked Tomb by Tamsyn Muir
Monk & Robot by Becky Chambers
The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater
The Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
Amatonormativity is the assumption that all human beings pursue love or romance, especially by means of a monogamous long-term relationship. (Elizabeth Brake, Minimizing Marriage: Marriage, Morality, and the Law [2011])